The Office Piece (part 1)

The calendar on my desk glares at me. As it’s the first Monday of the month, I turn over the page to find a new inspirational message that is somehow meant to coerce me into believing that my contribution in this office’s affairs has some sort of cosmic purpose that benefits society. This month I am greeted with the phrase ‘Some people dream of success... while others wake up and work hard at it’. Above this truly sententious line is a picture of a man in profile, walking up a set of stairs. At the foot of the stairs, just a few paces back, is his bed, the sheets pulled back, suggesting that he has only just woken up and is not wasting any time getting on his way to success. This man is suited, carrying a sleek briefcase, a contented smile on his face. This man has a purpose, he is fulfilling his purpose.

Putting aside the fact that this ponce conveniently has the stairs-to-success right next to his bed for a moment, why couldn’t he even be bothered to make his bed before he set off for work? Surely lack of tidiness is detrimental to achieving any level of success. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I’m sure I remember some line from last year’s calendar stating something along the lines of ‘A tidy desk is a recipe for success’. Of course it’s ok for them to be self-contradictory. See, if I was in the board room with the idiots behind this concoction, I would at least have had the decency to ensure there be some managerial type figure in the picture; an even better suited model standing by the bed, pointing a gun at the twat walking up the stairs. And not some itty bitty hand gun either. A big fuck off shot gun, pointed straight at his head. Oh motivation will be abundant, overflowing perhaps. And above all it will add a touch of honesty to this farce. My eyes shift focus and now it’s the small regimental numbered squares I see. These little numbered boxes believe they can contain the full proceedings of any given day in my life. Well, most days they probably can.

I’ve now been in the office for little over 13 minutes, and I can already feel the little life I woke up with being sucked out of my body. Its as if as soon as I come in, the office stabs a tube into the back of my neck and starts extracting my vitality to power the ever fluorescent angelic white light bulbs above my head. I swear the more drained I feel, the brighter those lights get. Each and every employee who walks through that door, a natural resource to sustain the ravenous beast that is this office. I need my fuel.

The coffee’s hot, but it tastes like shit. This brown, watery, soup. Gets me thinking about the poor fucker who put his heart and soul into producing the sorry batch of beans that are now diluted in my eco-friendly plastic cup. Some third world farmer toiling away in the sweltering heat, the lurid sun beating down on his face while he licks his lips, tasting the salty sweat dripping down his face. Little water, only sun ... no water ... day after bloody day ... unbearable heat ... a lifetime. A lifetime chucked into a piece of shit machine that spits out this ... this steaming misery. Heart and soul indeed.

But I sip this mess, this heart and soul in a cup, while the rest of the office-folk stumble in. We all give each other a smile and nod, the more enthusiastic employee (i.e. not been working in this building as long as the rest of us) will even let out a too-early-for-the-vocal-chords croaky moan, which one can only assume is meant to translate into “Good morning”. I don’t know. He could be saying anything; “Like the tie!”, “Do you need anything from the supply store?”, “I’ve just scratched your car ... the car you’ve spent two whole years of your life moping around this office, saving up for”. The only reaction he is going to get out of me is the nodsmile that fulfils my part in the bullshit production of Mornings at the Office.

One day I think I’ll upset the routine. I’ll put a schism in the mechanism ... so to speak.

“gwrdmrrrng”, he will say.
“Excuse me?”, I shall say, pleasantly I might add.
“ahem ... sorry. Good morning!”, he shall say, more assertively.
“Oh, I see”, I will respond, without reciprocating the greeting.

Slightly confused he will start to shuffle towards his desk. One ... two ...

“Excuse me?”, I’ll call after him.
“Yes?”, he will answer.
“Why is it you presume I would be at all receptive to your poor attempt of unnecessary early morning communication ... you corporate buffoon.”

Alas today, like most days, I can’t be bothered to exert the energy such a scenario would require. I continue to stare at my calendar, counting down the months, the weeks, the days, hours, minutes, seconds ... My coffee is cold now. It still tastes like shit.