When I'm at work, I have to clock out to go to the bathroom. I sit in a highchair. When I do well on a project, I am given candy. Sometimes I can't help but wonder... is my job trying to convert me into a gigantic baby? If I soil myself, will some matronly co-worker change me? Note to self: soil pants at work. Record results.
My job was always a bit dull and repressive. For the most part, that was OK. I would joke around now and again, do my work and go home. It was just some office job I could get through. Now and again, I was reprimanded for talking to a buddy or cruising the internet (never reprimanded directly, mind you. It was always passed along through someone else to avoid confrontation). I committed those heinous acts, to be sure. But I was no slacker. I still managed to do the required amount. I even occasionally went above and beyond my requirements. No biggie.
A few weeks ago, however, everyone on our floor was called into a meeting. About 60 of us were crammed into a small conference room. I was shoved up against a file cabinet in the corner, holding on for dear life. I relish being jostled while precariously perched atop office furniture. I assume that's what people think I'm there for.
This meeting was called to announce some changes. You see, a large piece of the floor I work on is devoted to a call center. I work in a hallway far removed from it. The upside is that I don't have to listen to monotonous phone-chatter all day long. The downside is that I'm in a cramped corridor where, yet again, I am jostled while precariously perched atop office furniture. The furniture in this case being my beloved high chair. I'm 6'2 and my feet don't reach the floor. Very uncomfortable. Baby no like.
Anyway, back to the call center. The folk who work within the center are prohibited from talking to each other while on the clock, as the phones automatically dial people across the country. No one wants a respondent to pick up their phone and catch the tail end of some inane conversation. "Well, I missed my period, don'tcha know, and I'm worried 'cause not only is he my best friend, he's a horse! And I don't want no horse babies galloping around my... a centaur, yeah. So I says... I... wha? Oh, good afternoon, sir. We are conducting a nationwide survey and I have a few ques..." The group is also not allowed on the internet. And if they have a question or need to go potty, they must raise their hand and wait for supervisors to swoop down and guide them like portly, bespectacled angels. Ah, the Corporate Divine!
This, of course, is enough to drive anyone mad. But rather than work to improve their lot, they banded together to complain about the rest of us. Those not on the phones. Because we can talk and be on the internet. We high-class editors and clerks are lording it over the rest of them with our e-mailing and asking each other "How do you do?" We are indeed bourgeoisie swine! Our regal lifestyle must come to an end.
And so it did. Their complaints were heard and this meeting was called to eradicate all internet usage and all non-work related conversation. If you want to use the internet, wait until your break and compete with two dozen people for three monitors at the 'internet station.' Use the internet at your own monitor and you're fired. No talking unless it relates to your project (that includes saying "good morning!" or "hi!" Seriously! That was brought up at the meeting! You can curtly nod or wave. But that's it!). You want to tell someone their shoe is untied? Go to the break room. Or the bathroom. Guys love shooting the breeze in the can. Any comic from the 1980's can tell you that.
Several weeks have passed since that meeting. It's very quiet around here now. One group of miserable people demanded we all become miserable. And so we are. The mood matches the gray carpeting, walls, and desks. So much gray... Luckily there's no window I can hurl myself out of. Maybe I can comfortably read my book during lunch. Unwind a bit. Nope. 30 people are vying for six small tables in the break room, and they're itching to talk. They have nowhere else to do it. Oh, and the clock on the wall doesn't work. I have no idea when I'm supposed to go back to my cramped hallway, so someone can smack a dolly into the back of my tree house chair. I take a deep breath of recirculated air and try to regain my composure. I allow the soothing subtle grays of my surroundings to put me in a stupor. I'd better not think too loud. My break is over.
So, yeah. Work is a wonderland now. But you know what? I'm going to get a new job. And eventually I will support myself on my own creativity. I really believe that. In the meantime, I think I'll waste some of my company's time by handwriting blogs. And daydreaming. I'll do the bare minimum. Because they created a big baby who learned that he's been taken for granted. Oh, and I farted on the pencil sharpener. Take that job! Passive Aggressive Chris strikes again!
