Existence

Pulling dead cells from his body was a continuous reminder of the sunburn he had received weeks before.  There was not a special place where he stored the deceased remnants of himself.  If he were walking outside, tattered remains could be found strewn about the lawn.  If in his office it would not take long to find the dead on his keyboard.  Scraggily, tattered brown piles that looked remotely like plastic and tasted salty.  This was not a secret he would share with his next date. 

“Oh, you work in the corporate office at Megacorp?  Interesting, I happen to eat my dead skin cells.  They are salty.” 

Of course, he knew the probability of him having an opportunity to share this on a date was far less than the probability of masturbating alone.  The last time he spoke with an unfamiliar woman was roughly three hundred years ago.  He is including his past lives. 

While contemplating his dried skin flakes and women he will never meet, the twenty-first century world is wired into him.  Staring blankly into the soft glow of his computer monitor working so a man he will never meet can afford to buy wine for his yacht.     

The time is four fifteen post meridiem, Thursday, year irrelevant.  His supervisor will imminently appear to establish the accomplishments of the day.  He will also say, ‘hello’ with a large, forced smile.  As if strings were tied to each corner of his mouth with an invisible puppeteer at the helm.  He is very grateful for the fake appreciation.  It is preferable to a whip. 

Before time moved one more unit Josh appeared around the corner.  It is impossible not to notice the pale, short, greasy, overweight, and goateed man walking with a hunch from the apparent stress of monitoring the lackeys.  As he trundles along the many rows of cubicles, past the neutral paintings he doesn’t look up from the floor.  On his face are the usual disquiet features and shifting eyes.  As he enters into a twenty-foot range of the other, his expression brightens and the puppeteer pulls his strings.

Smiling, “How’s it going buddy?” 

Since it is impossible for him to return fake care, he responds: “Well, I got to say I’m just living the dream.” 
         
“Fantastic,” he replies, seemingly oblivious to the tone of voice.  “You know, you did great work last week.  That’s hard to find.” The grotesque smile still plastered upon his features.
         
Mustering up all of his humanity, “Yeah… thank you.” 
         
“You know that’s your baby, right?  Not one other person in the office knows more about it than you.”
         
“Yes.  That’s quite an honor.” 
         
“Keep it up man.”  He pauses, shifting his gaze towards the computer and gesturing with his index finger, “Say, you wouldn’t mind if I take a look at how far you’ve come on the Johnson file?” 
         
“No.”  Continuing with the camouflaged sarcasm, “You know, it is one hell of an interesting case.  I was eating lunch and still thinking of ways to improve the file.  I just can’t get this file off my mind.”  He finishes with a fake smile and laugh.
         
“I feel the same way.” He pauses, “Wow, this looks great.  Keep it up.” 
         
It is over.  Josh summons a nod and slowly lurches in the opposite direction to confront another lackey.
         
As he watches Josh lurch away, thoughts that have been entering his consciousness the past years return from their brief hiatus in the encounter with his manager.  The mind dulling numbness of his life envelops him once again as he gazes downward towards the timepiece on his desk.     

The time is four twenty-three post meridiem, year irrelevant.  The clock doesn’t give him the time of day, but rather knowledge of the life he is wasting.  Every second that goes by is one more without meaning or hope.  As he stands above his desk he can here the clattering of keyboards, ringing of telephones, sales being made, files being copied and criticisms handed down.  He ponders the people rushing here and there and thinks humanity was never meant to come to this.  This is an environment so sterile that everything remotely human has been sanitized away with the bacteria.  He stops once again to consider this situation and knows his tour with corporate America has come to an end.  The ass-kissery, fake politeness, lack of meaning, isolation, desolation, and soul crushing atmosphere is too much.  The Johnson file will not enter his thoughts, nor will any idea of improving it.  The soft glow of the monitors will fade away, and he will surely be replaced in this wonderful space.  This tiny cube of existence has been his for far too long, the pictures hanging are only a reminder of his permanence.  He fears the record of his time and is pressed onward.  For indulging in the memories of the past years would induce explosive vomiting.  He is thankful he is unable to obtain security footage.
         
There is no need to confront co-workers with the news of his imminent departure.  Their forced good-byes and good lucks would not spur him on to greatness, but rather remind him of everything that is unfortunate in the twenty-first century world.
         
He gathers but his coat and briefcase, walks by the neutral paintings, past the endless rows of cubicles and arrives at the elevator.  He feels the eyes of someone on his back but doesn’t feel an obligation to face the viewer.  The elevator opens and he steps inside.  He turns around looks into the office, witnesses his life for the past years and feels nauseous.  The door closes.