The Department of Compression Complaints
Sexual references.
Mrs. Bethany Wright had been waiting in the Department of Compression Complaints for what felt like several weeks but was, according to the compressed time in the waiting room, only forty-three minutes1.
“Next!” called Bradley from Customer Service (definitely human, despite the way his smile occasionally phase-shifted).
“My mattress,” Mrs. Wright began, placing a shoebox on the counter, “has compressed my dreams.”
Bradley’s definitely human expression didn’t waver. “I’m sorry, could you elaborate?”
“I bought a SleepTight Compressed Comfort™ mattress. Fits a king-size bed in a box! The salesman assured me it would give me ‘the sleep of my life, compressed for convenience.’ What he failed to mention was that it would also compress my REM cycles.”
She opened the shoebox. Inside, thousands of tiny crystalline fragments glittered - compressed dreams, looking like broken Christmas ornaments designed by someone who’d only had nightmares described to them.
“I’m having all my dreams at once,” Mrs. Wright explained. “Eight hours of dreaming compressed into the first thirty seconds of sleep. Do you have any idea how disturbing it is to experience your entire psychological landscape simultaneously? I’m being chased by my high school math teacher while also flying naked through my childhood home while also—“
“Form C-4471,” Bradley interrupted, sliding a sheet across the counter. “Oneiric Compression Complaint. You’ll need to itemize each dream for insurance purposes.”
“How does one itemize the subconscious?”
“By category. Anxiety dreams are Section A. Wish fulfillment is Section B. Dreams about teeth falling out have their own dedicated form now - very common with compression technology.”
Behind Mrs. Wright, the queue stretched into impossible distances. The Department had compressed its physical space to accommodate more complainants, creating a non-Euclidean nightmare of bureaucracy.
“My neighbor,” the man behind her muttered, “compressed his dog. Now it barks in frequencies only other compressed dogs can hear. There’s a whole secret compressed dog society. They’re planning something.”
“Form D-9982,” Bradley said without looking. “Compressed Pet Conspiracy Concerns.”
Mrs. Wright filled out her form, noting that Section Q required her to describe dreams she hadn’t had yet but would have if she could sleep normally. The Temporal Dream Compensation clause was particularly baffling.
“The real problem,” she said as she wrote, “is that compressed dreams have a shelf life. If I don’t experience them within thirty days of compression, they start to leak. Last week, my anxiety dreams escaped and nested in the kitchen cupboards. Have you ever tried to make breakfast while your unresolved issues about your mother judge your choice of cereal?”
Bradley stamped her form with a stamp that existed in several timelines simultaneously. “Your complaint will be processed in 3-5 business states of existence. Would you like to compress the waiting time?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Very wise. The compressed complaints department is in paradox again. Last week, someone received a resolution to a complaint they hadn’t filed yet, which caused them to file the complaint, which made the resolution retroactively incorrect.”
Mrs. Wright gathered her box of crystallized dreams and headed for the exit, passing a woman whose compressed parking space had resulted in her car existing in seventeen locations simultaneously, making insurance claims “philosophically complex.”
As she left, she heard Bradley call “Next!” to a customer who wasn’t there yet but would be once their compressed commute decompressed.
The future was efficient. It was just also completely mad.