So I started writing tonight....
And the beginning of...something..came out. It's not fantasy, or sci-fi or any of that, so might not interest many of you. It's just a story of a normal guy who gets fed up with normal life. Or at least, it's the start of that story. So if that sounds boring, don't read on ;)
Praise and criticism alike are encouraged!
Every day starts out the same, doesn’t it?
You wake up in the morning, cursing the alarm clock for the fifth time as you finally switch the thing off rather than hitting the snooze button. Groggy and in semi-darkness you stumble to the bathroom to begin the morning ritual of showering, shaving, and teeth brushing. As you get dressed, you wonder what the day might be like as you sit chained to your cubicle for the brightest, cheeriest eight hours of daylight.
Will the guy in the next row over smell of alcohol again like he did last Monday? Will the interns be late again after another night at the strip joint? Will your boss stop by just to make sure that you read the memo that he both emailed and faxed to you after you left the day before? Will you have to listen all day to the droning of the woman two desks down who for the last month has been trying to plan her wedding on company time?
See, it doesn’t matter where you work. It doesn’t matter if you’re a middle manager or the new guy in the mailroom. It doesn’t matter if you wear business casual, a suit and tie, or shorts and a t-shirt. The life and times at the office are always the same. Your business is anything but your own. Your time is anything but your own. Your life is anything but your own, from the moment you punch the clock in the morning until the moment you punch it again at the end of the day.
You clip on your blackberry, make sure your badge and key card are still in your wallet, and grab your sunglasses and car keys from the table by the front door. Should you take the bridge or the tunnel across town this morning? There are always auto accidents, but where will they be today? God forbid you are five minutes late. They might ask you to come in on Saturday for that.
So I walked into the office five minutes late on that particular day. Sandy gave me the friendly yet pitying smile that she always did when I got stuck in traffic. She was never late. She must have had a bunkroom upstairs.
Out of the fifty-nine emails I discovered waiting at my desk, three were actually important. One of those was only important at a personal level. The other two were legitimate business. I had just wasted the first ten minutes of my day sorting through shit that I never should have gotten in the first place. Honestly, I didn’t think twice about it. It was like that every day.
After the email came the voicemail. Do people really feel it necessary to leave voicemail letting you know that they sent you an email? Maybe it was just me, but it seemed a bit redundant. To everyone else, there was obviously no other way.
A phone call from my wife should have been a pleasant mid-morning interlude. Instead, she was upset. Somehow this came as no surprise, as that, too, seemed to be the rule rather than the exception of late. She had overslept, the puppy had pooped on the floor, and her bosses, all five of them, were all asking repeatedly for information she had given them three times last week. Combine all of this, and you have the equivalent of a nuclear disaster, contained within the mind of one rather small woman. It was, as always, almost more than she could bear.
I needed a vacation. For now, a break would have to suffice.
Outside, everything suddenly felt like it would be ok. A breath of fresh air, a look at the sky, and I could remember that there was more to life than this daily grind. A smile and a memory could take me somewhere far away, somewhere full of green trees, clear water, and miles of wilderness all to myself. Or perhaps somewhere covered in white sand, right down to the edge of the bluest water I could possibly imagine, with the breeze rolling off the sea just enough to keep my hair back from my face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you weren’t really here.”
Had the voice not been of a friend, I might have been annoyed. As it was, I turned around with a smile.
“Jaque, if I didn’t know better, I’d say I didn’t need this job, or this life, and I wouldn’t be here.”
He only smiled. We both knew better, it seemed.
The dream never really died in me, that dream from when I was young that I could wander the world, exploring and living however I chose. The dream cared nothing for money, or bills, or responsibility. After all, it was the dream of a child, who knew little of such things. I had never even thought of college, work, marriage, children, or anything beyond the fact that I loved to play outside and wanted to go into space someday. Everyone has this dream at some point in their life. But the more our parents and schools prepare us for the “real world”, the more the dream becomes just that. And eventually, there is only the vague memory of a fantastic childhood fantasy. And then there is real life.
Back at my desk, or my station, as I called it, my mind started to wander. Do you ever have one of those days, where you just can’t focus on tasks at hand? If not, don’t worry, you had them when you were much younger, and they were medicated out of you. For better or worse, my parents were hippies, didn’t believe in ADD, or psychiatry at all for that matter, and catered to my creative daydreaming rather than trying to mold me into the pattern of submission into which children were expected to fit. One size fits all, didn’t you know? School was the balancing force to that equation. Teachers, classes, and the social structure all stressed the importance of fitting in, not being too much of an individual so you would not be considered “weird” and become an outcast.
The result? I learned to fit in, but I still had my dreams. I kept them to myself, or turned them into stories, poems, songs, or any other creative means of expressing the heart’s true desires in a way that society could accept. And at times, my mind still went to them, like a safe house in the world of concrete and steel in which I forced myself to live, so as to appear a “normal” member of society. Doctors would have called it ADD, would have given me medication so I could focus on “meaningful” tasks like I was supposed to. For my own sanity’s sake, I stayed far, far away from Doctors.
