RMV

Deep in the heart of Chinatown lies the root of all evil in Boston. Conveniently situated next to a Dunkin Donuts, the building brews a melting pot of disgruntled Bostonians from 9 to 5, all through the business week. When you enter the building, a lady with spiky red hair and pointed fingernails hands you a slip of paper with a letter and a number.

Then you proceed through the doorways to her right and left, where you find yourself under rows of fluorescent lights, facing a wall of service windows with unlikely pairs of people failing to communicate. The floors are checked with splatter-painted tiles, and long wooden benches line the middle of the room. The people spread themselves out on the benches with two to seven feet of personal space on either side and try to divert themselves. Some people read, some eat, some text; one man behind me sampled ring tones for thirty minutes. The only clue as to the length of your wait is an electronic voice overhead reciting letters and numbers. But any given combination of these could mean a thirty-five minute dialogue at the counter.

The walls are covered in signage endorsing the Fast Lane Pass, luring you back to the pointy-haired greeter for another round. The benches are hard and narrowly spaced, so that you have to jam your knees into the seat to let people past. I sat on the end, hoping for a quick exit, but my wait clocked in at forty-five minutes by the time my number was called. When the voice announced A096, I advanced triumphantly to the counter and smiled at my new acquaintance on the other side. She deflected her eyes to my paperwork and informed me that my materials were not sufficient for the business I had come to do, and then she sent me away with a list of errands for my next visit. I pushed my way through the Dunkin Donuts crowd feeling empty and disoriented.