I use a three alarm set up. 6:20 to stop dreaming. Eyes open at 6:25. Dread starts at 6:30. Those ten minutes of semi-lucid awareness are the highlight of my day.
Digital clock in the room reads 6:32.
Try some meditation breathing. Podcaster gave it a name. Shinya. The space when out breath becomes in breath.
In that moment, you are not doing.
You just are.
I try for a few breaths with moderate success.
I’ll try again later.
I used to look forward to my morning shit. It doesn’t have the same impact with you don’t eat regularly. So I skip it.
Shower music is critical. Mostly rap. Some angry. Some philosophical. A couple to belt out under the hot water.
Music thumping.
Water as hot as I can stand it.
Under the shower head, I rub my shoulders.
They feel like boulders under my skin.
Relax, damn it.
Five songs is about twenty minutes. Making good time.
Brush my teeth with my left hand. It’s not easy. Ironically, it gives me something to focus on outside of my head for two minutes.
Work pants are wrinkled. They are office appropriate, though. Pants must be blue, black, or grey. Can’t be golf pants.
Wrinkles are not banned.
Yet.
Logoless collared shirt. The color does not register. Next hanger up.
Shoes must have laces, but not athletic.
No Jordans. They are not professional.
Get yourself a nice pair of dress sandals instead.
On go my slip on orthopedics.
I stand in front of the open fridge.
Pancakes. Sausage sandwiches. Leftover pizza. Yogurt.
Empty handed, I shut the door.
Coffee it is.
Tummy is full of stress. No room for food.
Monday through Friday belong to Them. Saturday is for hiding under the covers, spent digesting a stomach full of stress from the week. Eating is relegated to Sunday mornings these days.
Coffee is my main source of weekday calories. Without coffee, well, I would be the same. The taste is familiar, though. Grounding. Connects the best of times with, well, these times.
Son is packing up his lunch and listening to music. Sandwich, fruit, chips, juice, rap. Same thing every day. He likes the routine. He has good taste.
Baseball practice tonight. My night to cook.
Tacos for dinner. Fast and easy.
Wife is working from home. A full work set up in her corner of the office we used to share. Near the big window. Lots of plants, colors, books, photos of loved ones. Corkboard with resources, attaboys, and tokens from her team. Her personality in one snapshot.
Jealous.
I used to work from home.
A full work set up in my corner of the office. Near the door. Baseball memorabilia and cards, books, and photos of loved ones. The reasons I do any of this.
If given my druthers, I would make something.
Hats.
Boxes.
Leather goods.
I would learn a craft. Produce something I’m proud of.
Nobody is ever given their druthers.
Druthers need to be taken.
Throw my computer and phone in a bag. Soon I transport them across town.
Because They said so.
I used to take him to school half of the week.
Now I don’t have the time.
Kiss son. Kiss wife.
My people.
Why I can’t just quit.
Why I have to continue.
Why I let Them win.
The clock on the coffee pot reads 7:11
The clock on the water dispenser reads 7:16
The clock on the Alexa reads 8:11
Stupid daylight savings time.
My watch reads 7:12
I’m on reassignment at work. Punctuality is key.
Traffic. So much traffic.
Too slow.
No blinkers.
Every lane is the wrong lane.
My commute was 14 steps from bedroom to office.
A 7 second commute.
The drive takes 15 minutes without traffic.
30 minutes with.
Sometimes more.
Today is sometimes.
And I make this drive five days a week to do nothing.
Why?
They won’t tell me.
Part of their game.
My office site on the spot the DeAnza Drive-In once stood. The last drive-in in town. Seven dollars per carload to watch two movies. The last gasp of Americana. How many babies were conceived there? Now, it’s a boxy, grey office building.
How many souls are crushed here?
When I arrive, I drive passed the line for unemployment benefits. I imagine being in it. Being dependent on the system. I shudder. I couldn’t fathom. Or I just don’t want to. Truth is, I’ve been in the line before. Before I made a decision to pursue security.
In the last ten or so years, I’ve grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Secure. Predictable. Comfortable. Best money I’ve ever made. I’m far from rich, but I know my car has gas.
Mortgage paid monthly.
Little League uniform bought.
All supported by a growing dependency on clocks.
On others.
On the system.
On Them.
When my body began to break down, the system valued my mind.
What am I supposed to do if I lose it?
Without my mind, I’m of no value to the system.
Without the system, does my mind have any value?
I think it used to.
My watch reads 7:57
The security kiosk reads 8:03
Late again. Is my watch slow?
The clock in the breakroom reads 8:00
There is a clock in one of the conference rooms that reads 4:53 at all times. The minute hand never moves and the second hand ticks downwards. Eternally stuck at seven minutes to freedom.
I used to think of that as an absurd, funny quirk.
Things like that can only be funny when you feel safe.
My once shared office is no longer shared. Three other names removed from the office door. All personal artifacts removed. No more pictures. I didn’t know anyone in any of the pictures, but they were a constant. I didn’t realize I would miss the child with the ginger afro as much as I do.
Three people were relocated so I couldn’t interact with them. It would be easier to just relocate me.
“Easy” is not Their game.
Everybody peeks into the door length, thin, vertical peephole. Everybody except the security guards. They don’t even give me a side glance. The guards by every twenty minutes. Three passes of the security guard equals one hour.
My watch reads 8:17
My computer reads 8:14
I wonder what time the guard has
The office gossips slow down and look but don’t stop moving.
I’m sure there are rumors going around about why I’m here.
But they don’t know why.
Neither do I.
