Faces At the Office

By Paul Quintanilla

Most novelists consider the daily routine of a menial job in an office to be too dull and uninteresting to merit the treatment of a full length novel. How can such an unchanging dull monotony hold the reader's attention, they may ask? Though the clashes of the titans at the top have been fully explored often enough.

The daily experience, though, of being at work in an office is one of the most common experiences of everyday life. And for that reason merits our attention. What's more, these basic realities should be more openly dealt with. This is a novel about the simple daily experience of being on the job. Of going to work everyday. A drama which is large enough on its own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781329466531

Book preview

Faces At the Office

Faces at the Office

by

Paul Quintanilla

Lulu Press

2008

Copyright: Paul Quintanilla

ISBN: 978-1-329-46653-1

This book is dedicated to anyone who hates,

or has ever hated, his or her job.

Work is an Interior Monologue

This is a formless story. A story shaped by the experience of work: by nine to five. By rising in the morning and returning home at night. By weekends and the five day week. By breaks and lunch hours.

By all that shaped time filled with thought.

Thought filling each moment and hour of the workday.

Time bounded by boredom.

Sometimes bounded by a boredom so deep only an awful agony fills the mind. Within this form the formless thoughts, an anarchy of thought filling each moment and hour of the workday.

A boredom so deep that its lineaments expand with the anarchy of unconstrained thought. The imagination set free, aimlessly flying, sometimes devouring itself. By abruptions, noise, disharmony.

Work is an interior monologue. Thinking, thinking, thinking, without stop.

Forgotten the following day.

For as so often happens in the modern world - and how much    restlessness, envy and self-contempt it causes - there was no one to one correspondence between his social or economic position and his private mental life.

W. H. Auden

The Age of Anxiety

No, I don't like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don't like work - no man does - but I like what is in the work - the chance to find yourself. Your own reality - for yourself, not for others - what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means.

Marlow, in Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

These events took place in the late nineteen nineties.

The Dominion of the Clock

The Start of a New Adventure

It was another morning. Another bright shining morning. And the insistent alarm of his bedside clock raucously awoke him to that, once again to the bright light, like it or not.

Brian Little was still very new to the world of work, as he disparagingly thought of it, and was still struck by the novelty of being abruptly awakened to get up early in the morning, every morning, five days a week. And without being able to lounge about in bed to have to hurriedly shower, brush his teeth, and get dressed in order to get to work on time. And though he was still only in his second week at Smith Holliday, the first job he ever had, it had already begun to sink in on him how thoroughly dominated his life was by the clock. Either by his bedside clock or the round black and white clock up on the wall of his office or by his tiny wristwatch, wherever the face of a clock appeared. And though work, his job, the office itself still possessed something novel about it, he was beginning to see how the pattern of this new life was taking shape. And that so long as he was a part of this world of  work his life would be dominated by the clock's rigid structure. 

But now, though he would have liked to calmly release his physical weight and cling to his bed, to his pillow, to allow the inviting tug and desire for more sleep to naturally draw him down, to close his eyes and let it happen, he had to get up. And Brian started his day by reaching out far from his sheets and turning off the insistent clanging alarm on his clock. And examined its face, amazed at the early hour, 7:30AM, and that the early morning sun appeared to be calmly serene and bright outside, as if mercilessly, mutely waiting for him to rise. For the day it promised wouldn't truly be his. This was his first full wakeful thought. A glum, dispiriting horrible thought. That the day ahead of him was gone and he could no longer idle in a relaxed manner and watch the familiar LED dial of his electronic clock slowly change, moment to moment, from the pleasant comfort of his pillow. He had to get up now to go to work. The whole day shot.

And as if hoisting and shifting an unwilling heavy dead weight that is what he did, swinging his bare legs off the bed, getting up slightly wobbly, unsteadily, still drugged by the heavy tow of sleeplessness. And having carefully planned and ordered his morning routine so that he would be out of the house in half an hour sharp, waiting outdoors for his trolleycar, and at work on time, nine o'clock on the dot, he mechanically threw himself into the components of his routine. And without pausing or thought went directly into the bathroom, took his urgent morning piss, hastily brushed his teeth, quickly showered, shaved, combed his hair, and emerged from the bathroom fresh but still sluggish, his mind and body still demanding more sleep.

