Sit Up Straight
He checked the folder with his documents for a third time in the hallway before finally doing up the button on his coat. Inside were his passport, a completed form, a receipt, and on topas a constant remindera neatly folded sheet with the address of the council office and his appointment time. He disliked keeping anyone waiting, and detested having to make others redo their work on his account. So that morning he moved with purpose, never rushing but keeping a quiet readiness about him, as though it were the eve of an important conversation.
In the kitchen, he turned off the hob, although it wasnt on; habit, really, checking things over. He latched the window, placed his mug in the sink, wiped down the table with his palm, and paused in front of the mirror by the front door. His hair was thin, greying, his moustache recently trimmed. He straightened the collar of his shirt, as if it might somehow change how people spoke to him.
Dont be a burden, he repeated silently to himself. It wasnt a motto, but more of a rule that had kept him together these last years. He never asked for more than he needed, never quibbled about trifles, and never raised his voice. He believed courtesy began with not making others lives harder. But somewhere inside, another, more stubborn thought existed: respect should go both ways.
He took the bus to the council, securing a window seat. At the stop, he got his card ready in advance so as not to slow down the queue at the reader. Someone in the bus was talking loudly on the phone; another flicked idly through the news on their mobile. He watched his own hands, the thin skin, veins raised beneath, and wondered at how strange it was: the body aged, but dignity, should you cling to it, remained as straight-backed as ever.
Inside the council office, it was bright and busy. Screen boards blinked with numbers, machines spat out tickets, people clustered at the desk arguing about appointments and whose turn it truly was. He approached the terminal, chose the correct service, read the prompts carefully not to make a mistake, and took his ticket. The paper was still warm from the machine; he slipped it into his folder for safekeeping.
There were hardly any seats spare. He found one at the end, beside a woman with her own stack of forms, and perched the folder on his knees. He passed the time watching the order of things: young staff in matching vests darted about on unseen paths. The receptionist repeated herself in various tones: Bookings online only, Youll need a ticket to be seen, Do you have your scanned copies?
The moment his number flashed up, he rose at once. His legs obliged rather less than they once did, but he made it seem of no consequence. The consultation room was cramped: computer, scanner, a chair for visitors. Behind the desk sat a young woman, perhaps twenty-five, ponytail pulled back, tiredness about her eyes. She didnt look up, only spoke:
Sit down. Documents, please.
He took his seat, arranged his papers neatly.
Heres my passport, the form, and the receipt, he said evenly.
She lifted his passport between finger and thumb, flicked through the pages, clicked her mouse.
Copies?
I was told I could get them done here, he replied, then added quicklyso it wouldnt sound like a complaintIll gladly pay if needed.
She gave a sigh as if hed asked for something near impossible.
Copiers over there. Do it yourself. Next.
Next came out like a command to the whole world. A flush of heat welled up in his chest, but habit forced him to keep control. He gathered his documents, slowly, careful not to leave anything behind, and left.
At the copier, a lad was fighting to insert his sheets; the machine chewed the paper and spat it out crooked. The lad muttered under his breath, then glanced at the old man with the folder and stepped aside.
Let me lend a hand, said the lad.
Thank you, but Ill manage, he replied, even though his fingers trembled with the effort.
He slid his passport in the scanner, pressed the button. The machine beeped and then stalled. A warning flashed on the screen, gone before he caught it. He leaned closer, but the words blurred.
You need to restart it, the lad said, pressing something on the side.
The copier whirred and whined back to life. He managed his copies, slipped them in his folder, paid at the machine, and returned to the office. His ticket had already expired. He went up to the reception.
Excuse me, I was sent to make copies, he explained, showing her his ticket.
She glanced at him, quick and impersonal.
Your numbers gone. Take another.
But I was only sent he began.
Take another, she repeated, sharp, as if he was causing trouble on purpose.
He felt a tightness in his throat. Annoyance rose insidenot loud, but heavy as wet fabric. He could have said it was unfair, that hed been sent away, that it wasnt his doing. But he saw the long queue, the weary faces, and understood any argument would be seen as a nuisance.
He took a new ticket and sat down again, folder braced in both hands across his knees as if it tethered him.
When he was finally called to another cubicle, a young man in a vest, earpiece in place, barely looked up.
Passport. Copies. Form.
He handed over everything. The lad gave the papers a flick.
Signatures in the wrong box. Redo it.
Could you show me exactly where, please? he asked; he wanted to do it right.
The lad stabbed a finger at the sheet.
There. Honestly. Look. Hurry up, theres a queue.
Honestly rang not like courtesy, but rebuke. He rewrote his signature, trying to steady his hand, but the pen left a thicker line than hed liked. Shame crept in, as if his weakness was visible to all.
All done, the lad said. Now for your photo.
Do I get that here? he checked.
Round there, the photo booth. Next.
The photo booth was at the end of the corridor. Outside stood a woman with a teenager and a man in a workmans jacket. A sign on the door read Passport Photos. Inside, a voice barked:
Sit up straight. Stop fidgeting.
When it was his turn, he entered. The woman behind the desk was older than the others, her hair cropped short, gestures brusque. The camera stood on a tripod beside a monitor. On the wall, instructions: No smiling, no hats, look straight ahead.
Take a seat, she said, pointing.