Jill taps on the window. She is in a different division. Third floor. And old friend. I wave her in.
The door is locked.
Did I do that?
Her phone rings. She takes the call. Her face crinkles. Her smile fades. She points at her phone and hurries away.
Bye, Jill.
Physically cut off. Professionally cut off. ‘No contact’ is Their main directive. A vague direction, so I ask specific questions.
One of my humans has a birthday coming up. Can I send a happy birthday?
I’ll let them know you wish them a happy birthday.
We have a lunch planned to celebrate. Unpaid lunch time. Can I go?
No, you may not.
Another of my humans is Employee of the Month. Can I go to her celebration? It’s virtual. I won’t make contact.
She’ll know that you nominated her.
It’s not about the credit. I want her to know I’m there for her.
But you won’t be there for her.
You know what I mean.
The gesture of nominating her signifies your recognition of her job well done.
So, no?
No.
‘No contact’ includes email, but keep your email open. It includes chat, but keep chat open. Leave everything unread. If an email has been opened, They can tell.
I feel distrusted.
I feel distrustful.
683 unread emails. The emails have started to slow. Professional ones, anyway. The spam doesn’t stop.
684 unread emails
Subject:
URGENT! Great deals on MLB tickets!
Delete on sight.
683 unread emails
Chime!
A chat from my boss.
A jolt in my stomach.
Glad there’s no food in there.
Please open only emails from myself or HR.
I didn’t open any emails.
Please don’t delete any emails.
Understood.
684 unread emails.
Subject:
URGENT! Great deals on MLB tickets!
685 unread emails.
Subject: Please acknowledge receipt of professional understanding
I sent you an email. Please reply to it that you received it and understand the content.
Understood.
I type “received and content understood” with the date.
My watch reads 11:46
Send.
Chime!
Please adjust the time in your email. It is only 11:42
Understood.
Where did you get the time you noted in the email?
My watch.
Please use the system time.
Understood.
Send a corrected reply
Chime!
Thank you.
Is there anything you need me to be working on?
Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Thank you.
So, no.
I sit in this office with nothing but time.
I listen.
It is quiet. What did it sound like before? I suppose it never registered until it was too loud.
There’s a hum. A buzz. A ringing.
Is it in my head?
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Hard.
The ringing gets louder.
Tinnitus.
The hum gets quiet.
Fluorescents,
The buzz makes my head hurt.
I need to leave this room.
I unlock the door. Open it up.
The AC from the big room rushes in.
I didn’t realize my office was so stuffy.
I bet it stinks, too.
Chime!
Everything OK?
Just going to the bathroom.
OK. That’s acceptable.
Thanks.
How long will you be?
I don’t know. 7 minutes/
Thumbs up emoji
I talk to people about my situation. It doesn’t make a ton of sense to anyone. I have all the time in the world to guess why.
It is not healthy.
Judging myself over and over. Always guilty. An absolute scumbag sentenced to spend the rest of time in internal damnation.
They asked for more. More hours, more productivity. They got it. They gave us more money, then asked for more. More attention to detail. More buy-in.
The next time, They just told us They needed more.
It was 42 cases, then 48. Then 56. Then 60. When it reached 100 cases, I had to say something. It’s my job.
I supervise a unit of humans who support vulnerable humans. I have my humans and they have theirs. It’s a circle of support.
I didn’t know I crossed a line. I was advocating. I was always good with the people. That’s why They promoted me. I’m good at my job.
Is it still my job?
Boss says yes. Calls it ‘reassignment’.
So, fired.
No.
In trouble?
Not exactly.
In good standing?
You’re employed.
I have no tasks.
You have tasks. Trainings.
Busy work.
Work is work.
Why am I on reassignment?
You’ll have to ask HR.
HR said to ask you.
I have no information for you.
Can I go home?
Yes. At 5.
I’m allowed to go home. I have to. That’s part of their game.
Weaponized downtime.
A dare to relax.
T-minus 13 hours.
It never ends.
The internal clock felt rather than heard.
I’m home.
But I’m not.
Dog barks one time.
One ARF means ‘hello’.
I’m free.
But I’m not.
Wife meets me in the kitchen with a kiss. Asks how my day was.
Aggressively decent.
She smiles. She’s so beautiful.
Son is playing video games. Has his baseball pants and hat on. Practice in 45 minutes.
He returns my hello without looking up.
Go save Zelda, I tell him.
I’m forced to play Their game.
But…I’m not.
GRUMBLE!
My stomach. I’m usually too tense to be hungry.
But I’m not.
It’s Tuesday.
My watch reads 5:37
I’m making tacos tonight.
The coffee pot reads 5:37
I’m hungry.
The water dispenser reads 5:37
Let’s get cracking on dinner, then.
The Alexa reads 6:37
I have to fix that in the app.
Money is an issue.
Always another expense.
I prioritize money coming in. At the expense of time.
Spend time to make more money.
Can’t spend money to get more time.
They can play Their game forever.
There are more of Them than there are of me.
Son only plays Little League for so long.
By the time I’m 50, he’ll be 18.
Those are the years that matter.
I can’t beat Them at Their game.
I think I’m done.
My phone rings.
The Employee of the Month.
I’m not her boss anymore.
I answer.
She had a lot of questions.
I only had one answer for her.
I truly wish her and the rest of my humans the best.
That night at practice, I watch my favorite ball player.
Cancel 6:20 alarm
Cancel 6:25 alarm
Cancel 6:30 alarm
I wonder what I’ll do tomorrow.
I think I’ll start with a morning shit.
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