But he quickly dressed, finding a pair of neat formal gray-tan slacks, a clean newly starched white shirt and a fine blue and red bar striped woolen tie. And quickly knotted up his polished black shoes and put on a dark blue herringbone tweed jacket. His office outfit. All clothes which had deep significance for him, which he had worn to dress up in, to appear smart, to make a fine impression. To go out on a date in or to a somewhat formal occasion demanding a jacket and tie. But now they had somehow become lusterless, parts of a sterile uniform he had to wear at the office. For he was obliged to daily obey a dress code now, and had to wear a jacket and tie. And, what's more, he also had a strong desire to make a decent impression, if not so much to impress but to just avoid criticism. For he was now on a six month probation. And was virtually powerless in this new world of work, of the office, occupying the very bottom tier of its hierarchy.

For Brian was his department's new Office Assistant Trainee. And he didn't want to be fired, not immediately just after being hired, from his very first job, for his pride demanded that he should succeed. What's more, jobs were tight. And he had had to settle for whatever he could find because merely being a college grad in this day and age didn't guarantee an entry into the limelight, a good job. And, who knows, perhaps he would actually climb at Smith Holliday. For that was what the Personnel Officer who interviewed him had promised, that as a college graduate he had a good chance for advancement. And she had proudly presented herself as a glowing example of this bright opportunity, having started out, she told him, as a clerk.

But before he climbed to the top of the corporate ladder he had to merely get to work on time. He had this immediate challenge to face, of getting dressed and of quickly crossing town on a trolley in order to arrive at the office before the hands on the office clock indicated it was nine. He had already been late once, and his supervisor, Miss Damion, a woman he had already begun to loathe, issued a severe warning. He had come in at a quarter after nine and she was visibly prepared, had her eye out for him, and in front of the entire office issued her reprimand. A horribly humiliating experience. Nor would she accept any of his excuses: that the trolley had been late, and once arriving it was caught in traffic, that its normal schedule had been disrupted by a terrible fire. That numerous firetrucks, hoses, and police cars had blocked the way. That no one could have gotten through. Not even God Himself. That was no excuse, Miss Damion told him. He had to appear at work on time. He was not being paid, she told him, for what he did on his own time and that if he could not arrive at work on time he might think of finding some place else to work. Her words had been hard and severe and now he was doing his best to get to the office on time.

So now he rushed out of the house, still on schedule, and walked the short block to his trolley car stop. And within sight, as several other morning office workers patiently waited, he saw the car coming. Thank god it was on time and he ran hard to board it, not missing it, just as its doors were closing. And now if there were no traffic jams, fires, earthquakes or any wanton, cruel acts of man or God he should get to work on time, before that damnable black minute hand on the clock reached the 12. For it was slowly creeping toward the 12, past the eighth hour in the morning, the height of the rush hour. His own watch informing him how he stood in this frantic morning race to arrive at work on time. And when his trolley car stopped and he hurriedly leapt off the back exit onto the sidewalk in the heart of the downtown business district he felt as if he were part of an enormous daily morning migration, all rushing, quickly striding together, like a migration, he thought, of salmon, all rushing upstream. All in suits, ties, formal office skirts and blouses, the distinct formalwear of the officeworld. And not wanting to arrive on an empty stomach Brian stopped for just a quick moment (he had earlier budgeted this time) to buy a cup of steaming coffee in a styrofoam cup and a fresh Danish roll from an outdoor vendor, gulping this all down as he continued to force march himself toward the great office building he worked in, still part of this enormous human daily migration along the sidewalk past numerous soaring office buildings with

their great bold facades, lobbies, and immense presences.

Smith Holliday

And now he arrived at his building. All wanton acts of God would have to take place within the building now for he still had a good five minutes before the clock's hands reached the nine. And still mechanically forcing himself to walk hard in the direction of that elevator which would take him up to his floor he pushed through the crowded revolving doors into the lobby, leaving the natural light and somewhat enticing funkyness of the open street behind. For he felt now as if he had walked into that cold embrace of the great shining corporate world he would spend his day in, leaving now all of his own life and world behind.

