Man with his wheat-colored hair tied up in a ponytail like a housewife entered the large building of the Social Security Organization on Azadi Street near Behboudi. He looked like a 19th-century Russian composer, with a beard and mustache that were once neat and unkempt but now disheveled and disheveled. He was wearing a German brand Nino raincoat that has been out of fashion for years and no one wears it. He was carrying a delicate bag that didn't fit his loose, flowery clothes. He was carefully looking at the entrance of the building for an office where unemployed people were registered. The registration office was like a three-room apartment. Several employees were sitting in the kitchen, greedily eating barbarian bread, cheese, tomatoes, and cucumbers, and sipping tea in large mugs, like little boys, bustling and noisy, and their words were incomprehensible. After a while of careful consideration, the big man understood that they were talking about yesterday's football match. On the door of one of the rooms was written: Registration of unemployed, Manager: Akbar Borhan Nia.

He shifted in his chair. 15 minutes later, a small man with a large mouthful of bread and bread crumbs slipping through his fingers entered and sat down opposite him. Without any questions or answers, he handed him the famous 5-page unemployment form and said: Fill it out.

The large man took a pen from his bag and filled out the form very carefully in 20 minutes, leaving no blank space on it. He even took a photo from his bag and stapled it where it should be. The small manager followed the big man's movements in surprise. Usually, no one carries a photo with him. This one is really a genius. With large, fleshy hands that were dazzlingly white, he wrote with a fine pen as if a printer were gliding over the paper with a command from nowhere. There were no lines to be seen. With each word he wrote, his lips opened and closed, as if he were reading the words he was writing immediately. When he leaned back in his chair, he looked for a moment like the Buddha statues in Southeast Asia. The readiness of his stomach was so great that it seemed as if someone had hugged rice. The small man picked up the form and began to read with disinterest. What was your job?

- Writer, sir

- You mean you were a scribe?

- I don't understand?

- I mean you worked at the land registry? We say scribe, but sometimes they introduce themselves as writers, which causes confusion. After all, in our documents there is only scribe. Of course, such people are also called editors.

- But!! I am a writer, not scribe.

- Look, sir! I don't have much time, just answer my questions. On the official insurance form, your job is listed as housekeeper, not writer. These days, many men are housekeepers and their wives go to work. You paid all your insurance under the title of housewife. Ask for your own insurance.

- What? Housewife? But I am a writer.

- Many people claim that, but we do not have a code for the profession of writer in our insurance policies. It is definitely a dangerous profession. I have to repeat again that you are officially a housewife. Don't argue with me and answer the questions I ask.

- Where did you work before?

- I used to write stories and novels. My income was not bad, but now a few of my books have been stuck in the archives for a long time. Publishers do not pay money for a book that is not published. Well, of course! You must remember me well, I am the author of the famous novel "The Hole in the Dollar". Think carefully!

- I only remember the Western movie with that title, and nothing else. On the other hand, we do not read books. Nobody here knows writers. It is better to end these discussions. Tell me exactly what you do?

- I am a writer of stories and novels. I don't know why you don't know me. I am Sirus Moradi

- Look! I don't have much time. There are many people like you. Just a few weeks ago, a young man who looked like you, Shirin (excuse me!) came and said he was Abu Ali Sina and unemployed. He wanted us to find him a medical job. He was exactly like you. He talked as if he were a football player.

- Did you find him one too?

- Stop playing around! Tell me exactly what your job was?

- I am a real writer.

- Stop it. I'm bored. You know, the social security self-service starts at 12 o'clock. If I'm late, I won't get clean spoons and forks for lunch. Today we have celery stew. I like it very much. I don't want to miss lunch because of a demon.......... (he swallowed). Tell me, what kind of writer of stories do you mean? Do you invent stories yourself?

- Yes! I'll figure it out.

- In that case, you are not unemployed. You are sick! It is better to go to a psychiatrist, not the unemployment office. Stories are told through the words of others. Although I am not a book reader, I am sure that the invented stories of so-called writers like you will not be worth a penny.

