Waiting in Line by Wil Triggs
“Is it true,” the woman said.
She spoke those three words accusingly, not exactly a question.
Falling into the line behind us, socially distanced, but speaking loud enough for all to hear, she asked, “Is it true that they’re giving it away?”
This time it was a question, but no one replied right away. Perhaps the heat or the drought that wasn’t called a drought had gotten to everyone. Maybe it was just easier to stare at the brown dead grass or the too-early-in-the season yellow and orange leaves on the trees.
She was fashionably dressed in a print that looked the way late summer was supposed to look, a pattern inspired by classic Provence prints—olive green, lemon yellow, sky blue and sunset orange. Her mask matched perfectly. Her hair, though, still needed attention.
“I mean, it can’t be.” She went on, missing the cues that no one else in line was talking to each other let alone to her.
In the days leading up to this, there had been a lot of talk about cost. It had to be available for everyone, rich and poor, all races and ethnic groups, every country, but whenever these areas came up, the discussion was shot through with distrust and skepticism, followed often by anger and fear. Would it be like that, or would it become available for one particular group of people—a wealthy group, or one isolated to a particular country or family group.
“I’m sick of this new normal. It’s not that. It’s abnormal. So, this can’t just be free. They must have spent millions or billions on it if it works. Someone has to make money from this.”
She had no idea of the actual cost—more than any of us could afford or imagine. A cure. Finally.
When they announced that the cure was here, like a lot of people, I was both thrilled and disbelieving. Word spread that this was coming, but all I could think of were the lines and how long they would be. And yet. I didn’t want to say anything. Honestly I wasn’t sure if I trusted it. And yet. There I was in line.
“I think it’s a trick of some kind, like they aren’t sure if it works, so they are giving it away as a test. We’re just guinea pigs or mice. Where’s the media? Shouldn’t they be here recording all this?”
The line wasn’t moving yet. I was starting to feel anxious.
“It’s just a rumor anyway,” she went on. “No one is going to give us anything. We’re just waiting. For nothing.”
Was it just me, or was she starting to annoy people with all her talking? The silence around her from the other people suggested a level of impatience was brewing.
“Well,” she continued, “I don’t think that kind of prank is funny. Probably just some kind of behavioral experiment to see how desperate we are.”
And then, at last, the line started moving forward, six feet at a time.
Once it got going, it was really fast. When we got to the front, each of us held out our hands and received the cure. No papers to sign, no money to pay. No fanfare or long speeches about how special we were to be selected for the cure. All of us looked down at what they gave us.
A little red pill. A piece of paper. A bottle of water.
“That’s it?” she asked. I looked down at it myself and realized she had been asking what we all were wondering but not saying out loud.
The red pill was small. So much sacrifice to make pills this small, so there would be enough—more than enough, really—for all. Almost as tiny as the seed of an herb, poppy or mustard, something along those lines. It was so miniscule that I thought it might just blow away.
The paper was the usual instructional piece, each panel in a different language. Time released. Works on anyone. One dose for all of life. Drink with water. There wasn't really a lot to do but take it.
We placed the pills on our tongues, a surprisingly saltiness. We opened our water bottle and drank.
All of us walked away together. This cure, made by father, son, spirit, not manufactured in any lab, but wrought in fifth and failure, shame and death, crossing over all the boundaries and limits of our progress and pride and so much more that adds up to nothing more than soiled rags.
“Well,” she said to no one and everyone, a gentle tone, dare we call it happy, in her new voice, “I think that’s the best water I’ve ever had in my life.”
And some of us said, reflexively, “Amen.”
It was the first time any of us had responded to her, and all of us repeated that one simple word with great joy.
For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes.