Another Day at the Office
I turn my head from the screen on the wall to where she sits at the head of the table. I feel obligated to make eye contact for a brief moment to feign attentiveness, but her words bounce around the small boardroom and hardly register in my brain. When our eyes meet I look away.
For a split second I almost feel guilt for not listening. Especially since it was my question that started her talking in the first place. But I can tell that the long-winded explanation will still somehow be insufficient in helping me complete my task. Or maybe I do not feel bad simply because I do not care. Besides, I can tell from experience that my three other coworkers sitting around the table have lost interest as well. We probably will have this exact some conversation several more times before the relevant work item is closed.
Distracting me is a growing feeling behind my eyes, where my conscious thoughts usually sit. The space is filling with memories of a small boy trapped at school. He is burdened with the dread of sitting in a classroom for the next several hours, unable to bear being talked at for a single moment more, confined to a cold stiff desk, surrounded by strangers, wishing desperately to be alone. That boy suffers every day, without even the hope that some unexpected event might release him before the three o'clock bell, because not one ever has. All he feels is youthful powerlessness and subjugation. As that boy materializes in my head, he reaches both arms out and grips either side of my orbital bones, shaking my skull. He screams at the top of his lungs:
"GET OUT!"
The difference between me and the boy is that I chose to be here. There was no authority that stood over me menacingly or threatened me to interview and sign an at-will employment contract. I did that by my own volition. In fact, every day I wake up and choose to go to work. That boy would have done everything in his power to avoid the reality that I am living. That boy hates me.