Within the large, sprawling lobby of the Smith Holliday Building a bank of thick plate glass windows filtered out all the natural light of the street, allowing a harsh interior fluorescent glow to spread over its polished gray blue marble floors. And within the building the air conditioned air became quite palpable, slightly chilled, possessing a somewhat canned, unnatural quality. And the Muzac, which ubiquitously spread its soft modulated strains throughout this corporate atmosphere, possessed the same cold, canned quality. It was a music which froze Brian's heart, insinuating its saccharine coils throughout his mind and body, and he already hated it, wishing he could ignore it. But for the large abstract paintings, pale washes of diluted yellows and grays and baby blues over blank raw white canvases, which hung on the lobby's aluminum walls (Art Deco lusterless gray swathes) the only vivid color in the lobby was offered by the immense red beamed abstract sculpture which occupied a large space off to the side. Perhaps twenty feet high and thirty feet wide, its criss-crossing industrial I beams were painted a thick fireball red: a glossy coat of bright red paint which hid most of the raw industrial steel of the I beams. This enormous sculpture stood out of the way of all the passing traffic, projecting a powerful modernist presence in the cold light of its corporate surroundings. But if a first time visitor to this impressive corporate headquarters happened to be an art lover, which was quite rare, he may have been struck by how thoroughly ignored this imposing sculpture was by the building's occupants. For now he would see hundreds of office workers rushing by without even giving this shrieking enormity a glance. And as they entered the lobby now, all intent upon reaching their offices, Brian Little quickly approached a bank of elevators which would take him up to his floor deeply worried about the domineering clock. He would have to catch an elevator right away to arrive at nine, for his watch now informed him it was four minutes of nine. And with an alarmed sinking sensation he saw the doors to a filled car slide shut just as he approached. He had just missed it and now he would have to wait. And he trembled at the thought of arriving at two after or even, god forbid, five after. And how would he explain it? For he knew Miss Damion would be heartless and with all his inner will and might he urgently pleaded with the Unseen Forces That Be for an elevator car to immediately appear: to hurriedly take him up to his floor.

It was now three of nine and a large group of fellow office workers had gathered to wait for an elevator. Two of nine. And Brian Little went into a veritable panic as a set of doors, finally, opened and accompanying several other office workers he quickly stepped inside. Slowly the car ascended as Brian frequently examined his watch. It was one of nine o'clock in the morning now and with an infuriatingly deliberate efficiency the car slowly came to a stop at his floor and its doors finally slid open. Brian had to urgently squeeze out of the car now and as he did a man about his age elaborately allowed him to step out first into the floor. There had been something so condescending and humiliating about this gratuitous slight that Brian violently recoiled, and glancing back at the young executive in his sharp business suit and red power tie caught a glimpse of a deeply visceral expression of self-satisfaction on the man's face. How dare he! Brian instantly thought. For Brian was not accustomed to being thus slighted and humiliated in this gratuitous manner.

But he had other immediate urgent matters to concentrate on. He had to be in his office before that damned minute hand reached the 12. And hurrying on sped down the hall into the large brightly lit workroom he would spend most of his day in. Violently jerking his head to look up above the door as he entered he saw that the thick black hour hand was on the nine and that the long thin minute hand had just reached the 12.

Miss Damion

Though the second hand had already swept by. Miss Damion was waiting for him. The clerks had settled in at their desks and had already begun their daily routine. There was a monotone hum of machines and of intense activity in Brian's workroom, something unique to that workspace. And as soon as Brian saw Miss Damion his heart froze.

Yes, Brian had already begun to intensely loathe her. Dressed impeccably in her proper office finery, she was extremely slender, in her late twenties, recently married, totally flat chested, and perhaps half a foot shorter than Brian. But like so many other women in junior management positions at Smith Holliday there was a strained and bitter aspect about her face. Her thin, brightly painted red lips always seemed curled in a sour and unnaturally strained manner, her eyes always dark and swimming, Brian thought, in vinegar. Yes, vinegar was the word which came to mind. For a deep bitterness seemed to most characterize her. And since Brian had already begun to hate her he was deeply conscious of all the curly black hairs and numerous birthmarks on her bare pale white arms as he indignantly took his reprimand.

But it's only nine o'clock, he pleaded.

You must be at your desk at nine o'clock. There was something almost shrill, edged with hysteria, running through the hard tone of her voice. All the bitterness, vinegar as he saw it, had come to the surface of her face: something deep rooted in the office itself. And Brian could only think now of how ugly and unattractive this slender woman was. And that he actually stood here, at nine o'clock in the morning, the start of day, taking it, stripped bare of his dignity. Starting the day out this way. Rebuked, he thought, by some subhuman he wouldn't even have anything to do with outside the office. Humiliated! Someone, he haughtily, indignantly thought, he wouldn't even give the time of day to.

I must know, she said as if his answer possessed truly transcendent consequences, if you can be here at nine?

Yes, he humbly said: a violent storm raging inside.

Promise?

Yes.

Cross your heart?

Yes.

Then she abruptly turned and walked away. And the thought of all the black wiry hairs and numerous birthmarks on her delicate thin arms almost made him gag. How could the office have so joyously celebrated her wedding, with a fancy cake, gifts and numerous party toys? How could any man ever want her? This flat chested skinny unattractive dog? How contemptuous he was of her office finery, all crinkly chiffon showering sparks of static electricity. How he hated her! This stranger with great power over him! This loathsome little woman: her office pumps somewhat street worn and funky, her entire aspect tired and artificial just like this enormous building itself.

