Orwell's Other Nightmare

Is t was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Marlboro Smith surveyed his desk with satisfaction. The monthly reports were done and he’d responded to all recent requests under the Public Accountability Act. His workload was current once more.

Smith enjoyed being a public employee, even though he knew he should be ashamed of that fact.

He carefully assumed a pained expression and turned toward the omnipresent Public Oversight camera. It was mounted to look over his shoulder so that it could record exactly what Marlboro wrote, read, or filed away. The placard beneath the lens warned:

Smith sensed someone standing just outside his office. There was no door; no government official had worked behind a closed door since the Governmental Scrutiny Amendment’s ratification.

“May I help you?”

Discovered, the other man entered, his expression one of undisguised distaste. “I’m here in an official capacity, Bureaucrat Smith.”

“But I’ve already been audited this month!” He protested without hope. Under the Federal Reorganization Act, all government functions were divided among Central Services, Implementation, and Administrative Operations. Each agency was obligated by law to monitor the others.

“We’ve had a complaint.”

Smith felt his stomach clench. “What kind of complaint?”

“Bureaucrat Myrtle Dagosian reported that you said to her, and I quote, We ought to do something about the inefficiency around here.’ Is that an accurate version of your remark?”

He hesitated. Obviously his visitor was an agent of the Ought Police, devoted to suppressing any secret wish to transfer power from the people to elected or appointed officials.

“Yes, I did. But the pronoun ‘we’ referred to the American public and not my official position, Mr…?”

“O’Brien.” The interloper appear dissatisfied. “Is your desk always this clean?”

“Well, I can’t stand disorder.”

“Have you caught up to your workload?”

Smith saw the trap. “Of course not, I’ve just placed it in a drawer. Catching up would imply excessive intrusion into the public realm.”

“Are you aware that you have the highest efficiency rating in Washington?”

“My predecessor cleared things up during the transition. When I arrived, there was no backlog. I’ve been much less productive.”

O’Brien nodded skeptically. “Your attendance is also extraordinary. An excess of zeal is cause for disciplinary action.”

“I’m an early riser and I catch the early train to avoid the crowds. If you check my lunchbreaks, you’ll find that I’m rarely punctual about returning, and I frequently leave early.”

“You could wait outside, smoke a cigarette.”

“But smoking is illegal!”

“The rule of law is a rule of crime,” O’Brien quoted. “A healthy disrespect for intrusive regulation is the mark of a true patriot.”

“I guess I never looked at it that way. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.”

O’Brien left shortly thereafter, leaving Smith distinctly unsettled.

The banner was draped across the elevator lobby. Smith waited impatiently. He considered himself a patriot, knew that the government that governed the least governed the best. But it was hard to let things slide. It was an unspeakable crime but in the secret recesses of his mind, Marlboro Smith knew he was guilty.

He loved being a government employee.

There was a new lobby placard the following morning.

O’Brien was waiting in Smith’s office.

“Good morning, Citizen O’Brien. May I be of limited assistance?”

“I’m here to issue you a writ of mandatory refresher training.”

“Refresher training?” Smith was bewildered. “But I thought everything was in order.”

“I reviewed your present and prior performance. You were demoted after several warnings about a high intrusiveness rating, and one violation of the Limited Implementation law.”

“I was just trying to help!” Smith responded emotionally. “There were conflicting rules and the state agencies kept contradicting each other. The disaster victims needed assistance and invoking federal jurisdiction was the only solution.”

“So you concluded that a government official had the right to determine the future of American citizens.”

“Not exactly. I was trying to fulfill their requirements of the government.”

“Your superior didn’t see it that way.”

“Molinski didn’t understand that the federal statute took precedence.”

“And you did?”

“I consulted legal experts first.”

“You feel justified then?”

“Yes.” Smith froze, realizing he’d just indicted himself.

O’Brien smiled. “Bureaucrat Smith, you have just admitted believing that official action can have positive results rather than being a necessary evil. I will therefore recommend your immediate suspension pending mandatory attitude adjustment therapy.”

Fury swept away the last vestiges of Smith’s reserve. “All right, I admit it. I love my job. Why should that be a crime? I’m trying to help. That’s what government should do.”

“That’s the kind of thinking that made America lose sight of the fact that central authority necessarily strips away freedom.”

“But nothing ever gets done now! Government service is the career of choice of the inept, the incompetent, and the indolent. We need to reshape government to reshape our future.”

O’Brien scowled. “You want to know what the future holds for government employees, Smith? I’ll tell you. Picture a giant glove, ripping your balls off forever. That’s the future, Smith.”

Six weeks later, Smith was released from retraining, wearing a graduation pin that said “Order is Chaos.” He returned to his job the following day, showing up fifteen minutes late, sorted all of the paper on his desk into four priority piles but failed to deal with any of them lest he interfere with some citizen’s freedom to sicken and die, or starve, or infringe on a neighbor’s rights. After his two hour lunch, he carefully polished the lens of the Public Oversight camera, and noticed with satisfaction that he no longer had to fake his smile when he looked in that direction.

He had won the victory over himself. He loved Little Sister.