“Excuse me? Maybe you know more about my job than I do?”
“No.”
“Good. Then listen up. I’m trying to be helpful. What I’m going to give you is an appointment slip to see the marriage counselor. Take it to Building B and give it to the clerk at the first desk.”
“We have to go outside?”
“There’s a covered walkway. But stay to the left, several panels are missing. Next!”
“NEXT!”
“We have an appointment slip.”
“For what?”
“Counseling. To get a waiver, so we can apply for a certificate, or something. So we can get married.”
“Sit down over there. The Sergeant Major will call you when he’s ready.”
“The Sergeant Major? We were supposed to see a marriage counselor.”
“The Sergeant Major is the Marriage Counselor. Has been ever since the Declaration of Marital Law, under the Ozone Emergency Act. Where have you been?”
“We don’t get married every day.”
“Are you getting smart with me?”
“I guess not.”
“I hope not. Take a seat, in those hard chairs, until I call you. Next!”
“NEXT! At ease. State your business.”
“We need to get the counseling for—”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to him.”
“Me?”
“You’re the man, aren’t you?”
“Uh, yes, sir! We, uh, want to get married, sir!”
“Speak up. And don’t call me sir. I’m not an officer. Call me Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir; I mean, Sergeant.”
“Sergeant Major.”
“Sergeant Major!”
“Now tell me again what it is you want.”
“This is ridiculous. Yusef already told you—”
“Did I ask you to speak, young lady? Maybe you think because I’m black I’ll tolerate your insolence?”
“No. Sergeant. Major.”