- But I am an unemployed writer who lost my job because the Ministry of Cultural Affairs does not issue the necessary permits and my books are not published. Several newspapers where I worked have all closed down. Believe me, I am hungry. My rent is now 7 months behind. On top of that, I also have to support my mother. Do you know how high the medical expenses of the elderly are?

- Stop it! This is not a charity. It is the Social Security Organization. The only positive thing about your life is that you have paid your insurance premiums regularly. That's it! I cannot officially register your forms as unemployed. This is a responsibility for me. We have many dead writers, but we have no unemployed writers at all.

- So you think the solution to my problem is to die. How about suicide?

No! I warn you now that if it is proven that you committed suicide, not only will you not be entitled to life insurance, but your mother, who would normally receive your insurance premium, will not be paid any benefits. Be careful not to commit suicide. Think of an accident that leads to death. Often, so-called writers like you end up reaching this solution. Remember, the scene should not be fake. Just a few months ago, someone just like you, who claimed to be a writer, crashed his own car. That is, he had arranged the scene in such a way that he forgot to apply the handbrake while going downhill. His car ran over him and he died instantly. The expert report found the cause of death to be negligence and he was not paid any benefits. He was not entitled to third-party insurance. Get the thought of suicide out of your head. You should be killed. Do you understand what I mean?

- So my death as a writer will be the end of all problems?

- I think so. This is a definite and logical solution. Everyone will be satisfied with it. Especially you!

- What do you mean!?

- Yes, again! Don't worry. Everything will be fine. Your death will be natural. If you have life insurance (which you do), your family can receive it. There is no need to worry.

- Can I ask when my death will happen?

- You know, about thirty men and women writers and artists across the country and 5 abroad (2 in America and 3 in Europe) are on the list of the dead. This is the only help we can give them. Something like Euthanasia or Mercy killing. And you should understand that with the situation that has arisen in the country, a generation of writers like you is doomed to destruction and annihilation. The need for stability to work in the present documents is more than writers like you who create trouble for everyone. The Social Security Insurance Organization provides them with a comfortable death by ensuring the welfare of their heirs. Masha ah.. You, an intellectual, should understand this well.

- Did you say the list of the dead?

- Yes, again! You're talking too much. If you want and are very worried, I can bring your turn forward. Hey! What do you think? Yesterday would have been a good date for the accident that led to your death. That is, the day before you came here. Yes! I reject yesterday's date for you.

- What do you mean?! How can you date my murder yesterday? I'm sitting right now in front of you, a big tree! How could I die yesterday.

- Calm down! Why don't you pay attention to what I'm saying? This is a service that the Social Security Organization provides for its so-called clients, writers and artists. You don't have to deal with technicalities and details. Go for a walk for now. You're officially a dead man! A dead writer!

- I lost control and didn't understand what rude words I said to the insurance employee, but he and his colleagues seemed to be explaining a very obvious and simple point to a stupid person like me. They slowly started talking:

- Look, dear author (they said this word with a special grin), if you die yesterday, the total number of years you have paid insurance will be 30 years. Say okay. In that case, calculating your claims will be very easy and simple for us. If just one day, yes, just one day is added to your insurance history and it becomes 30 years and one day, then we will have to do complicated calculations just for that one day, which will take up a lot of our time and energy. If it won't make much difference in the amount of your income, then it is better for God's sake, for you and us to die yesterday! Don't worry about the administrative problems of the matter. We will arrange everything. Your date of death from the police should be yesterday, why don't you understand? The advanced software of the organization has determined yesterday's date of your death. It's not up to you or me. The date is set for the best. It means it's the most beneficial for both you and the organization. If you really claim to be a writer and literate, you should be able to understand this kind of stuff very easily. Why are you playing dumb? Your burial place is also the cemetery in Afjeh village. Do you know the way? After Lavasone. Where are you?

