Prior to Your Inquiry

Describe the nature of your completed separation.

The form requires a black pen. Lev Sobieski has a black pen — Bureau-issued, non-retractable, tethered to the desk by a chain whose length was established by Directive 19, Subsection 4, Paragraph 11, which states that a writing instrument must be accessible but not removable, as the removal of Bureau property constitutes an incomplete return, and incomplete returns generate Form 27-B, and Form 27-B can only be processed by the person filing it, who must be a current employee. This is the part Lev has trouble with. Lev is the person filing it and also the person processing it. The chain on the pen is exactly long enough to reach the signature line but not the exit. It is the same chain on every desk. This is not a flaw. This is a feature.

Lev has been Senior Processing Clerk for some time. The exact duration is recorded on a different form, in a different office, inside a cabinet that requires a key issued upon separation — meaning you can learn how long you’ve worked here only after you stop, and you cannot stop until you complete Form 27-B, which asks, among other things: What was the nature of your original request?

Lev leaves the box blank. Not out of defiance — Lev is not a defiant person — but because the answer is gone. It was here once. It had something to do with an outdoor activity. Or a permit. The memory has the shape of something specific and none of the content.

The form is rejected. Box 7 is incomplete. An incomplete Form 27-B generates a new Form 27-B.

Date of initial voluntary employment.

The woman across the counter is holding a number — 4,081 — and she has been holding it for what she describes as “a very long time,” which Lev notes is not a recognized unit. The Bureau operates in calendar days, processing days, and administrative days, and these three do not correspond to each other or to any known system of measuring time.

“I’d like to withdraw my request,” the woman says.

“Of course,” Lev says. “You’ll need to file Form 27-B.”

“And that will close my file?”

“Form 27-B initiates the closure review process. The closure review process evaluates whether your original request has been sufficiently unmet to justify withdrawal. If the Bureau has made no progress on your request — and I can assure you it has not — then the withdrawal is approved, and you are free to leave.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“It is reasonable. The Bureau is a reasonable institution. The only complication is that Form 27-B must be filed by a Bureau employee.”

“Can you file it for me?”

“I cannot file it for you. I can only process forms filed by the applicant. But the applicant must be a Bureau employee. Would you like to become a Bureau employee?”

The woman stares at Lev. It is the stare of a person doing arithmetic that will not come out even.

“No,” the woman says.

“Understood. Your refusal has been noted on Form 27-B, Line 3, which I have taken the liberty of beginning on your behalf. The filing of a partial Form 27-B constitutes an act of administrative participation. Welcome to the Bureau.”

Reason for discontinuation of request (check one).

Lev wants to withdraw the request. This is months ago, or years — the distinction has collapsed under the weight of administrative days. There is a clerk behind the counter who is not Lev. The clerk is patient, thorough, and sympathetic in the way that the Bureau mandates: eye contact between two and four seconds, vocal register between reassurance and mild regret.

“I don’t need the permit anymore,” Lev says.

“I understand. Unfortunately, the withdrawal of a pending request requires Form 27-B.”

“Fine. Give me Form 27-B.”

“Form 27-B is an internal document. It can only be filed by Bureau employees.”

“I’m not an employee.”

“Not yet.” The clerk smiles. It is the Bureau-mandated smile: visible teeth, closed eyes, duration between one and two seconds. “Form 27-B has a provision for emergency staffing. If an applicant requires access to an internal document, they may be granted temporary employment status for the purpose of filing that document. The temporary employment lasts until the form is processed, and the form is processed once the employment ends, and the employment ends once the form is processed.”

Lev blinks. “That’s circular.”

“The Bureau prefers ‘self-referencing.’ Circular implies a flaw. Self-referencing implies a system so complete it needs nothing outside itself to function.”

“But it doesn’t function.”

“It functions perfectly. You’re standing in it.”

Previous attempts to complete this form.

Lev returns to check on the request. It has been — Lev counts — eleven visits. Each visit generates a new cover sheet. Each cover sheet is attached to the file. The file is now mostly cover sheets.

“I can’t find your original request,” the clerk says. Not the same clerk as before. A different clerk. Or perhaps the same clerk on a different administrative day, which the Bureau regards as a different person for liability purposes.

“It was filed at window six.”

“Window six processes incoming requests on calendar days and routes outgoing requests on processing days. Today is an administrative day. On administrative days, window six is a mirror.”

Lev looks at window six. It is, in fact, a mirror. Lev sees a person holding a number and wearing an expression that is technically calm.

“Would you like to help me look for it?” the clerk asks. “I could use another pair of hands. The filing system is organized alphabetically by date.”

“Alphabetically by date?”

“January comes before July. It’s straightforward.”

Lev agrees to help. Helping is a kind thing to do. Lev is a kind person. Lev opens a drawer labeled NOVEMBER and finds it full of forms from March, which is correct, because March comes before May, which comes before Monday, which is not a month but is filed here anyway because the Bureau does not distinguish between units of time that begin with the letter M.

At the end of the administrative day — which lasts until the calendar day disagrees — the clerk thanks Lev for volunteering and notes the volunteer hours on a new form. The form is titled RECORD OF VOLUNTARY ASSUMPTION OF DUTIES. There is no box for objections.

Purpose of original request.

Lev fills out the form. It is a simple form — one page, twelve boxes, a signature line at the bottom. The box labeled PURPOSE OF REQUEST has room for three lines. Lev writes: Permit to keep bees.

The clerk stamps the form. Not with a rubber stamp — the Bureau eliminated rubber stamps in favor of a more permanent adhesive seal that binds the document to the file folder at a molecular level, making it impossible to remove the form without destroying it, which is the Bureau’s way of saying: what you have submitted is now ours, and what is ours cannot be returned.

“Processing time?” Lev asks.

“Six to eight.”

“Weeks?”

“Units.”

Lev leaves the Bureau. The fluorescent light follows Lev to the door and stops, as if it knows better than to go outside. The number dispenser by the entrance is still ticking. Lev’s number was 3,877. The counter on the wall reads: NOW SERVING 3,412. This is not unusual. The counter sometimes moves backward on administrative days, which happen to be most days, which happen to be all days, but not always the same ones.

Applicant name (please print clearly).

A building on a street that gets sun in the morning. Lev is standing on the sidewalk with a piece of paper that says BUREAU OF INCOMPLETE REQUESTS and an address. Below the address, in Lev’s own handwriting: Ask about the bee permit.

It’s a Tuesday. Lev knows this because Tuesdays have a specific quality — unhurried, slightly warm, the kind of day when small errands feel possible. There is a bakery across the street selling something with poppy seeds. There is a dog tied to a meter, waiting the way dogs wait, without suspicion.

Lev has not yet entered the building. The door is glass. Through it, Lev can see a counter, a number dispenser, a row of plastic chairs. It is the most ordinary room in the world. The fluorescent lights are on, which means the office is open, which means someone inside can answer a simple question about bees. The question is not urgent. Lev has been thinking about bees for a few months, in the idle way a person thinks about something they might like to try. There is a yard. There is time. There are flowers along the fence that nobody planted and nobody tends and that come back every year regardless.

Lev folds the piece of paper and puts it in a shirt pocket. Reaches for the door.