Day In & Day Out, Page 2

doing something absolutely repugnant to him. This is all he knows, however. And that fact, combined with an irrational fear of change, will be enough to keep him at his job as long as he can remain employed.

  He hasn't been doing so well at work lately. He at least had a buffer from unemployment for a while with his supervisor giving him pats on his shoulder by surprise every morning while he was preparing his workspace. Telling him how he respects a man who's always on time and wants to work. He hoped to use this like the key maneuver of a champion chess player, deflecting his supervisor's advances of, “you got another poor customer survey,” or “You need to reduce your time spent talkin' with these people. They don't need coddlin'! Just give 'em what they need and move on. I'll have to write you up if you don't start meetin' quota.” With this precious treasure tucked in his sleeve, he would play out the game based upon the understanding of his supervisor's appreciation for the guy who shows up and tries hard, even if he doesn't necessarily succeed. He'd been able to get by and escape 'the axe' with this strategy in one form or another, at times having customers personally request to speak to his supervisor on his behalf to give him accolades, or when he was exceeding the sales quota.

  Moving on, he thinks today is a good day for a shower. Stripping himself, he proceeds to clean himself thoroughly and vigorously. After washing his hair and body, he attempts to meditate to try and bring himself peace. Attempting to come to terms with the fact that he would most likely be a customer service representative for the rest of his working life by sitting beneath the shower head with his eyes closed. All he accomplishes is falling back asleep.

  Dressed, he now drives to work. Again, trying to keep himself engaged in reality to avoid going in to auto-pilot. He's not doing well. As he sits down at his desk, he shrugs his shoulders at the realization that he failed, and continues on.

  Again, as with every other day, the morning starts with copious amounts of downtime in between actual work. He remembers to be thankful he's getting paid to sit and fumble his fingers around. Waiting for the next customer to call, he taps his fingers lightly on his desk. Finally getting a hailing beep in his ears telling him someone wants to talk to him, he hears the familiar voice and immediately groans to himself. He turns off the mute function he had placed on his microphone and listens, waiting to respond.

  “I'm trying to warn you. We can see the future of your world with the power of our technocracy. We reach out to worlds of intelligence like yours and try to save them.”

  This time, his supervisor happened to be listening from another phone placed at his own desk. He bounded up from his seat and pounded over to the desk and told him he would be taking over the call.

  Still listening through the use of a splitter that allowed both he and his supervisor's headset to be plugged in and again engaging the mute function on his mic, he hears the conversation his supervisor has with the lady all his co-workers think is crazed. Something is now making him feel as though that may not exactly be an accurate representation of the situation anymore.

  He had noticed the first time she had called that the phone's information panel that usually displayed numbers displayed question marks. After all the time he had spent looking at that little liquid crystal display, he had never seen that happen before, and it was happening again now. With the same woman on the phone. With the same desperation and fear in her voice as before. He heard the following:

  “Ma'am, we can only assist you with issues pertaining to our business. We cannot help you with-”

  “Please! I implore you! You must receive transmissions of our plans for dark energy field generators before the calamity our Altersight has revealed befalls your world!”

  His supervisor turns to him and, with his hand and face simultaneously, he mocks her for rambling on and on about what he apparently believes to be insane ramblings of a sad, sick woman. The call ultimately ends in the supervisor disconnecting the call, telling him something about having to be stern with some people, then returning to his desk, not to be seen again for the rest of the day.

  While he slightly feels upset about the fact that his management cares nothing about his improvement, he's too happy knowing this leaves him with ample freedom to take as many breaks as he wants, as he is virtually cut off from sight from his supervisor for the rest of the day. Much too happy to care about silly things like 'career pathing.'

  He turns his car in the direction of his natural habitat, his home. Natural, meaning completely developed around his needs, as opposed to evolving to suit the environment. All the furniture and heating and cooling and ergonomic expense of thought perfectly adapted to him. The first creature in nature to fully rely upon his manipulation of the environment to suit his needs.

  This time he adds a stop to the liquor store to his mental treasure map leading him away from the pains of working as a slave. He examines several bottles of hard liquor before remembering grudgingly that he has to work tomorrow and eventually decides upon a slightly more expensive beer than the leftovers he slurped last night. He rationalized his higher purchase amount with his hopes of not having to deal with the weak, utterly gag-inducing taste of sterilization-in-hops from his last drinking session. Or at least, with the higher alcohol content of the new beer that his lips were virgin to, not having to wait as long before he wasn't any longer aware of taste. Another day down, he thought, with his slightly gratifying feelings being accompanied by panic and horror with the realization that another day at the place he could call his 'office' awaited him. He would determinedly rise again in the early hours of the predawn. Perhaps somewhat fortuitously, he was able to pass out quickly. And perhaps somewhat due thanks to the booze in his circulatory system.

  Back To The Top

  DAY 3

  At work again. Same wait. Same smattering of people with their issues. Both business related and small talk related. An old Vietnam vet, demanding things, displaying his sense of entitlement for me, upset about the world. He treats the man with the same stoic calm as every other customer. False respectfulness, faux courtesy, even going so far as to pretend to empathize with the man by telling him he was crippled as well, and he understood his pain. He didn't, of course. He ends the conversation with the man on a much more cordial note than when he first answered the phone.

  That was fun, he thinks. He wishes sarcastically for more callers like that, sourly knowing that he will get his wish. He knows that the day ahead of him will be full of callers that will continually challenge his definition of stupidity. People who knew better, or have common sense, they didn't get it. They were all self-important, and couldn't understand why they would need to have their time wasted with obvious questions like "Did you make sure the battery was inserted correctly?" The stupidity of the world reflects a need to pander to the lowest common denominator, and as a result, those who are capable of simple tasks are left frustrated to no end by inane questions when calling for a legitimate problem.

  He let his mind drift for awhile, waiting again for another call. He stared mindlessly at his calendar hanging from the wall of his cubicle. A cat calendar. Given to him by his boss. His boss had thought it very funny. He had acted as though it were to be some source of enthusiasm or motivation. As he sat here, staring mindlessly at a picture of a white, long-haired cat laying in a basket, his thoughts again wandered to the mysterious woman.

  He had been thinking of her a lot lately in his wandering, waking thoughts. No matter how much he inundated himself with television and insobriety, he always managed to think about her. About what she had said to him. She had sounded so sincere, so convincing. He had almost wanted it to be true last night, in his drunken thoughts that wouldn't be silenced anymore, that only came to him as he laid down to try to sleep. His thoughts now focused on her, he almost didn't hear the alarm beeping in his ear.

  At about the same time she crosses his mind, the mysterious number-symbols signifying the lady of another world's calling show up on his phone's display again. He wonders quietly to hi
mself how he has such luck to keep getting the same caller. He wonders if it's any luck at all and considers hearing the woman out. His supervisor is hiding in his usual cubby hole of a cubicle and hasn't been heard from today. Not even the usual morning cordials. He must be sick. Or dying. He talks to the girl.

  He asks her if she's serious about all of this. He asks why she would call his phone, of all the others in his world, why his work phone? He asks about the vision she spoke of, the calamity. He asks about the plan to save his planet. But mostly, he just asks a lot of questions before she has a chance to speak.

  She responds with this: "We have a technology not too unlike your own. However, the ways we utilize it are far more advanced than yours. We have managed to develop machinery that allows us the chance to glimpse other worlds near our own. We have noticed a mysterious trend in all of their futures by combining this new industrial science with our Altersight computers. All of these other worlds, including our own, are doomed. We hope to save our own planet by learning how to save others. We have a way we think will work, but it's all still hypothetical until one of us uses it successfully."

  He starts with another line of