He quietly went to his desk now where he would have to sort the morning's mail: hung up his blue herringbone jacket: and quietly sat down. And in silence began to pick through the large pile of bundled mail, placing each envelope into a metal sorting bin: while all the time sensing the deep contrast between the chilled artificial processed air and the intense innerheat his own body was producing. A heat which he felt vividly declared all his anxiety and humiliation.

How he had begun to hate this place! Merely into his second week at Smith Holliday he had begun to loathe everything about the world of work, as he so dismissively thought of it. For he thought now of his former life and freedom, when he had been able to idly lounge in bed in the early morning without worrying about the clock. Rising when he felt like rising. Going to bed when he wanted to.

Hadn't he made a significant sacrifice by getting up early that morning and forcing himself, in a good faith effort, to rush and arrive here on time? He was only new, after all, at all this. He still needed to get the hang of this unfamiliar routine which had, after all, been forced upon him. He tried! He really tried! Oh God, how unfair. And with a deep sense of pained, defeated confusion, vowed now to get up fifteen minutes earlier in the future, cutting into his precious sleep time.

Shouldn't this be worthy of respect, of a friendly simple acknowledgement of his good faith? For he truly wanted to do well. He deeply desired recognition and respect from all his fellow office workers. But nearly two full weeks into this job, the world of work, he was beginning to feel very, very small. And the thought of Miss Damion's great power over him was truly awful as he mechanically accomplished his menial tasks.

Regarding His Office's Daily Routine

There were more than twenty clerks occupying his large brightly lit office space who were required to process numerous corporate accounts. And they sat at their machines throughout the day inputing information off slips of paper into an enormous computer. At nine o'clock sharp in the morning they would begin. They would have two fifteen minute breaks a day, one at ten o'clock in the morning and the other at three o'clock sharp in the afternoon. From noon until one they would all have their lunch. They could either eat in the office cafeteria up on the twentieth floor or go out onto the street. And at five o'clock sharp in the afternoon they would promptly stop processing, turn off their machines, and gather up their things and leave. They did this five days a week. This was their daily life and little world within the larger world of Smith Holliday. And Brian had his own little desk among them.

On Mondays the office would always be profoundly quiet, with barely a peep coming from any of the clerks. These were mostly women: about half of whom were white. Next to none came from a middleclass background and fewer had a college degree. Most of them had families, children, and some were without husbands but with one or two children. A few were young and searching for husbands looking forward to starting a family. All were expected to arrive at work in the conventional finery which reflected the overall corporate image. A few went overboard in their office outfits, wearing, Brian thought, an exaggerated crinkly chiffon, creating much static electricity. The dress uniform of the officeworld. And all the men had to wear jackets and ties. Long hair, beards, or any displays of personal eccentricity in dress were frowned upon.

Yes, on Mondays, when all these clerks returned to the world of work, following their two days off, two days with the family, perhaps catching up on the laundry, doing some shopping, going out, living their own lives, the office would be very, very quiet. A quiet which felt deeply self-contained within the four stark walls of their large room. Nor did the room they worked in have any windows. It was a long canary yellow rectangle with a powerful artificial light shining through flat rows of translucent ceiling panels into their open space. And the air conditioned air was carefully modulated: its hum, or perhaps the hum of an invisible electronic generator, could be heard pulsing throughout the room from nine until five. A low, constant hissing sound which usually was drowned out, though, by the ubiquitous Muzac, a piped, canned-in music which accompanied them throughout the day.

Yes, on Mondays when the clerks came back to this world of work the office would often be quiet throughout the day. For it was a time of readjustment, of transformation from their own outside lives and worlds to the hard, fixed daily routine of the office. For they too were dominated by the rigid strictures of the clock. And would have to be at their desks at nine o'clock sharp spending their days bound to the deadly dull routine of processing data into a distant giant computer. An enormous machine somewhere else in the building which they had never seen. Nor, in all likelihood, would ever see. And at the end of day, tired, physically and mentally worn out, their office finery somewhat wilted, they would leave the worklplace only to come back to start all over again the following morning.

