The Legend of the Sacred Geometry of Waiting

Have you stood in a queue recently? A familiar sensation? A slight tingling in the legs, a dull hatred for the back of the head in front of you, and existential anguish in your gaze? If you think a queue is just an unfortunate coincidence, you are deeply mistaken. 

A queue is not a social phenomenon. It is a chthonic monster. An ancient serpent devouring the only thing we have — time.

The Evolution of Patience

It all began long before the appearance of man. Paleontologists (the smarter ones) know: the first queue arose in the primordial soup. 

Two amoebas simultaneously swam up to the only warm geothermal spring. There was enough resource for only one. By the laws of the jungle, they should have fought. But an unknown law of the Universe kicked in. One amoeba, instead of consuming its rival, suddenly froze and extended a pseudopod with a silent question: 

— "Excuse me, are you the last one?" 

The second amoeba, taken aback by such impudence, grunted in the language of enzymes: 

— "You'll be after me." 

Thus civilization was born. Chaos was replaced by order. And order, as is known, requires waiting.

The Geography of Standing

Over millions of years, the queue evolved, splitting into two great subspecies, much like Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons split.

Subspecies One: The British Queue (Queues Brittanicus). It is a cult. A religion of silence. The British queue is a collective meditation. People in it do not touch each other, preserving a sacred distance. If one person stands in front of a wall in London and ponders, a second will stand behind him within a minute. Just in case. It is impossible to destroy a British queue — it will only politely curve.

Subspecies Two: The Soviet Queue (Queues Sovieticus). It is a life form. An aggressive, noisy, multi-headed hydra. In it, it doesn't matter what they are standing for. The process itself is important. 

— "What are they giving out?" — asked a passerby, seeing a tail stretching beyond the horizon. 

— "Czech boots!" — shouted from the head. 

— "Blue chickens!" — came from the middle. 

— "Hope!" — whispered in the tail. In this queue, numbers were written on palms with an indelible pencil. These were the stigmata of faith. 

Losing your number was scarier than losing your conscience.

Charon and the Tickets

But the most terrifying queue awaits us not at the clinic, and not even at the post office before New Year's. 

Myths lie. Charon, the ferryman of souls across the River Styx, hasn't taken coins for a long time. He doesn't need money — there are no shops on the other side. He needs order.

At the crossing stands a terminal. It dispenses tickets with numbers. "G-666", "A-001". Souls crowd on the shore, nervously clutching ghostly slips of paper. Charon's boat is small, rubber, with a "Vikhr" motor that constantly stalls. 

And woe to the soul that tries to squeeze through without a number saying: "I just need to ask!". Charon does not argue. He simply hits them with an oar. And the insolent ones fall into the icy waters of the Styx, where such "hurriers" float eternally, trying to ask the fish where the head doctor is.

The Last Question

...And so a righteous man, who lived a worthy life, gives up the ghost. 

The light at the end of the tunnel turns out to be a fluorescent lamp. He opens his eyes and sees before him the majestic, pearl-shining gates of Paradise. Behind them is eternal bliss, ambrosia, and angels playing harps. 

But the gates are closed. And before them, disappearing into the clouds, stands an endless line of people. Here are Popes, and peasants, and kings, and programmers. Everyone stands still, looking at the back of each other's heads.

The righteous man feels a chill inside. It is an instinct. As ancient as that amoeba. He approaches the edge of the crowd. He does not ask if God exists. The righteous man does not ask what the meaning of life is. 

He touches the shoulder of the last one — some sad archangel with a crumpled wing — and asks the only question that matters in the Universe: 

— "Excuse me, am I after you?" 

— "After me," — sighs the archangel. — "But I'm warning you: Peter went to lunch." And an hour there counts as a millennium. 

The righteous man nods, submissively stands at the tail, and begins to wait. For eternity is simply a very, very long queue.