Continued... Ubiquitously You by Bob McNeil
Along with others, you ride the elevator. Amidst faces that fell to the floor a long time ago, you empathize with the plight of lobsters in a bucket. Somehow while experiencing claustrophobia, you want to yell about the width of your hatred for the job. You gripe to yourself rather than screaming about your discomfort. Not content to merely stand, you notice the numbers of the floors. Irony’s long feathers tickle your armpits. Considering the misfortune of employment, it seems farcical that there is no thirteenth floor. To inspire someone’s triskaidekaphobia, you want to paint the disturbing number all over the walls.
Your floor appears. You arrive at work. Far worse than you expected, the clock says, “You’re late.” Regardless of how much you try, any attempt at sneaking to your desk is a waste of subterfuge. Your boss sees you. Save your imagined Ninja skills for sneaking to the water cooler or bathroom when not needed later today. None of the behindhand minutes make your boss any happier about you still being alive.
Infantilized by your employer’s reproaching look, you walk inside.
Obviously, you know what your boss looks like, but within fantasies, the employer takes on other appearances. Determined by the trek your thoughts take, the authoritative figure can be any historical dictator, a police dog, or a demon right out of some scripture.
Co-workers, many of whom you tolerate, are staring at your being as if it should be wearing an asbestos suit. Honestly, you are about a cyberslacking second away from feeling a fire. Contrary to your physical mass, your job makes you feel on par with a non-refundable bottle, something seen and unwanted.
Except for their bobblehead motions of acknowledgment, no one cares that you are there. You do not speak; instead, your body nods like the famous drinking bird toy. Dejected, you squat before your desk where other annoyances congregate.
There you are doing what your imagination despises, which is work. Why even mention the type of work? A designation will not make the job any more likable.
At the very least, despite the way work seizes most of your existence, you maintain a paramount possession: yourself. Life knows that you labor to become the being of your design. This is your essay, poem, or story. Anybody known for annoyance will get edited out with another job, but you will still have the paragraphs or staves of your selfhood.
Each existence will be another autobiographical edition on a bookshelf. Your tome, although awaiting more chapters, should receive herds of blurbs because it exists. Grant yourself a favorable review each day, knowing you will wind up out of print at some point.