A Measure of Strong Mustard
by Barry Levenson

"Take care. Take extra special care, Clerk. Do you have all three? Good. And no dawdling, Clerk. No dawdling at all!"

He calls me "Clerk." With a capital C. And why shouldn't he? After all, through hard work and a serious attitude (some call me boring because of it), I have advanced through the lower classifications: clerk trainee (levels 1 though 8), para-clerk (levels 1 through 5), under-clerk (levels 1 through 3), assistant clerk (levels 1 through 3 and rigorous oral examination), clerk (levels 1 and 2), and now Clerk (one level).

I will take care, Sir. I know the importance, real and symbolic, of my assigned task.

I respond to my superior with a clipped salute and in a most respectful tone: "Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bag full." I am not a fool.

Today is an execution day. Today the populace will be made to feel safe and righteous, for a bad (evil) man will be put to death.

I do not know what crime the man committed. But I do know (I have been told) that he has had Due Process of Law. That is the great wonder and the great salvation. For no citizen can complain so long as he has had Due Process of Law.

Here in the Prison of Progressive but Stern Alternatives, execution day remains special. The warden and her entourage still wear their special garments for the occasion. Altered as to size, cleaned, and pressed. The menu for the guardians and the penitents is the Special Menu. Extra wholesome. And with Special Condiments. The choir sings Special Hymns and Special Songs. Three times the usual number of notes.

Today's execution will be a smothering.

I turn into the B corridor with the three bags of rags that I must deliver to the executioner. These rags he will use to dispatch the evil man to his eternal nothingness.

What I do is honored but not hard work. It is not hard work because rags, even three bags full, are not heavy. Electrocution, on the other hand, entails hard physical labor because the Clerk must carry coins, also three bags full, from the supply unit to the execution salon. They are heavy because it takes so many coins to feed into the meter to buy enough voltage to produce a clean, safe, efficient, and (above all) meaningful electrocution.

I do not know the man's name.

Death by smothering is now the preferred method of execution in the district. It is smothering by rags. The rags come from the clothing worn by the victim and the victim's family. Rags from the clothing worn by the public prosecutor. Rags from the clothing worn by the honorable judges of the tribunal. Rags from the clothing worn by the man's landlord, accountant, recreation counselor, and insurance agent. Rags from the clothing worn by the television announcer who first reported the heinous deed.

The people prefer smothering to all other methods for three reasons: (1) it is colorful; (2) it unites the community through broad-based participation; and (3) it is amusing for most everyone involved.

I turn down the E corridor, toting my three bags full. I see a girl whom I measure to be . . . (click, click, click) . . . six years old. She carries a bag and a rucksack. She wears a light blue frilly dress (marking her from the far northern provinces) and a dark blue ribbon in her hair (confirming the same). I count four times three tears and/or tear tracks on her face. I make a notation of the fact.

"Please, Clerk, will you take my rags? They are for my father's execution today. They are from my clothes and the clothes of my mother and my three brothers. It would mean so much to us."

The girl should not be here. Her presence is not authorized.

"You have breached the rules, small girl, by being in the E corridor at this hour without a document."

"I'm sorry, Clerk. I did not know that I needed a document. Where can I get one? What kind of document do I need?"

"Any document will do, small girl, so long as it is official. Rule 3."

The girl fumbles through her rucksack. She takes out some keys, a hairbrush, a mallet, and a hand grenade. She then shuffles through some papers and hands me a ration card for mustard. She asks: "Is this a document?"

I inspect it. It is an official government coupon, entitling the bearer to one full measure of strong mustard. Thus, it qualifies as a document.

"Very well, small girl, you are authorized. On the basis of that document you can be here at this hour."

I make a notation of the fact. "But, small girl, your mallet concerns me. Under section 3 of our Constitution, a mallet is classified as a potentially dangerous weapon. You were concealing it in your rucksack. You need a permit."

"I was not concealing it, Clerk. I was hiding it."

"I will not argue the point, small girl. You need a permit. Do you have one?"

"No, Clerk, I have none. Exactly what kind of permit do I need?"

"A permit to carry a concealed mallet." She tries my patience. "But a document will be sufficient."

"What kind of document, Clerk?"

"Any kind, small girl. So long as it is official."

She rummages through her rucksack and hands me a playing card. It is the three of diamonds.

I ask: "Have you any picture cards?"

She nods. I ask her for the king of clubs. She hesitates and offers the ten of hearts. I counter with the queen of suits. We finally agree on the jack of spades. Done! I make a notation of the fact.

"Very well, small girl, you are authorized to be in this place at this hour and to carry and to use your concealed mallet as a dangerous weapon."

"And as a deadly weapon?"

"Yes, yes, as a deadly weapon, too. Now get along. I mustn't dawdle here with you."

"Please, Clerk, won't you take these rags for my father's execution?"

I could do that. To accept her rags would violate no statute, law, regulation, edict, injunction, emergency rule, duly enacted conforming ordinance, formal opinion, court decree, or state slogan. Technically, then, I could take her rags. But the other Clerks would probably ridicule me and heap me with scorn. The shame could jeopardize my chances at promotion to omni-Clerk. Such things have been known to happen.

"Please, kind and good Clerk?"

I will say one thing for the small girl; she is polite and sincere. She addresses me as "Clerk," emphasizing the capital C. The ill-mannered children of the cities call us "clerks" and sneer at us.

I reflect, being careful not to appear to be dawdling. I will do it! Because I am not a cold and heartless functionary. Certainly not both. I have compassion, not for men whose evil nature has been established by judicial proof, but for their innocent and small children.

"I will take your rags, small girl. Give them to me."

She cocks her head and says, "Thank you, Clerk. If you don't mind, I would like a receipt."

I give her a receipt and make a notation of the fact. She picks up her rucksack and runs into the yard to play.

In my heart of hearts I know that I have done a good thing. I have brought joy to a small girl's otherwise painful and wretched existence. I see her running in the yard and I marvel at her innocence. (I am adept at marveling. It has become my favorite pastime. In certain circles I am known for it.)

A stern voice calls out: "Clerk! You! Are you dawdling?"

It is the much feared mega-Clerk. I answer: "No, sir. I do certify that I am not dawdling. I am only marveling."

"Very well, Clerk. Carry on."

I carry the rags, hers and the three bags full, into the execution salon. I exit onto the balcony and look down onto the yard. There sits the small girl, sitting on her rucksack in the middle of the yard. She is banging her head, banging her head, banging her head, with her authorized mallet.

Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full. One for my master, and one for the dame, One for the little Clerk who lives down the lane. Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.

How happy and polite she is! Her parents must be so proud of her.