The Queue
May 19, 2026
It was bitter cold out this morning,
and no manner
of mental preparation
had braced you for it.
In theory you can handle the sub-zero temperatures.
You hadn’t come to wait in the queue without preparation.
“It will be worth it”
has been your quiet refrain and so far it is working.
But that doesn’t change the fact…
You still can’t see the front from here.
And it’s been hours.
You’ve watched the sun rise
and moved only a few feet.
Freezing to death,
thinking…
and focusing on the prize.
“It can’t be much longer,” says the man in front of you.
He’s shivering violently,
and doesn’t sound very confident.
You hope he’s prepared for the wait.
It’s part of earning the reward,
the same one you’re here for.
He’ll beat you there.
He’ll get to see before you...
But that’s ok,
it’s the achievement that matters here.
This is for you, as much as it is for bragging rights.
Bullied in high school, picked on.
“Nerd.”
“Little bitch.”
Couple of those guys are dead now.
Drugs.
Pity.
You’re sure they saw the rest of your posts.
Thailand. Nigeria.
Skydiving.
Sharks.
You can hear the wracking cough of failure ahead of you.
They’re discussing leaving.
Good.
Quitters don’t deserve to be here.
You feel angry at everyone in line behind you,
knowing they will
claim the same
greatness as you.
The same empirical proof.
And they cheapen it, too.
Every single one that follows you.
You’ve seen the bodies,
the ones you pretended not to.
Slumped over,
curled in a ball
and perfectly preserved.
They paid to be here,
just like you.
You think of a personalized tombstone,
temporarily.
You’re not like them.
This is the last on the list.
The last check box.
You don’t lie down anymore.
Actually, a lie down sounds pretty nice.
You’ve been standing
for hours
holding on to the rope,
and your spikes are hard to move.
Good lord.
You see them.
A family of four,
they walk past you now,
back towards a warm bed and meal.
Their family outing.
They brace themselves and the wind hurls itself against them, nudging you all toward the edge.
And your foot slips a bit.
Not a lot, but enough to wake you up.
…
You were dozing on your feet apparently.
The person behind you is tapping you
and pushing
and urging you
to take a few steps forward.
The queue has left you in your absence.
“Thank—“
…
You’re on your back now. Your body feels bad.
Bad everywhere.
Unspecifically.
You try the door back to unconsciousness.
Oh my god.
“Careful bud.
Don’t worry, you’re at Base Camp.”
What?
“Yeah buddy,
you locked up at the top.
No surprise by the look of you!
Bright gold parka. I remembered you.
You’re good now though,
we got you fluids
and you’re dry.”
You don’t understand.
He knows and continues.
“Hey man,
it happens all the time.
The line at the top is bumper to bumper nowadays.
Sherpas bring down three or four every week.
Don’t worry bro, no shame!
It’s not like you do this for a living!”
But you could hear it in his voice,
and wondered how many times
he’d seen the top of the world.
Your rage floods out all gratitude and you say:
“Did I make it.”
The man smiles at you: “Yeah bud! The Sherpas even took a picture with you.
They held you up and everything.”
You look through fogged eyes at your own phone,
stolen from a pocket
to memorialize the moment for you.
You appear to tower over the petite and shabby men who saved your life as they hoist your stiff, lifeless golden body at the top of Mount Everest.
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