He had his disappointed face on. I hated when he looked like that. When the boss was disappointed, a very long, pointless conversation was soon to ensue. There would be the presentation of the problem, followed by my sincerest apologies, followed by his expression of concern and genuine caring for me, and finally offers to help if I don’t understand what I’m doing.
“Hey, have you got a minute?”
Was he kidding? No, he always started off like this. As if he was waiting for the one day when someone would say “You know what, I really don’t. I know you’re the boss and all that, which is fine, but I’m busy right now, and I’m going to have to ask you to just come back later.” Right.
“Of course. What can I do for ya?”
At least we were a casual office. No sir and ma’am stuff was necessary.
“Well, it’s about last week.”
Enter the eyes of knowing, emerging from deep within the disappointed face. I had seen this coming, of course. Whenever a customer is not happy, word will make it back to the higher-ups, and eventually down the chain to the boss, and then we have conversations like these.
“I cannot stress enough how important of a client this is. I’m sure you understand that we need to do everything possible to ensure their satisfaction.”
I couldn’t do it anymore.
“I cannot stress enough how important it is that we take the additional time to test. They might be dissatisfied with the delay, but they will be more upset in the long run if the product we deliver doesn’t work to their specifications.”
Cue the eyebrow raise. He didn’t expect an argument, but I was tired of bowing to corporate political stupidity. What I didn’t expect was his response. I thought I had won.
“I thought you understood this business better than that. Software has to be delivered on time. There are hundreds of firms out there just waiting in the wings to take someone’s clients when they cannot meet deadlines. Development doesn’t stop when the product is released. Bugs are addressed and new versions are released throughout our life cycle support of the program. Clients know and expect this to be common practice. Now what I need from you is to contact the customer, and assure them that the product will be ready for release by the date they specified in the original contract. The product WILL be ready.”
I didn’t even know what to say.
Driving home, I wondered what it would be like to skip my exit on the freeway. I could keep driving all night, and not answer my phone the next day. I could be somewhere beautiful, peaceful. I could toss my blackberry in the river on the way out of town. I had enough money saved up to live for months without having to worry, or possibly even years if I played it safe.
Back at home, the evening routine began.
You know the one. You put your keys and sunglasses back on the table by the front door. You hang your sport coat back in the closet, making sure that your badge and key card are still in the pocket for tomorrow. You dress down into something more comfortable for an evening of lounging about the house, watching the game, doing the dishes, and the nightly ritual of going to bed. You walk into the living room, thinking to catch a bit of the news before the wife gets home. You settle into your favorite chair, and find the remote.
You do your best to forget the workday you just had.
Or at least, that’s what I always did.
Praise and criticism alike are encouraged!
Every day starts out the same, doesn’t it?
You wake up in the morning, cursing the alarm clock for the fifth time as you finally switch the thing off rather than hitting the snooze button. Groggy and in semi-darkness you stumble to the bathroom to begin the morning ritual of showering, shaving, and teeth brushing. As you get dressed, you wonder what the day might be like as you sit chained to your cubicle for the brightest, cheeriest eight hours of daylight.
Will the guy in the next row over smell of alcohol again like he did last Monday? Will the interns be late again after another night at the strip joint? Will your boss stop by just to make sure that you read the memo that he both emailed and faxed to you after you left the day before? Will you have to listen all day to the droning of the woman two desks down who for the last month has been trying to plan her wedding on company time?
See, it doesn’t matter where you work. It doesn’t matter if you’re a middle manager or the new guy in the mailroom. It doesn’t matter if you wear business casual, a suit and tie, or shorts and a t-shirt. The life and times at the office are always the same. Your business is anything but your own. Your time is anything but your own. Your life is anything but your own, from the moment you punch the clock in the morning until the moment you punch it again at the end of the day.
You clip on your blackberry, make sure your badge and key card are still in your wallet, and grab your sunglasses and car keys from the table by the front door. Should you take the bridge or the tunnel across town this morning? There are always auto accidents, but where will they be today? God forbid you are five minutes late. They might ask you to come in on Saturday for that.
So I walked into the office five minutes late on that particular day. Sandy gave me the friendly yet pitying smile that she always did when I got stuck in traffic. She was never late. She must have had a bunkroom upstairs.
Out of the fifty-nine emails I discovered waiting at my desk, three were actually important. One of those was only important at a personal level. The other two were legitimate business. I had just wasted the first ten minutes of my day sorting through shit that I never should have gotten in the first place. Honestly, I didn’t think twice about it. It was like that every day.
After the email came the voicemail. Do people really feel it necessary to leave voicemail letting you know that they sent you an email? Maybe it was just me, but it seemed a bit redundant. To everyone else, there was obviously no other way.
A phone call from my wife should have been a pleasant mid-morning interlude. Instead, she was upset. Somehow this came as no surprise, as that, too, seemed to be the rule rather than the exception of late. She had overslept, the puppy had pooped on the floor, and her bosses, all five of them, were all asking repeatedly for information she had given them three times last week. Combine all of this, and you have the equivalent of a nuclear disaster, contained within the mind of one rather small woman. It was, as always, almost more than she could bear.
