Workplace Post Omega

A few days before I was graciously excused from full-time employment, the daughter of one of my co-workers had to stay in the office for a few hours. She looked to be about ten, and I felt pity for her, as I remember how crushingly boring adult life can be when you are that age.

At any age, really, but you do get used to it.

In any case, being the co-author of two books whose largest fanbase consists of people of just this girl's demographic, I thought I would offer the copy of "Rapunzel's Revenge" I had at the office for her to read. If she seemed to like it I was fully prepared to just give it to them.

It played out a little differently, though.  Right after the event, I documented it in this way:

ACT ONE 
A melody is heard, played upon a cardboard flute. It is small and irregular, telling of tiny grass, tinier trees and an inadequate horizon. Before us is a Cubicle. We are aware of towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only the blue light of the sky from a side window falls upon the cube and fore-stage; the surrounding area shows a dreary gray glow.  An air of defeat clings to the place, the living denouement of apocalypse. The desk at center is bland though not insipid, a single laptop computer lies upon it,  casting a synthetic pallor on LINDA. She is a business executive of about forty with an air of hurried tension, possessing the ability to project an aura of frenzy even in tasks requiring little to no movement.  To the right of the desk is a large window facing onto a slowly dying golf course.  HAPLETIA, a young girl of about ten, stands before the window, mannequin-like, an empty husk of a human being. (From the right) DEAN, the Protagonist, enters, carrying a slightly oversize book. The flute plays on. He hears but is not aware of it. He is nearly forty years of age, dressed opaquely. Even as he crosses the stage to the doorway of the cubicle, his exhaustion is apparent. He coughs once, enters the office, and raises his burden up, conjuring a smile of goodwill upon his face.  Linda looks up immediately, an expression of patient irritation flaring.

DEAN: I was wondering if maybe you guys would like a

LINDA: No.

DEAN:...book to read.

LINDA: Hah thanks but she's got enough

DEAN: It's...

LINDA: Plenty of lots of things to do

DEAN: Right...

LINDA: To keep occupied

DEAN: Oh yeah, okay.

Dean withdraws the book from display and takes a step backward, shrugging.

DEAN:(attempting to reorient with amiable mugging)Well... I'm sure whatever it is can't possibly be as cool as 

LINDA:(Rapidity of speech muting subtle verbal sneer) What is it a comic book?

DEAN:...this is. Er, yeah, sort of. See?

Hapletia watches as the pages turn while Linda moves to block her line of sight. Linda's expression is not one of anger, or even irritation. In this moment, she is the horse whipping its tail at the horsefly, an agent of consequence, free of any moral cognition.Dean closes the book and exits left. Linda then artfully maneuvers Hapletia behind a cubicle wall, hiding her from the view of the audience for the remainder of the play.

END

 

NOTE: It strikes me now that the mindset that allowed me to comfortably use work time to write autobiographical absurdist play-stubs might be the very thing that made my salary difficult to justify. However, as that is too difficult to prove, I will continue blaming the gypsies.

 

Comments

[Marcus Aurelius]

They were fools to let you go. Fools, I tell you! When you rise up against the monolithic hegemony, Zom-Bot army at the fore, weilding their hard-cover copies of "Scapegoat" like scythes, they will then keen the error of their ways.

And when all tremble before you (as they surely will), subjugated to the will of the Iron Weasel, finding themselves crushed under the jackboots of the flesh golems created from their fallen comrades, they will find your salary oh-so easy to justify.

So, I'm going to go make some toast now. Sorry about the job.

Mmmm, toast!

[Inhamp]

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