The ticket in my hand had the number “034” in big read numbers.  Up on the wall, a monitor flashed a bright “079.”  I was going to be there for a while.  I leaned back in my chair.  Impatience moved through the room like an infected beach ball.  It initiated up at the counters. The DMV employees looked sad and deluded.  They gave short answers and took deep breaths that made their shoulders elevate slowly and then drop back down again.  Ceiling fans worked lazily above us.  Not enough to calm anyone down.

A large woman sat next to me sloppily.  Her body jammed my elbow into my side.  She was wearing clothes that looked close to their breaking point.  I decided not to make an issue of it.  She hand enough issues.  I compacted myself in the seat and looked back up at the screen.  “080” flashed in red, increasing in dimension each time it reappeared.

Two people behind me were arguing.  A man and a woman.  I didn’t look back.  She asked him not to use foul language around her children.  At first he ignored her.  He continued talking loudly on his phone about a “bitch” who apparently stole his driver’s license.  The woman was quiet for a moment and then went at him again.  “You’re being an asshole.  I asked you politely not to curse around my children.”  In her anger she corrupted her own gripe.

They went back and forth for a while.  I couldn’t blame them.  The room was hot and filled with aggravation.  There wasn’t anything any of us could do about it.  It was contagious.  A flu of anger being puffed around by the off balance ceiling fans.  I lost interest in their argument before long.

The number on the screen hadn’t changed, but more people had filed through the double doors.  There was a thick line of them.  They all checked the time on their phones obsessively.  They shifted side to side and glanced aggressively at the single clerk working the desk.  She didn’t seem to care.  Her DMV name badge had shifted so that her name was printed vertically – “Katrina” with the K starting at the bottom.

Out of their own boredom, my eyes found a man who sat in a similar slouched position.  The beach ball of annoyance had already bounced over him.  I could see it in the wrinkles on his forehead.  He was probably twenty yards from me.  Facing me, but separated by several rows of plastic chairs.  I watched him work through his irritation.  The rage built inside of him.  Some of it dissipated through his anxiously tapping foot, but most of it compiled over the bridge of his nose.

He looked up, and by some low odds, his eyes landed directly on mine.  Even with people occasionally passing between us, he maintained the line of sight.  When I make eye contact with a stranger, I typically look away.  Depending on the circumstance, I might offer a smile or a nod, but generally, I try to break the eye contact as quickly as possible.  I didn’t do that with this man.

No true reason.  It could have been the accumulated body heat and aggression in the room.  It could have been encouraged by a preexisting discomfort from being pinned to my heavy a neighbor – who, at some points was so close that I could hear and feel her body digesting food.  There could have been plenty of reason for maintaining eye contact with this stranger, but none that I was specifically aware of. 

The man’s eyebrows were leaning out over his eyes.  His ears were pinned back like and provoked dog and he leaned in my direction.  There were no mirrors around, so I couldn’t see my own face, but I made a conscious effort not to appear confrontational.  I had no qualms with this man.  We were complete and utter strangers, stuck in the same hell-hole.  But his eye contact felt heavy.  It continued for too long and that added a sense of hazard.

Ten seconds passed.  Then twenty seconds.  I was in too deep.  I couldn’t look away at that point.  Also, I didn’t feel the need to.  My eye contact wasn’t causing harm.  It appeared to be causing some discomfort, but the entire room was already flooded with that.  I let my eye contact linger.  I felt his stare growing hot.

Most people would have looked away by this point, but this guy didn’t budge.  I blinked regularly.  He blinked only sporadically, probably out of dry eyed necessity.  Without trying, I’d accidently dragged the primitive instincts out of this man.  The way people advise you not to look a dog or a baboon in the eyes because they take it as a challenge – that’s what was happening with this guy.

After a minute of uninterrupted eye contact the man was seething.  One part of my consciousness told me to let up.  Look away, avoid the trouble.  On the other shoulder was the devil, leaning against my neck, smiling and whispering, “You got this.”  I took the advice of the former.  Even at this point, my intentions were more curious than cruel.  It was only coincidence that my stare landed on him.  He didn’t seem to be taking it with the same lightheartedness.

My face remained calm but my inner baboon stood up on its hind legs.  His inner baboon was already perched on the chair, flashing its fangs and pounding its chest.  I had to let it play out.  I kept on him for another two minutes before he stood up.

He didn’t take his eyes off me.  I kept my eyes locked on his as he weaved through chairs and bumped past people, aimed in my direction.  There should have been some adrenaline rush, but all my body produced was a blank stare.

He walked all the way up to where he was almost standing on my toes.  “What’s your fucking problem, mate?”  He didn’t say mate, but it makes the story better if he’s Australian.  He could have been Australian, for all I know.  He looked the part.  White guy, nice tan, long white teeth, muscles, tattoos, buzz cut.

His chest was expanded as if someone had hooked him up to a bicycle pump.  He repeated his question this time leaning over me. “What the fuck is your problem, mate?”  He did say mate the second time…maybe not…I don’t remember.

“I don’t have a problem.”  I didn’t encourage his aggression.  A part of me wanted to accept the challenge, but I didn’t feel the need.

“Why the fuck are you staring at me?”

“Just making eye contact.”

My answer put him on his heels.  Anger mixed with confusion and it rippled across his face.

“I was looking at you and you were looking at me.” I continued.  “We’ve never met each other, just happened to make eye contact.  What’s the problem in that?”

The Australian’s eyes finally broke from mine, glancing at the obese woman beside me and then over his shoulder.  The room felt quiet.  Not the entire room, but the area around me.  Everyone was watching.  A room full of animals, they smelled trouble.

I kept my eyes on his even as he shifted uncomfortably.  Without saying another word, he shook his head, turned, and walked away.  I watched him weave his way back toward his original seat.  A few steps before he got there, he made another quick left and sat in an open chair facing away from me.

I looked back up at the screen.  They were calling number “090.”  The room still stunk of warm aggravation.