Office Drama

In every way, he was nondescript, an everyman. Even the scar above his lip seemed tattooed by the beatings of a thousand others like him.

Pale blue eyes hinted at... hinted at what? Everything. Nothing.

Oh, there was certainly an inkling of humour there, perverse and twisted though it be.

The hardness of high carbon steel is what set his eyes apart. That sense of DOOM incarnate.

Like his laugh, those eyes were withering in their suggestion of malice. Even with his drab attire, comprised of business shirt, black pants and unpolished work boots, you could feel the first bight of the scythe cutting into your neck.

His mien screamed boring.

His eyes though, they whispered a word.

Death.

Suffice to say, he worries me. His ability to blend in with the rest of us, seen as nothing more than a slightly eccentric nerd, shows certain tenacity. After all his long years, he has obviously become adept at camouflage. Where better to hide than plain sight.

So there he is.

Typing away.

Working with his spreadsheets and databases. Occasionally laughing at some little joke.

He’s quite helpful, always quick to assist the junior members of his department. Self trained; he can cut to the core of issues readily and has certain certitude in his manner of describing functions, processes, procedures and the like.

His knowledge seems limitless at times, though this is more a reflection of his intuition than any study or inclination to learn on his part

Just look at the way he sits. All slouched, with legs extended under desk. Not a care in the world. Don’t let that fool you though; he’s working hard, though like as not, thinking about another task as he’s performing his current.

As he looks around, observing others in his office, you can almost sense his eyes raping others. All pretence peeled back, like the skin of a freshly made corpse.

His words are at once keen, scathing and aimed like smart bombs, whilst suggesting at a dull rusted blade, perfect for inflicting a drawn out death. Seeming to have all the finesse of an H-bomb.

Absolute is a word oft use to describe him. Absolute genius. Absolute idiot, clown, evil...insert choice of word here...

I wonder though. He talks of black and white, right and wrong. I’m not so sure. Does he merely toy with these concepts, like some adolescent seeking the best way to get fed? Is he playing with everyone for that matter?

Here’s what I think, for what it’s worth. To him, all is grey. No evil, no right, only existence. And to him at least, this seems a boring existence. So he amuses himself. Moving through life like a Polaroid. You think you know the image well but each time you look at it, it’s not quite the same. Try to discern the difference from the last look and you would merely confuse yourself, reluctantly deciding that it must have been your imagination.

That’s the thing that haunts my memory the most, he’s an image. There is no real sense of him. At least not once you peel back the artifice of his various constructs.

So what is he?

Well, here I think I have a special insight, so let me expound.

He is a killer, quietly going about the business of the day whilst simultaneously plotting his various (dare I say, valid) murderous schemes.

Take yourself, dear reader, for example. See yourself working alongside him. Note how oblivious he seems to his surroundings. Only watch his ears though. See how they twitch and move to the various changes in tone and timbre as all those around speak, intone and babble their way through the day. Heed the cutting comments, only possible if he was paying full attention to the varied conversations around him.

Mark how he singles you out.

With silence.

He never pokes fun at you.

A sure sign of his dislike I’ve observed.

Occasionally you will feel his eyes upon you, yet only look in his direction and he is facing the other way.

Much as it galls you, you crave his attention, his annoying little jibes and cynical remarks.

Why is it then, that the perception that he is gazing at you, is as unwelcome as the first really hot day of spring. Oh, you love his radiance upon you but the clamminess of his presence stains the sheets of your mind like so much sweat upon your pillow on a humid night.

There’s a scratching at the back of your mind, a chittering.

Boredom.

Incidental reminders of your lot in life.

You too sit at your desk. Tapping keys aimlessly. Shakespeare’s monkeys nowhere in sight, you are left to create your own masterpieces of administrative delusion.

Management to appease. Targets to be met.

Yes.

Ennui.

That is the word repeated over and over by the chittering babble in your head.

You can feel them piercing the folds of your brain, chitin coated intra-aural missiles, aimed directly at your id.

You look around to convince yourself that the noise is external to your rapidly thinning skull. All you can see is the rest of the office tap tap tapping at their keyboards, oblivious to the rising decibel levels.

Except him.

Now, he faces you directly. His lips move but no sound escapes. His eyes are all black, with an oily sheen now. Somehow, this doesn’t strike you as odd. You are too fixated on his mouth. Trying to scry the word he utters.

It’s so hard to think. The chittering won’t stop, your head thumps in rhythm to the babble. As you imagine your skull is about to be cracked open by the pressure, you realise what it is he is mouthing.

Bored. Bored. Bored..........

All is calm.

Quiet.

In your mind at least. The noise of the office crashes into your consciousness, like a bus, dead driver slumped over the wall, careening from ear to ear.

You blink.

As quickly as that, it’s over.

He’s no longer looking at you. He’s no longer there.

So you return to the task at hand. Sales reports. Hooray, we sold some shit and next month, we predict we’ll sell some more shit, though the mix will be different to this month’s shit.

Heading off to lunch, you wonder where he has gone to. You find an excuse to pass close to his desk. You walk towards his workstation and promptly walk in to the window.

You blush, realising you’ve been watching yourself all morning. Feeling yourself peering at you. All a reflection.

You try to divert the jokes of those around you, amused by your apparent absent minded act. In the back of your mind though...a chitter.

It asks you to explain how your own reflection could have been looking the other way when you looked.

It begs you to explain it....

You know you can’t.

Oh, I know. You try.

It was the boredom. Has to be that. I was so bored I started hearing voices.

Insert nervous laugh here.

Inevitably though, you know that your explanations will not suffice. For you are still bored.

And so you turn around. Face the window again and review the last 1214 words in your mind.

Ennui

The same shit for the last 20 years. More of the same in the coming 20.

Time to leave. You gradually come to accept the truth of your imminent departure from your current place of work. It is as inevitable as a comet hitting Jupiter.

Decision made, you return to your desk and type a simple, two word email to HR – I quit.

You take you r mug to the staff kitchen, wash it and place in the dish rack.

As you exit the kitchen area, you start to run. Your desk is at the other side of the floor.

The window is on the other side of the floor.

Jupiter is 67 floors below.

Finally some all too brief excitement in your boring life.

Then the inevitable.

© 2009, Mosquitobyte