Its walls are painted bright primary red, and orange, and yellow, and blue. Giant sheets of some kind of synthetic fabric, surely classed as a fire hazard somewhere in the world, hang from the low hung ceiling, segregating a space in the centre of the room.
We are the workers. You are the $eekers.
It’s not much more than a large open plan office, desks jumbled haphazardly, phones buzzing, people talking. An abnormal amount of women tap away at keyboards, their oversized bottoms squeezed into last year’s ergonomic swivel desk chair. One lady with short peroxide blonde hair and a tattoo behind her right ear, wearing high-waisted trousers far too unflattering for her body, stumbles around aimlessly on inappropriate work shoes specifically worn to scream, "I’m edgy outside of this place! Look at the shape of my victorian-esq heals if you don't believe me!" she carries various pieces of paper with her, and distributes them willy nilly to the totalitarian desks.
It’s important to look efficient.
Herded into the centre of this vast yet increasingly oppressive space, one waits. Seated in squidgy salmon coloured seats decorated with dubious looking stains, it is important to avoid all eye contact. Just wait for your name to be called.
As if the pen in the centre of the room is not degrading enough, you are then escorted into a smaller room.
The fire escape click click clicks.
"Sorry about that. The door seems to be broken," she deadpans from the opposite side of the glass. Were they fearful of violent physical attack when they built this room? Is it common for people to mistake this place for a bank? To demand the measly amount of cash the government offers, immediately? Perhaps in the case of a natural disaster they hope to escape first, ahead of the great unwashed sitting on the other side of the shatterproof window.
The encounter is over quickly enough. One can only presume the staffs are trained that a smile will increase the appointment time.
No need for unnecessary courtesy.
Back to the centre of the room, where it is becoming crowded; we almost outnumber them now.
The seat gods blessed me with the end chair; only one neighbour to sit next to. Unfortunately it seems this place has become a social event.
'Grab your friend, come on down together and let us help you pretend to look for work! We’ll pay you!'
The smell of cigarettes radiates from her, and she runs her fake baked stained hands through her hair extensions incessantly.
"The party last night was a corker! I’m so wrecked today. You should see Sian, she's a right state!"
Her neighbour makes interested noises.
"I’ve applied all over I have. Can’t find anything. I think I’ll have to join the bloody army!" she stage whispers, raking her fingers through her horsehair.
They laugh amongst themselves. Because the countries security is an amusing concept, almost amusing as the thought of her kind joining up. Would she have to remove her hair extensions? Or just tie them up perhaps...
As the tiny round clock, hung in the middle of a blood red wall ticks on, your eyes roam the room warily.
Hoodies, exceptionally un-ironed clothing, greasy hair, multiple facial piercing. Men who look like they have just stumbled out of bed, taken their first shot of the day, and smoked their way into the building.
They are less afraid of the eye contact. Their bloodshot eyes stare you down, leering beneath their dirty hair.
Like mirror images you sit across from one another. All twitching, all leg pumping. All waiting for your name to be called.
All piled into the middle of the room, all stamped with the same dye, one and the same.
Your head twitches, your leg pumps. His head twitches, his leg pumps.
Names are called and ignored. More and more people arrive; the chairs are filled now with shame and expectation, its standing room only.
In that timeless place of blood red and herd mentality, the faces blend together. Distinction is misplaced and the group become one. All $eeking the same thing, all twitching, and pumping, and waiting, and leering. My extra long bright pink scarf is no different from her pale replica uggs.
I am that other face in the crowd. That extra paperwork. I am one of them, no history, no story, no voice amongst the crowd.
