He/she returned to CubicleVille...
His/her Unemployment, Cobra and trivial savings
had run out from the last crappy job...
He remembered the pull of the leather harnesses,
the scene looking forward, the chain of command
into the next mediocre canine orifice or office...
Remembered all the game boards and
how to look for the Alpha Dog, Beta Cat, and
the Zeta Zombie at the back of the room, each serving
their prescribed purpose(s)...remembered the
fishheads and mediocre salmon scraps
at the base camp by the frozen lake/
cafeteria/employee lounge, remembered not to stand out
too far from the crowd, too inviting,
a polite curtsy was OK, demeaning and humble,
self-sacrificing for the mortared-in Wednesday,
the mid-week heirarchy, but a deep bow at the waist,
that was obviously sarcastic and deadly,
not even funny. Besides everybody had cellphones,
Ipods, Blackberries, digital interfaces and
everybody could telecommute, not even show up,
no one had to be on the same page or even
in the same room...you could be replaced by
a robotic drone, GPS-ing over the hills of Afghanistan,
taken out by friendly fire or somebody at a monitor
in a Third World earning 2/3 of your base pay
with no fringe benefits, not that you had any either...
It was just another day at the swamp...
malaria meant a day off...not that you could afford it...
©Peter Bray 1/28/10 All rights reserved
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