... in a monkey's head.

I lighten up a little on the accelerator pedal to save gas.  I do, after all, make this trip quite often.  It doesn't seem to make much difference though, because people tend to mash the pedal, let go of it almost completely, and then repeat this idiotic pattern continuously.  No one seems to just keep a steady foot on the pedal.  Even with my constant, almost compulsive behaviour to maintain a steady foot on the accelerator, driving at night is strangely relaxing, sometimes even therapeutic.  It's the bright lights whirring past, the smooth, enveloping blackness above.  I take the four or so seconds to watch the plane on approach fly overhead, never mind that I've traveled one hundred and fifty-five meters in that time without looking at the road.  I think to myself that such a scenario should dazzle me to the point of losing concentration and getting myself into an accident, but somehow, not unlike a video game, I manage to keep a loose connection to the reality outside my car.  A black Accord slowly starts drifting into my lane, the leftmost lane, causing me to have to brake to avoid a collision.  Fucking ricer, I mutter under my breath.  I pull around him to give him The Stare, but the fucknut's on his phone, reclined so far back in his seat he can barely reach the steering wheel.  He doesn't notice me, so he wouldn't have noticed my flickering of the high beams seconds earlier.  I settle back into my routine, enjoying the serenity.  The drive to work is now over, no more shifting, no more readjusting in my seat just to feel cozy.  I roll the window down to flash my card to the card-reading machine, the gate opens and I continue on towards my parking spot.  Its cold outside, like its been for ages.  As I take the last two turns towards the parking area, I can the imminence of what will undoubtedly unfold.  I ease into the parking, and sit there for a moment, trying to enjoy what I still can of an environment in which nothing can impose.  It is an environment that is uniquely mine.  Unlike many things in life, I chose it.  Outside of this environment sometimes lurks work, sometimes home, sometimes neither, but always something more foreign, more shared and definitely less mine. 

I crack the door open, grab my security passcard and make my way to the door.  I feel brave, for facing the cold air, for being able to make this walk to the door and to eventually face what is inside.  Stupid, I tell myself.  As I flash the security passcard again, I have traversed all barriers to what I truly hate.  Now, there is nothing between me and it.  I feel alert to my surroundings in a way I perceive as being unique.  I hear the rubber on the soles of my shoes squeaking against the carpet, but only the left foot.  I feel the flicker of the fluorescent lights.  I hear the chatter of people conversing.  They call it water cooler talk.  

"How're you feeling today?"  "I'm well, thank you.  How are the kids?"  "Greg made the softball team, he's got a great arm."  "Not like his old man then, eh?" 

Fake, forced laughter.  Walking on, through the corridor that will eventually lead to my partitioned desk, a half-cubicle, open, so that my mindless managers can see what I'm doing and offer "feedback."  Not yet, I tell myself.  The least I can do is delay the onset of what's about to happen to me.  I decide to walk into the bathroom and relieve myself of a certain yellowish fluid.  Damn, there's people inside.  I hate that so much.  I want to feel not only alone, but locked down in the washroom.  Nobody should be able to enter when I'm in there.  Both pee-at-the-wall enclosures are occupied.  One of them looks like Osama bin Laden, replete with beard and all.  He smiles at me.  While pissing.  Trying to fight the urge to recoil in disgust, I go over to the sinks.  I choose to have a look at myself, to see if I look as disgusted, disheartened and depressed as I feel.  Somewhat.  My hair's a bit messy, I finger-comb it to satisfy myself, straighten my clothes, and then notice… pubic hair on the counter.  Its just sitting there, being absolutely disgusting, without actually doing much.  The stiff, curly, black figure lurks at the edge of the counter, preventing me from even leaning forward.  It might touch my pants.  What the fuck are the janitors doing, I think, as I catch the thick, heavy Eastern European voice of the janitor, chit chatting with someone on the phone.  Coarse like thirty grit sandpaper, you can almost hear the smoke in her lungs preventing her voice from escaping.  It manages to, but with a lot of speed out of the gate, like a dam bursting.  Why does the janitor not have managers breathing down her back?  I supposedly have a better job than her, and yet, of the two of us, I am, in no uncertain terms, the real monkey.  Wait, scratch that.  I'm a chimp.  Because if my manager is a lot stupider than I, and he is, then he'd be a monkey.  And still, he gets more bananas than me. 

