The Department of Absolutely Nothing
Jonas Stilwell stood in front of the building, staring up at the gray, unremarkable facade. The structure loomed like a sad monument to mediocrity, its windows shut tight, its surface untouched by life. A low, humdrum breeze fluttered the edges of a tattered, sun-bleached flag—a flag that perhaps, in another time, had once been bright and proud. Now, it hung like a limp ribbon of defeat. The sign, barely visible under layers of grime, read Department of Absolutely Nothing. That was it. No grand lettering, no explanation, just the stark, indifferent words that seemed to mock the very concept of existence.
Jonas shifted uncomfortably on his feet. How had it come to this? A few months ago—before the “downsizing,” he was a middle manager at a semi-successful yogurt shop—where his main duties included counting spoons, confirming which yogurt flavor went with which toppings, and trying to encourage a group of teenagers to care about the smoothness of the frozen yogurt. He had thought his work mattered. He had told himself it was enough. But it hadn’t been. The job was “fine,” but deep down, he knew he was capable of more. Yet, the universe—if it was listening at all—had decided he needed less.
As for Jonas, receiving the notice of “downsizing,” meant pretty much the same thing to him as it means to everyone who hears this ridiculously obsequious term, designed to soften the blow of rejection by what is usually a nominally interesting position in a less than important company serving an entirely unimportant niche at an absurdly inopportune time on an altogether silly and meaningless planet, thereby making people with less intrinsic value than any of the above, oodles of silly green paper which presumably adds to both their value and importance though nobody can seem to adequately explain exactly why or how—and which then leads to silly authors writing absurdly long run-on sentences about said silliness and silly people in delightfully satirical format that is making you smile one of your silliest grins right at this very moment. You’re welcome. As for Jonas, he felt rejected, fired, destitute, desperate, and inexplicably free.
Then, the letter came.
The letter had come one unremarkable Tuesday, a simple slip of parchment that could have easily been mistaken for junk mail. It simply read:
“Dear Jonas Stilwell,
We have selected you for an esteemed position at the Department of Absolutely Nothing, effective immediately. Please arrive at the address provided promptly, where you will receive your official orientation and training.
Best regards,
The Bureau of Total Absence”
A letter with no return address, no stamp, just a peculiar message written in what could be described as the most bureaucratic language possible. It was as if someone had written it purely to make the process of receiving it as forgettable as possible.
So, here he was now, standing before a door that felt less like an entryway and more like a barrier to another, inexplicable dimension. He pushed it. It opened.
Inside, the lobby was dim and dull, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with a persistent hum that seemed to vibrate through his skull. There was a faint, metallic scent in the air, mingling with the sterile, almost clinical smell of dust and old paper. The walls were painted a shade of beige that could best be described as “exhausted.” The floor beneath him creaked with each hesitant step, the wooden planks showing their age and disrepair.
Behind the counter, a man sat motionless, his hands resting perfectly still on the desk, as if they, too, had given up on all hope of movement. His eyes, glazed over and distant, tracked the invisible pattern on the far wall, his posture the very embodiment of apathetic stagnation. The man’s clothes were pressed and unwrinkled, though his tie sagged like it was giving up on life.
Jonas took a deep breath and stepped forward, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, but the silence in the room was so absolute that it felt like a pressure, weighing on him like a thick fog. Was he supposed to speak? Was he supposed to wait? The man at the counter didn’t look like he was in any rush.
Finally, the man’s lips parted. The voice that emerged was flat, lacking in both warmth and menace, and somehow, this only made it worse. “Welcome to the Department of Absolutely Nothing. Your job here will be to do nothing. Do you understand?”
Jonas blinked, unsure how to answer. The absurdity of it took a moment to settle in. “Yes?”
“Good. You’ll start by filling out this form.” The man slid a piece of paper toward him. Jonas looked down at it, noting that the paper was the same beige color as the walls, as if the department was determined to drown all things in a palette of indifference. The paper had three questions:
Have you ever done anything at all in your life?
How much effort are you willing to exert in the future?
Do you think doing nothing requires effort?
Jonas read the questions, staring at the crude, almost comical simplicity of them. He thought for a moment, then circled “Yes” for all of them. After all, the questions were vague, the stakes seemed minimal, and honestly, who could even attempt to answer them seriously?
“Good,” the man said, his voice as impassive as ever. “You’re hired.”
Jonas blinked again. “That’s it?”
“Yes. Now follow me,” the man muttered. He rose slowly from his seat, the sound of his shoes dragging on the worn linoleum floor reverberating in the otherwise silent hall. His movement was lethargic, as though he was moving through molasses, as if even the most basic act of walking was too much effort. Jonas, still unsure of what was happening, followed him down a long corridor. The air seemed to grow thicker as they walked, a faint mustiness mixing with the sterile scent that pervaded the building.
They arrived at a small, windowless room at the end of the hall, where an uncomfortable chair sat beneath a harsh, buzzing fluorescent light. “Your station,” the man said, his voice unbothered. “This is where you’ll do nothing.”
Jonas sat down, looking around the small, empty room. The walls were featureless, as though someone had intentionally removed any and all character from the space. There was no clock, no pictures, no distractions. The room smelled faintly of mildew, like old books left closed for too long. The light above flickered slightly, as if it, too, was questioning its purpose here.
“Wait,” Jonas said, his voice rising with a mix of confusion and frustration. “You can’t just… leave me here? To do nothing? That’s—”
“Exactly,” the man interrupted, cutting him off as he turned to leave. “Do nothing. If you need to sit, sit. If you need to stand, stand. If you need to lie down, feel free. No one cares. But most importantly, don’t think about it too much. If you start thinking about it, you’ll ruin the whole point.”
Jonas watched as the man walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence flooded in, thick and heavy. Jonas’s heart pounded against his chest. Was this really what he had come to? Was his life reduced to this? A room, a chair, and nothingness?
He sighed, looking down at his hands, feeling the heat of his skin, the slight ache of his knees against the chair. He could feel the weight of his breath in his chest, each inhale and exhale a reminder of the physical presence of his body. His mind, however, seemed to wander. How had he ended up here? What was the point? Why was he here, doing absolutely nothing?
As the hours passed, Jonas’s confusion deepened. Was he supposed to feel free? Was the absence of everything supposed to mean something? Was there supposed to be a moment of clarity? He looked down at his hands, his fingers twitching, as if begging for something to do. The air felt stifling, like it was pressing in from all sides, squeezing out the energy, leaving only exhaustion.
And yet, as the room filled with the smell of stale air and flickering lights, a strange feeling began to grow in him. It was subtle at first, a sensation so light it might have been a trick of the mind. But soon, it settled in—peace. A sense of release from the constant pressure to do something, to achieve, to act.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Jonas stopped. He let his body relax. His shoulders unknotted. His mind drifted, free of any demands or thoughts. He simply was.
When the man returned hours later, his expression as bored and blank as ever, he didn’t have to ask how Jonas was doing. There was no question of success or failure. Jonas had learned what he had come here to learn. The ultimate lesson.
“Is this it, then?” Jonas asked quietly.
The man nodded, his voice faintly approving. “Yes. You have done well.”
Jonas felt a strange smile tug at the corners of his mouth, though it was more out of exhaustion than triumph. “I guess doing nothing can be… harder than I thought.”
“Indeed,” the man said, and left him alone to embrace the profound emptiness of his newfound existence.