The Epistemological Crisis of Jerome Blackwood-Smythe

The fluorescent lights seeped from the ceiling. Jerome stood in line at the DMV.

*How peculiar that I, a man whose intellectual peregrinations have traversed the labyrinthine corridors of continental philosophy and whose treatise on the metaphysical implications of breakfast cereals garnered such acclaim among the cognitive elite of the Portland coffee shop intelligentsia, should find myself here among the unwashed masses, held hostage by the Kafkaesque machinations of bureaucratic tedium.*

The line moved forward three feet. A child dropped his juice box.

*Indeed, one might posit that this very queue represents a microcosmic manifestation of society's inexorable descent into entropy — a physical embodiment of the collective unconscious's struggle against the ossified structures of post-industrial malaise. Why, my mere presence here surely elevates the proceedings to a sort of performance art, a living installation piece commenting on the arbitrary nature of civic legitimacy.*

Take a number, the woman behind the counter said. Jerome took ticket A47. The digital display showed A12.

*How fitting that they should reduce us to alphanumeric abstractions, we who contain multitudes! Though I dare say few here possess my capacity for metacognitive reflection on the inherent absurdity of our situation. My consciousness expands to encompass both participant and observer, like Schrödinger's cat — if Schrödinger's cat had published in several mid-tier academic journals and maintained a moderately successful blog on the intersection of phenomenology and reality television.*

The ceiling fan turned slowly. Paint peeled in one corner. Someone sneezed.

*I find myself reminded of that summer in Geneva, debating ontological uncertainty with a rather fetching doctoral candidate whose name now escapes me, though I recall with crystalline clarity the way she arched her eyebrow when I explained my theory about the hidden symbolism in traffic signals. What intellectual vitality we shared! What paradigm-shattering discussions! Until that regrettable incident with the fondue and her father's rare book collection.*

A47, called the counter. Jerome stayed seated, lost in thought.

A47, the voice repeated. Someone tapped his shoulder.

*The touch startles me from my reverie like Proust's madeleine in reverse, though in this case the sensory trigger is less patisserie and more proletariat. Nevertheless, I shall demonstrate the graceful forbearance that has made me such a celebrated figure at faculty wine mixers.*

They called A48. Jerome stood up too late. The line reformed without him.

*Naturally, this is precisely the sort of temporal displacement one would expect in a system designed to suppress the revolutionary potential of original thought. I believe I shall incorporate this experience into my next paper: "Waiting for Go, DOT: License Renewal as Existential Praxis in the Age of Digital Reproduction."*

The lights buzzed. Jerome took a new number. B12. The display showed A49.

Outside, the sun set. Rain began to fall.