10.16

[Here's the original: "There were some who tried the Brighton line with a single sheet of innocent paper. There was no simple bureaucracy here; the entire working machinery of rubber stamps in London was called into play. Thus, the travelers often found themselves unbelievably detained." I'm going to run it again, when I'm not so tired.]

[I curse once in this. It's a sullen word, full of power and an effective construct to deliver the emotion of the speaker. But it's still a curse and I should start warning people.]

A metropolis stretched out in front of the young couple. Newly-minted, they shone like burnished copper, and everywhere they went they were currency. A job for the travel agent, a cheer for the cabbie, a smile for an old man who only remembers his wife. Now, in this place of hope and grist, they were to find their place, and one slotted for them as if designed.
The only difficulty was getting in. There were some who tried the Brighton line with a single sheet of simple paper, as-yet-unravished by the hundred desk workers between them and the capital. There was no simple bureaucracy here; the entire working machinery of rubber stamps in London was called into play. The imagination gawps at the requirements, both civil and domestic, of an organization that had for years asked for the most intimate details of each life and then, with almost no fanfare, judged it to its core.
"WORTHY," was the lucky traveler's sight. No more terminals or buses. Welcome in.
The couple had high hopes. He was a carpenter with skills in several different series of employments, all practical and eminently desirable. She was a purveyor of trends and he thought her fashionably handsome. With skills and savvy, they hoped to conquer the hopeless task of the future.
The last stamp received, the two passed into the interminable purgatory of the waiting room. Every twelve seconds, she gave his hand a squeeze. Every minute and a half he kissed her cheek. She was confident that his talents had won over the employment officer. He was assured that her smile had melted the social ambassador. And still, the hours dragged on.
Then a shock: their numbers. Grab bags--do you have it? I thought it was in your pocket, but ah, it was here the whole time--love you sweetie, good luck, I'll be just ecstatic on the other side.
She to one room, he to another.
"Two-four-eight-oh-one."
"James, if you don't mind."
"It's all the same to me. Sir, you are approved. You are cleared for living quarters and your supervisor expects you on Friday. Welcome to London."
He can't wait. His true worry had been that the City wouldn't need any more of his type, and that he would be alone again at the beginning of a life with no reason to try again. Now, he could go with her into the city and they would slot in together. He rounded the corner and found her mascara slowly sliding down her face. Papers and bags fell from him not unlike an autumnal shedding as he rushed to her side.
"UNWORTHY" read the stamp, with a cruel red ink distilled and transmitted to the page with a slap and a smirking twist.
"Really, Sylvia, I'll leave, though. I'll leave and we'll be like before."

and her heart screamed
"I don't want your pity, James. I don't want your shit. The hardest test of our lives and you've just passed it. The rest of our lives and I'm the failure, I'm the one who couldn't even make the grade. I'm the one holding you back. You could have opportunity and health, a good life and a future, but you gave it all up for me? I couldn't live with myself, and I'm not sure I could live with you. I would owe you. I would be indebted for what I can't repay. And don't say anything you know isn't true."
her heart screamed, but

They left, one stamped black and crisp, the other red and twisted.

(Even soiled copper can be made to shine again.)