I needed a vacation. For now, a break would have to suffice.
Outside, everything suddenly felt like it would be ok. A breath of fresh air, a look at the sky, and I could remember that there was more to life than this daily grind. A smile and a memory could take me somewhere far away, somewhere full of green trees, clear water, and miles of wilderness all to myself. Or perhaps somewhere covered in white sand, right down to the edge of the bluest water I could possibly imagine, with the breeze rolling off the sea just enough to keep my hair back from my face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you weren’t really here.”
Had the voice not been of a friend, I might have been annoyed. As it was, I turned around with a smile.
“Jaque, if I didn’t know better, I’d say I didn’t need this job, or this life, and I wouldn’t be here.”
He only smiled. We both knew better, it seemed.
The dream never really died in me, that dream from when I was young that I could wander the world, exploring and living however I chose. The dream cared nothing for money, or bills, or responsibility. After all, it was the dream of a child, who knew little of such things. I had never even thought of college, work, marriage, children, or anything beyond the fact that I loved to play outside and wanted to go into space someday. Everyone has this dream at some point in their life. But the more our parents and schools prepare us for the “real world”, the more the dream becomes just that. And eventually, there is only the vague memory of a fantastic childhood fantasy. And then there is real life.
Back at my desk, or my station, as I called it, my mind started to wander. Do you ever have one of those days, where you just can’t focus on tasks at hand? If not, don’t worry, you had them when you were much younger, and they were medicated out of you. For better or worse, my parents were hippies, didn’t believe in ADD, or psychiatry at all for that matter, and catered to my creative daydreaming rather than trying to mold me into the pattern of submission into which children were expected to fit. One size fits all, didn’t you know? School was the balancing force to that equation. Teachers, classes, and the social structure all stressed the importance of fitting in, not being too much of an individual so you would not be considered “weird” and become an outcast.
The result? I learned to fit in, but I still had my dreams. I kept them to myself, or turned them into stories, poems, songs, or any other creative means of expressing the heart’s true desires in a way that society could accept. And at times, my mind still went to them, like a safe house in the world of concrete and steel in which I forced myself to live, so as to appear a “normal” member of society. Doctors would have called it ADD, would have given me medication so I could focus on “meaningful” tasks like I was supposed to. For my own sanity’s sake, I stayed far, far away from Doctors.
He had his disappointed face on. I hated when he looked like that. When the boss was disappointed, a very long, pointless conversation was soon to ensue. There would be the presentation of the problem, followed by my sincerest apologies, followed by his expression of concern and genuine caring for me, and finally offers to help if I don’t understand what I’m doing.
“Hey, have you got a minute?”
Was he kidding? No, he always started off like this. As if he was waiting for the one day when someone would say “You know what, I really don’t. I know you’re the boss and all that, which is fine, but I’m busy right now, and I’m going to have to ask you to just come back later.” Right.
“Of course. What can I do for ya?”
At least we were a casual office. No sir and ma’am stuff was necessary.
“Well, it’s about last week.”
Enter the eyes of knowing, emerging from deep within the disappointed face. I had seen this coming, of course. Whenever a customer is not happy, word will make it back to the higher-ups, and eventually down the chain to the boss, and then we have conversations like these.
“I cannot stress enough how important of a client this is. I’m sure you understand that we need to do everything possible to ensure their satisfaction.”
I couldn’t do it anymore.
“I cannot stress enough how important it is that we take the additional time to test. They might be dissatisfied with the delay, but they will be more upset in the long run if the product we deliver doesn’t work to their specifications.”
Cue the eyebrow raise. He didn’t expect an argument, but I was tired of bowing to corporate political stupidity. What I didn’t expect was his response. I thought I had won.
“I thought you understood this business better than that. Software has to be delivered on time. There are hundreds of firms out there just waiting in the wings to take someone’s clients when they cannot meet deadlines. Development doesn’t stop when the product is released. Bugs are addressed and new versions are released throughout our life cycle support of the program. Clients know and expect this to be common practice. Now what I need from you is to contact the customer, and assure them that the product will be ready for release by the date they specified in the original contract. The product WILL be ready.”
I didn’t even know what to say.
Driving home, I wondered what it would be like to skip my exit on the freeway. I could keep driving all night, and not answer my phone the next day. I could be somewhere beautiful, peaceful. I could toss my blackberry in the river on the way out of town. I had enough money saved up to live for months without having to worry, or possibly even years if I played it safe.
Back at home, the evening routine began.
You know the one. You put your keys and sunglasses back on the table by the front door. You hang your sport coat back in the closet, making sure that your badge and key card are still in the pocket for tomorrow. You dress down into something more comfortable for an evening of lounging about the house, watching the game, doing the dishes, and the nightly ritual of going to bed. You walk into the living room, thinking to catch a bit of the news before the wife gets home. You settle into your favorite chair, and find the remote.
You do your best to forget the workday you just had.
Or at least, that’s what I always did.