He sat, folder on his knees, doing his best to keep his back straight.
Chin up. Lower. Sit up straight, she ordered.
He adjusted, but the chair was low, forcing his back to tense.
Im trying, he said quietly.
No need to try. Just do it, she cut in. Glasses off.
If I take my specs off, I can barely see, he replied, I need to know where to look.
It says where. At the camera. Glasses cause glare, she snapped, raising her voice. Take them off, I said.
He removed his glasses, took out the battered case from his inside pocket, and placed them beside him.
Dont blink now. Keep your head still. Cant you just sit quietly? she added, fixing her gaze on the monitor.
That heat seethed in him again. He was sitting quietly. He did everything asked. But the way she addressed him made it seem like his fault from the start.
I can, he replied, voice even, but with a note of firmness. Please, address me properly and without shouting.
She froze for a moment, apparently taken aback. Then she sneered.
Oh, arent we sensitive. Im not here for a chat. Sit up straight and dont argue.
We hurt more than any shout could. His face flushed. Someone coughed outside; someone else muttered, How longs he going to be?
He could have swallowed it, as usual. Could have told himself the main thing was to get the photo and leave. But he saw, suddenly, that if he let this pass, hed walk away not only with a photograph but with a sense he could be shoved about by words, like furniture.
He calmly closed his glasses case, slipped it into his pocket, folder on his knees.
Im not arguing, he said. Im asking for a civil tone. If not, kindly fetch your supervisor.
Supervisor? she echoed loudly, for everyone to hear. This isnt customer services, its a photo booth.
In which case, Ill step out and ask at reception, he replied, beginning to stand.
She shoved the chair aside abruptly so he wouldnt hit the tripod.
Sit. Ill just take it and thats that, she muttered, softer but still irritated.
He didnt sit. He stood, gripping the back of the chair. He feared shed kick him out, wreck the procedure, make the queuers angry. But fear didnt erase what hed said.
He opened the door and walked out into the corridor. The others glanced his way. The woman with the teenager looked away, the man in the jacket frowned.
What happened? someone asked.
I asked for some basic respect, he replied, his voice calm.
He went up to reception. The woman there looked up.
Can I help?
The staff in the photo room was shouting and being familiar, he stated, struggling not to sound like a complainer. Im only asking to be spoken to properly.
She regarded him more intently, maybe since he was so composed.
What was her name?
Im afraid I dont know. Theres only the one photo room.
She picked up her radio, pressed the button. Mrs Hargreaves, please pop to the photo booth.
Within a minute, a woman of about fifty in a smart jacket, name badge shining, emerged. She came over to the reception, then to him.
Whats the issue? she asked.
He told her. Just the facts, not his embarrassment or how it stung. That wasnt for the desk. He detailed the tone, the shouting, we.
She nodded.
Come along, she said.
They entered the booth together. The other woman stiffened, lips tight.
Weve had a complaint about your tone, the senior woman said. Lets keep it civil. The gentleman asks to be addressed politely. Thats perfectly reasonable.
I just follow instructions, retorted the staff member. Its always the same
You can follow them quietly, then, her supervisor cut in, voice level but resolute. Take his photo. Do it properly, quickly, and politely.
In silence, the woman pointed at the chair. He sat. Folder on knees. Glasses in pocket. He stared into the camera, a blur without his glasses.
Chin up a touch, she said, softer now. Try not to blink.
Shutter clicked. His picture blinked up on the monitorhe couldnt make out the details.
That all right? she asked, almost neutrally this time.
I cant see without my specs, he said. Mind if I put them on?
Put them on, she replied.
He fetched the case, slipped on his glasses, tucked the case away. Leaned closer to the monitor, careful not to be in her space. He looked older in the photo than he felt, but his stare was direct.
Thatll do, he confirmed.
She handed him the prints and envelope.
There you go.
Thank you, he replied, adding with a steady look, and thank you for keeping your voice down.
She didnt meet his eyes.
In the corridor, folk shifted. The man in the jacket grumbled, but the woman with the teenager murmured softly behind him, You were right to say something.
He heard, and felt a release inside. Not joy, but a relief, as if, for once, hed managed to straighten his back not just physically, but in spirit.
After that, things moved brisker. At the desk, the lad in the vest no longer rushed him, though still brusque enough. He took the envelope, checked the copies, made a note.
Itll be ready on this date, the lad said, handing over a slip.
He placed the receipt in his folder, fastening with the elastic. He stood, pushed the chair back quietly for the next person.
At the door, he paused to put on gloves. His hands werent shaking from the cold, but from the tension that had gripped him all morning. That old shame prodded at hima sense hed caused a fuss, as if old age itself was meant to be silent and invisible.
Yet another feeling overlaid the old shame, clearer now. He hadnt shouted. He hadnt belittled. He hadnt demanded special treatment. Hed simply stated a boundary.
Outside, he paused by a bench, checked the photos were safe, then tucked them back in the folder. He pressed the folder to his chest, as if it wasnt paperwork, but his right to a calm voice.
He made his way to the bus stop, not hurrying. Sit up straight still echoed in his mind, but it felt different now. Now it was a reminder: you can keep your composure inside, even when those around you are short-tempered and harried. And if you speak quietly but firmly, sometimes you really are heard.