One last stop before the point of no return.  I gaze over the caffeinated bottled options, trying to decide which one will hold off slumber best.  I put the money in, $1.75 is too much for 600 mL of this stuff.  A number of sounds emanate from the machine, as if there is a robot inside, mixing my drink.  It emerges, after what seems like a while.  Its interesting how plastic bottles never feel as cold as aluminum or glass.  I must accept my fate.  I go over to my desk, taking controlled gulps of the caramel-dyed beverage.  The others around me issue generic greetings.  Some of them even seem to genuinely be happy to see me.  Look at their faces.  They're not bothered by this place, by what we do.  How can I be the only one?  I put my username and password in and click OK.  I can no longer walk out.  There's proof that I'm here, the logs will show that.  I could have left, called in sick, but not anymore.  These computers take a long time to boot.  "One of my best friends just quit today," one coworker mentions to another.  "Really, who?"  "Reggie, man.  He hated his job."  "Didn't he only work around twenty hours per week?"  "Yeah.  But he really hated his job."  Emotion appears on Dennis' face.  He seems to feel for this Reggie.  He seems to think that Reggie is the odd one out; that he suffers from some sort of problem.  I wonder what they would think if they found out about me.  The mask I wear at work may be translucent, but no one really knows how deep my feelings for this job go.  They think I jest; that I'm carefree.  It works well for my mask, makes it easy to maintain.  My Windows screen has loaded.

A necessary part of the evil that is perpetuated at work, I must launch Outlook.  Within it, are messages and communiqués.  Some from higher up, some from peers.  I haven't been at work for two days, the emails will come fast and hard.  I see the name I dread, Terry Brunswick.  I don't want to click on his email.  There are countless others, they're meaningless to me.  I hold down the control key and select all of them, excluding Terry's.  Delete.  It now sits there alone, staring me in the face, being bold, until I read it.  I notice the time, 8:59 pm.  If I don't log in on the Avaya phone at exactly 9:00 pm, I will be considered late.  I may as well be mass produced.  The day Japan perfects their robot fetish, I will no longer be forced to do this job. I wonder how far off that day is?  I did read that they're testing mech warriors for military use… my thoughts have begun to drift.  I'm subconsciously disconnecting my psyche so that it can avoid being subjected to this… what shall I call it?  Torture is too medieval a word.  Poisoning.  Repetitive, low-dose poisoning.  I refuse to succumb to their brainwashing.  They want you to think you're happily employed, that you have benefits.  They see these benefits as maintenance fees.  They've given me a medical/dental plan so that I can't claim that I don't have money to buy medicine when I'm sick.  And then there's the 50% discount on company products.  They're a monopoly; everyone has to have their overpriced products.  And they know that their employees need their discount.  If the medical/dental is maintenance fees to them, this is their insurance policy.  It's a brilliant plan, I must say.  I think I'm the only one that's realized how these things work here. 

That tiny little icon signifies so much.  It tells me that they're watching my every virtual move.  Every keystroke, mouseclick and action is being monitored.  It's not intrusive in any way, but just knowing that you're under supervision is enough to make anyone feel insecure.  All my calls are being recorded.  To provide the customer with a better experience, the recording notifies them.  All their yelling and none of my patience will be recorded.  None of the blood from my bitten lip will be seen.  And certainly, my ravaged ego will not be noticed.  Customer first, they name this horrendous machine they force us to operate.  

It always catches me off guard, whenever my cell phone vibrates.  It's an iPhone, the Jesus phone.  That's a funny name; I don't feel like I've been saved.  In fact, I've been spared.  Spared of a good life, a good career, a lot of good things I suppose.  But it's not over, definitely not without a fight.  For now I brave the cold, and those doors, but not forever.  There will come a day when things change.  People will not expect it.  They're going to say,

 "What happened to that guy?  Did he quit?  I didn't know he was that unhappy.  Does anyone know where he went?" 

 And no one will.