In the Maze
The stripe meandered down and up staircases, around corners, into and through rooms dark and bright - and even "in my ladies' chamber." I was climbing a staircase, my eyes fixed on the faded painted stripe above me. It turned left at the landing, and there was a gap. It resumed a few feet away, and went through a doorway, from which I could see that it went straight through the room and out the other side. As I walked in, I heard typewriters, lots of them. On either side of me were rows of straight-faced women, facing the aisle in which I walked. They must have sat there all week long, week after week, as a stream of young men clad only in their underwear paraded through. How droll.
As I moved around the complex, I'd occasionally see familiar faces from Hicksville. More often, I'd see strangers who were hoping for Section 8's (i.e., classified as mentally unfit for service). At least two of them wore clear "space helmets." Another, with a glazed-over, look-at-me grin, steadied with one hand a 30" diameter inflated red ball, the stem of which appeared to have been glued into his navel. The examiners ignored the space helmets, the big red ball, and any number of other ploys.
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