The Complaint Department

In Kint, the hardest part of solving a problem is usually listening long enough to understand it.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:06

Welcome to Dispatches from Kent. Conditions remain inconclusive. This week's report concerns a government department whose creation was entirely well intentioned and therefore destined to become slightly larger than anyone anticipated. It began when a seamstress named Vela Kor wrote a letter to the Ministry of Civic Satisfaction. The letter read simply, I wish to complain about the pigeons. The pigeons in question had developed a habit of sitting on the statue of Founder Talpin and expressing themselves freely upon the shoulders of passing citizens. The ministry responded with admirable efficiency. Within 48 hours, a new office was established, the Department of Complaints. A small wooden sign was hung above the door. Under it, a polite notice read, All grievances welcome. The first morning was quiet. Vela Corps arrived promptly at 9 o'clock and explained the pigeon situation to a clerk named Aaron Pell. Pell listened carefully, nodded with impressive seriousness, and wrote the complaint on a large sheet of paper labeled Official Matters of Dissatisfaction. He thanked her and filed the complaint into a drawer. Satisfied that the machinery of civic responsibility was now functioning properly, Velakor returned home. Unfortunately, by noon the line had formed. A neighbor complained that a farmer's rooster woke him up too early on the weekend. A weather forecaster complained that people blamed him for cloudy weather. A fisherman complained that the fish seemed to be shunning him for weeks now. By evening, the office had received 32 complaints, three counter complaints, and one handwritten note reading, simply, everything feels slightly wrong lately. The ministry considered this a promising sign of public engagement. Within a week, the Department of Complaints required a larger building. Citizens arrived each day, carrying concerns carefully prepared during the night. One man complained that his neighbor's rooster crowed too early. The neighbor complained that the rooster crowed too late. Both complaints were filed under agricultural disputes. The current queen visited the department on the fourth week. She examined the growing shelves of grievance folders with thoughtful interest. How many complaints have we received? she asked. The clerk consulted a ledger. Four thousand, your majesty. And how many have we solved? The clerk paused. None yet, he said, but people appear quite pleased with the opportunity. The Queen nodded approvingly. It is good for citizens to feel heard. Encouraged by this royal endorsement, the ministry expanded the department again. Soon, the building contained three floors. The first floor accepted minor complaints, the second floor processed significant complaints. The third floor was reserved for complaints about the complaint system. This final category proved unexpectedly popular. A shopkeeper complained that the line for complaining was too long. A poet complained that complaints were insufficiently poetic. A retired sailor complained that the Department of Complaints lacked the discipline of proper maritime grievances. One afternoon, a quiet woman named Lira approached the counter. She waited patiently while the clerk sharpened his pencil. What is your complaint? he asked. Lira considered the question carefully. I'm not sure it's a complaint, she said. It's more of an observation. The clerk looked intrigued. Please continue. Well, she said, I've been watching the line outside. Yes? Everyone in it seems rather happy. The clerk blinked. Happy? Yes, she said. They're talking. Laughing, sharing stories about their problems. The clerk thought about this. Then he wrote her observation on a fresh form. Complaint. Regarding general contentment while complaining. Weeks passed. The Department of Complaints became the busiest office in Kent. Neighbors who had never spoken began discussing grievances together while waiting in line. Local bakeries began selling pastries to people waiting to complain. A traveling musician once wrote a small ballad called The Cue of Concern. It did modestly well. Eventually a young boy approached the counter. He could barely see over it. The clerk leaned down. What would you like to complain about? The boy looked around the room. He studied the shelves of folders. He watched the long line stretching out the door. Then he asked a quiet question. Is there a place where people can say something good? The clerk opened his ledger. He searched the index carefully. Then he turned several pages. He searched again. Finally he closed the book. I'm afraid not, he said gently. The boy nodded. That seems like something you should build. The clerk wrote the suggestion on a new form. Proposed department of gratitude. It remains under consideration. The ministry is currently reviewing the proposal. A philosophical aside, complaints have always been a powerful force in human civilization. They create alliances, they spark conversation, they give shape to vague discomfort. But gratitude is quieter. It rarely forms lines outside government buildings. It arrives privately, often without paperwork. And so the Department of Complaints remains the busiest institution in Kent. Citizens gather there daily to share the many things that trouble them, which, in a strange way, appears to make them feel better. From the land of Kent, where grievances are carefully catalogued and dissatisfaction enjoys excellent administrative support, this has been your correspondent. Conditions remain inconclusive.