- I swallowed my saliva and said: You mean the cemetery in the lower part of Afjeh? Near Kaveh Golestan's grave?

- The victim understood something. Our software knew about your interest in the Farrokhzad and Golestan families. All those Google searches you did were effective in locating your grave. Do you remember how many times you went to Khadem Azad Alley, Forough's father's house; once you were very lucky and one of the residents let you go into the yard and take a picture. Later, you Photoshopped the same picture with two large green leaves and wrote below it: I'm planting my hands in the garden....... It will grow green .......... and you posted it on your page. Our software has all this information. You haven't even read Ghazaleh Alizadeh's House of Idrisi even once....... Maybe if you had done that, you would have walked away with a clean slate, Imamzadeh Taher Karaj. On the other hand, you were once a newspaper photographer, meaning you worked with photos. Considering all this, Afjeh Cemetery is good for you. You can talk to Kaveh about photos and photography at night. You know that Kaveh and Forough had a friendly relationship and correspondence............ Maybe there was a discussion about this too. Now you believe that the social security software has thought of everything. I myself expected your burial place to be in the cemetery above Lavason, next to Abbas Kiarostami............

 Well, I said it's out of our hands............... The software itself made this decision.

- I came out of the employment office angrily. I was thinking about all the subjects of my unfinished novel that were on the computer. With the rest of my money, I had a coffee at an internet cafe on the way. I glanced at the newspapers. I reluctantly picked up a newspaper that had been left at the phone booth. I sat down on a faded bench by the street and reluctantly started to browse the headlines. On the events page, there was a repeated story of a woman who had been sentenced to stoning for adultery, and the whole world was enthusiastically supporting her, and... At the bottom of the news page, there was a story about my accident with a heavy truck while crossing the street, which I had never been to in my entire life. I had died yesterday. I felt relieved. All the insurance agent's calculations had been correct. I had died in a real accident the day before I went to see the insurance company. I didn't need anything else. The news about my accident continued, saying that the results of the police investigation showed that I had not noticed the red light and was walking on a non-virtual road. The truck driver who ran me over was acquitted of the charge of intentional homicide. The report stated that my family had no objections to the verdict. The representative of the Social Security Insurance Organization also said that all the rights of the deceased are reserved and will be paid to his mother. I am now a dead writer. I am very happy that I have paid my insurance premiums regularly. Today, all the newspapers are full of praise for me. All the publishers are already counting down the 30th anniversary of my death and they will be able to print them in any way they want without getting permission from my heirs. The Ministry of Religious Affairs will issue the necessary permits to print my books more quickly after my death. Iranians have no problem with the dead. No matter how long you have been dead, people will respect you very much. The Writers' Union is going to hold a memorial service for me at the Noor Mosque (Jihad Sazandegi Square, Dr. Hossein Fatemi Street). Everything is going smoothly and according to the pre-determined plans. Everyone who has commented on my death points out that I died in a completely natural accident and that the articles I have previously published in newspapers have nothing to do with this incident. The cool autumn wind of Tehran tickles my soul. I walk easily through the trees, the polluted air of Tehran bothers me badly. For now, I will settle down in Palang Chal and Shir Pala to think seriously about the future. From up here, Tehran looks like a big black blanket with ghosts floating in it. The lights of Kahrizak and Behesht Zahra are clearly visible from here. Milad Tower is like a hand raised for help, and the passing planes with flashing lights seem to be smiling and reaching out to Tehran for help. I have to go to Afjeh. This is the first night I have to sleep in a grave. It is hard work. I have to get used to it. I check my phone for the last time. In several groups I was a member of, short clips of the funeral ceremony in Afjeh have been posted. They don't hurt their hands, they eat everything. Black dates with coconut powder are so appetizing. The market is also empty. The deceased has found virtues in me that I was unaware of for years. I have to hurry. Kaveh doesn't know me at all. I have to move the conversation to the mine explosion that caused his death. Of course, if he has the patience to tell the story... I have to buy cigarettes on the way.