Leak Soup by Randal Houle

He sat behind a desk, scratching numbers into boxes with a sharp #2 pencil and checking that each row, column, and group carried no repeating numerals. It was a job, and in this economy a decent one. His wife showed concern that it might be dangerous, that people might forget themselves and the long lines might turn into mob violence. In the month that the Don Knotts look-a-like occupied this chair from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, with an hour for lunch (potato leek soup, crackers, and sweet tea) and twenty minute breaks in between, he had read three novels, played Sudoku daily, and possessed $3 million in Farmville cash (not to mention his beautiful farm. Oh, you should see it.). Not one person had availed themselves of the information he was supposed to provide, which was a relief to the Don Knotts look-a-like because he was not due to receive his training until next month when a manager could be spared. If anyone did show up, he
had been told to direct them to a sign with an 800 number. He possessed no brochures, or flyers.

Was it time, money, resources — that kept people from seeking answers? The Don Knotts look-a-like shrugged. The banner above his head read: BP COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT.

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