Prosaic Description of a Prosaic Workplace

I sit, my tiny veal pen of a cubicle holding me tight like a straight jacket covered in knick-knacks.

I look out the window, it is jet black outside. The sun not due for a while.

The darkness outside turns the window into a mirror, reflecting the whole of the work floor in front of me. It creates a never ending sea of cubicles and darkness.

Somewhere a woman is talking. I realize she’s talking to me. I turn to acknowledge.

From underneath a strange haircut that looks more like a wig stolen from the set of the old sitcom “Mama’s Family” a mouth moves.

It tells me I shouldn’t be working yet as I’m not clocked in. I assure her I’m not. She’s confused as to how someone can type without it being work. I choose not to elaborate and we silently go back to our standard distance apart.

I get up to put water in my hair. The heating vent over my head is the only one in a good distance that is open so it keeps me at a constant temperature of between seventy six and eighty two degrees.

Because of this, I have to keep water in my hair lest I suffer a constant perm.  The water in the hair ritual is often the highlight of my work day.

As I get back, I notice someone has left an inspirational post-in in the cubicle next to me for the girl that sits there. “You can do it! Your the smartest person I know!” Seeing the typo, my first thought is, “I don’t doubt that”.

I take a breath, my hourly routine. Close eyes, take a breath, pretend you’re somewhere else, open eyes, greet disappointment.

The exterior door clacks. A warning shot to let me know more coworkers have arrived.

She walks in. I don’t know her name. She sits very close, has for years, and is incredibly distinct but I have never gotten her name.

Much like Voldemort, I fear she’d gain power if she was named and if that name was ever spoken.

She’s bell shaped with two skinny legs underneath as if Kate Moss was wearing the McDonald’s Grimace costume.

Where she goes, she fills the air with the smell of thirty perfumes at once and the sound of a million sentences all starting with “girl” and ending in unnecessary exclamation. She is like a living klaxon.

A pleasant chime sounds on my computer. A reminder I set myself to clock in, lest I get lost in my words and freedom of thought.

I do so and open the wave of programs needed to do the next ten hours of work.

I’m greeted with an email stating the main program I need to do my job is, in fact, down. More writing.

I look over everything I penned, have I written too much? Am I rambling? I shrug and sip my coffee.

The extra shot of espresso I begged the barrister for is noticed. My eyebrows lift. It almost tastes like coffee now. I’m getting closer to figuring out how to make Starbucks work.

By the time I finish getting the coffee down, the sip becoming a full blown make out session with the cup in a desperate attempt to get caffeine in my system, I realize I am rambling and decide to cut it off.

I try to think of a clever way to end my exhausted ramblings. A ribbon on a gift left by my own ever growing madness.

I never think of one.


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