Untitled

/u/spubbers

9/1/2019

Morning

Most of the desks in my office are cubicles, but for some reason I was placed in an open seating area
with a desk directly adjacent a window. My coworkers like to tell me how lucky I am to be able to glance
up at any time and see the people walking by, the mountains in the distant background, and the blue sky
framing it all. I usually just smile and nod, choosing not to tell them that the constant reminder of what
I’m missing out on is somehow worse than being confined to a cube under those sickly yellow lights.
They think that I’m better off than they are and pointing out that the natural light only compounds my
depression is no way to make friends.

Even though I’m oriented with my back facing towards the rest of the office, the UV blocking filter on
the window provides some additional reflective capabilities that allow me to spy people walking up
behind me. Since I wear headphones often, this superhuman capability comes in quite handy. Having
eyes in the back of my head helps me avoid putting my coworkers in the awkward position of needing to
get the attention of a man wearing noise-cancelling headphones with his back turned and his head in
the clouds. Of course, it also means that I have a seemingly endless amount of time to observe the
approach of people I have no interest in speaking to.

Oh god, he’s coming this way. Turn off, turn off… damnit, he’s definitely coming to my desk. Okay, relax.
It’ll be fine. Here he is. Maybe if I don’t turn around, he’ll just go away. He doesn’t have the nerve to get
my attention. Come on, go away you creepy son of a bitch. I think I can feel him breathing on my neck.
He’s not going away. Okay, let’s get this over with.

“Hi Rick.”

“Hi Sam.”

“What can I do for you?”

“My build is broken.”

“Broken how?”

“There’s an error.”

“Okay, send it to me and I’ll take a look.”

“Could you just come to my desk?”

“Sure thing.”

What a fucking weirdo. I genuinely don’t know how this man dresses himself in the morning. Maybe he
doesn’t. Maybe we have some kind of work exchange program I don’t know about where we send a
competent engineer off to break rocks, replacing him with a brain-dead moron that makes all the other
engineers feel better about themselves.
“Rick, this is the same error you had last week. Do you remember how to fix it? We went over this.”

“Erm… no, I don’t remember.”

“Okay, I’ll write it down for you. Please remember to check this next time.”

“Okay, thanks Sam.”

Back to work. Can’t have more distractions today. I already blew past the delivery date on this project
and I don’t have time to fix everyone’s problems for them.

A chat message? Fine, at least this should be brief.

It’s from Rick.

Is he… is he asking me the exact same question he asked me not two minutes ago? I’ll kill him. I’ll really
kill this man. It would probably be considered a hate crime against disabled peoples. Fuck it, I’m taking
an early lunch.

Noon

I always go out for lunch. The alternative all but guarantees a coworker sitting down with me and talking
about something I don’t give a damn about. It’s probably my fault for appearing so inviting by burying
my nose in a book. They’ll talk, I’ll zone out, and before I know it, I’m done eating and they’re still
talking. Selfish bastards.

Besides, I enjoy the change of scenery. It’s nice to see fresh faces in the hustle and bustle of the lunch
rush. I often like to people-watch while I eat. I find myself wondering about their thoughts, their worries,
and if they’re as miserable as I am. I like to think that some of them have life figured out, that they know
where they’re going and that they’re happy with their decisions. Thoughts like that make me think it’s
possible for me, too.

I’ve come to enjoy the predictable routine of large chain half-service restaurants like Chipotle. I know
what’s expected of me and the employees know what’s expected of them. As I walk up to the serving
counter, the next-to-minimum-wage burrito crafting artisan standing in front of me begins to take my
order (the abysmal pay of those most talented in our society is a subject worthy of its own discussion).
We begin our dance, rehearsed so many times, starting with the rice and beans, carefully sliding into the
meat, eventually ending our little waltz at the sour cream and guacamole. With expectations so clearly
set before the interaction had even begun, little could go wrong. Unless, of course, I’m thrown a curve
ball.

“Anything else on the burrito?”

“Nope, that’s it, thanks.”

“And is your burrito made to perfection?

It seems my partner is pulling me into an unexpected dip. Is she serious? She’s smiling at me, but that
could be considered a part of her job. Maybe I can get her to elaborate.
“I’m sorry?”

“Is your burrito perfect?”

She’s stonewalling me. Fair enough, I’ll figure this out on my own.

To even begin to discuss the moral and ethical implications of what might constitute a perfect burrito
would be an undertaking far too great for this essay, and, after all, she had put me on the spot.
Perfection itself is a subjective concept, and in the same way that a painting is not perfect until its
painter proclaims it so, nor is a burrito perfect until its crafter so deems it. She, being the artisan
craftswoman, is far more qualified than I to judge the numerous and intricate qualities that might be
found in a perfect burrito. Is she trying to push her work off on me? Or perhaps the question is self-
validating in nature: she’s well aware that the burrito is perfect but refuses to release it into my custody
until I verbally acknowledge her starchy prowess. After a moment, I decide to repudiate her selfish
outburst, instead opting to offer a minimal response to move the process along while still letting her
know what I really think of all this malarkey.

“Sure.”

And that was that. The normal flow was resumed, and I was free to carry on in my usual fashion.

To her credit, it was the best burrito I had eaten in recent memory.

Afternoon & Evening

The hours before quitting are always slow, but today is particularly bad. The minutes seem to drag on
indefinitely and looking at the clock only makes them pass slower. Perhaps this is due in part to the
effects of the burrito I had so hastily eaten hours before.

It’s difficult to stay focused on my work when I can see so much happening in my peripheral vision. My
mind is predisposed to distraction, and any kind of movement will divert my attention: construction
workers tossing garbage off a roof, apex squirrels rummaging through dumpsters for corn chips, or any
other of a plethora of urban phenomenon could be occurring at a given moment. Just how am I
supposed to focus my attention on something as dull as programming?

Those kinds of thoughts are something I wouldn’t dare discuss with my coworkers or superiors, lest my
lack of enthusiasm be determined detrimental to the collective company morale and my position
eliminated (but let’s be honest, people like Rick aren’t exactly setting the bar high). So, they stay in my
head where they belong. Instead I talk about the weather, the quality of the free coffee in the break
room, and what I can do to make the company a better place to work. A load of bullshit that is.

Eventually the times comes to pack up and leave. The commute back home is the only remaining
obstacle of the day. In these parts, the rush hour traffic is horrid at best, and only made worse by the
sheer exhaustion and frustration of all those people desperate to get home to their families. Not to say I
don’t understand; I probably want to go home more than any of them.

Arriving home, I find myself alone, pondering how I might spend the precious free time allotted to me by
my generous employer. In these times I find myself thinking about a way out of it all. Perhaps I could
start a business? I don’t have the money or the ambition. Maybe I could go live in the woods, entirely
abandoning the notion of rent and a forty-hour work week? The idea excites me at first, but I realize my
total lack of nature experience and my deathly fear of insects make that idea unrealistic. I resign myself
to simple pleasures like reading or television and call it a day.