Small Town Folk in the Big City

When I was subpoenaed as a witness for a really big case in court, I visited for the first time in my life the big city and the Palace of Justice. Many doors, many people running around. I asked for directions so as to reach the room where the summons would take place.

They said all the way to the back, down the hallway. The hallways were cold and dark. Men in black holding their briefcases under their arms running frimg_1120_adjom one place to another and speaking in tongues, with many words that sounded like Italian, or Latin.

All doors looked the same and next to them bronze plates with worn down inscriptions that could no longer be read. I tried to stop the men carrying suitcases to ask them for directions, but they looked at me angrily and answered in tongues that sounded like Latin. Weary of wandering through the maze, I opened a random door and entered. In the room was a young man with a very proud look. I am the witness, I said. He replied: You have to wait for your turn.

I waited, patiently, prudently for five or six days. Then, one day, I got bored and, to distract myself, I started to help the young man in his fancy jacket. Soon I began to distinguish the files which, at first, had all looked identical to me. The men carrying suitcases started to recognize me and greeted me politely; some even would give me envelopes with money in them.

I was making progress in the big city, but I did not leave the building for a second. Life was very different from that in small towns. Life was fast paced here and there was no time for idleness. There was only time for filing and indexing.

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