But on Mondays they quietly readjusted to all this, as if sensing and simultaneously conscious of an approaching storm: as if clinging to something fundamentally sound and decent in their lives. Something distant. For on Tuesdays, their minds, hearts, and souls having once again been captivated by their office routine, by the dominating world they worked in, they would suddenly erupt in scathing bursts of senseless hilarity. An explosive outburst and blast of noise which thoroughly rocked the office. And Brian soon learned that their hilarity was frequently directed at another young clerk, Sidney Boyle, an outsider in this small office world who, like Brian, perhaps didn't truly belong there. Since both were what the Personnel Officer hiring them had characterized as over qualified. For they were both college grads. But for unknown reasons both he and Sid had been accepted by this immense corporate enterprise. And perhaps Sid had been promised an opportunity for advancement too: the shining prospect of becoming a Management Trainee. But now, before ever achieving that level of respectability, whenever Sid spoke up, said anything at all, in any way raised his head an inch or two above his machine or became in the least forward, instantly he would become the subject of the scathing hilarity of all the women in the office who found whatever he said, did, felt, or expressed worthy only of their satire.

And this was nothing Brian Little wanted anything to do with, for he soon became deeply apprehensive fearing this merciless scorn, this searing hilarity and laughter would be directed at him too. And he soon became happy his desk faced a wall, that he could simply turn his back onto the rest of the room. And in this manner escape. For the place was a zoo. Yes, a mindless zoo, a madhouse, he thought. And only in his second week of work now he was beginning to discover that it would indeed be difficult for him to maintain his native dignity and selfrespect in this world. For it was becoming increasingly apparent that everything and everyone here seemed intent on tearing him down. Not excluding all the lowly clerks he worked with: those, he thought, who should be the most sympathetic since they all shared the same lowly place together. And should support each other.

So soon enough Brian began to maintain his distance. He was, of course, polite, exchanging simple commonplaces in the morning as everyone arrived and at the end of day as they all left. But even conceding these polite pleasantries somehow fortified his co-workers, for what was allowed to be said was so limited, so ordinary and confined to the banal that any deviance would open him up to a burst of satiric laughter. And the terribly unjust barrier these routine office conventions erected was so impenetrable and blunt that, Brian thought, he couldn't even say Good morning in a normal, natural, or spontaneous manner. For even a tiny display of individuality, which might have been intended only to brighten the day, would be instantly quashed.

Sid Makes an Innocent Inquiry

Within the monotone hum of the office machinery Brian sorted out the morning's mail. This was one of his duties as an Office Assistant Trainee. (Which was merely a glorified term for office boy he thought.) He also delivered the department's interoffice correspondence to various departments and offices throughout the building: he collated, filed, kept the department well stocked in office supplies, ran off copies of reports and delivered them, made occasional trips outside the building to run errands and performed semi professional level duties as required. That was how his formal job description described it.

And he did all this in his jacket and tie. Sitting at his desk with his back to the office. And as he sat sorting the morning mail now he was deeply aware of the fine soft fabric of his long wool tie: an expensive tie, and of the starched white broadcloth of his button down shirt and of the neat fine crease in his soft woolen slacks. For here he was, at his desk, doing something so menial as sort mail in all his semiformal finery. In clothes he had once worn for highly special occasions. And he wondered if that promise the Personnel Officer had made when he was hired a mere two weeks ago would ever become true, if he would ever rise up and become a manager? Nor was he entirely certain this was what he truly wanted to do. But it was something, and it was far better, he thought, than sorting mail. For being a manager seemed to be the only way out, the only prospect here he could ever look forward to. Perhaps even his only real future in life, offering him a solid and secure and respectable place in the world. Which was something he had never looked forward to or anticipated. For he had rarely even thought about the office world or the need to earn a living until he had been forced to find a job.

But this is what I do now, he thought, and can expect to do tomorrow and for many another day. Unless, of course they make me a Management Trainee. Would they ever recognize his talents and abilities, he wondered? For he felt he could really do much better than this, and, no, he didn't want to spend the rest of his life merely being a glorified office boy, in a suit and tie, abiding by a corporate image. How hollow! But this is what I am. What I am now. And he better learn to like it, he thought, thinking of himself in the third person. He better learn to like it because this is what he is going to do. This is my job!

So he sorted the mail becoming deeply conscious of the monotone hum of all the office machines behind him. And when he peeked around he saw the clerks at their desks, mostly women, intent on their work: with a kind of hard stony boredom in many of their faces. But none seemed troubled by their menial lots or complained. They seemed to voluntarily offer themselves to this work as if it were a normal routine of life, as if none, or few here, ever expected anything else. And appeared content with their place. And Brian wondered at that, how they could be so satisfied with work which was so routine and menial? But here he was, doing much the same thing. And he would have to deliver the mail once it was sorted. A mere menial, he grimly thought, just like them. Will I ever become a management trainee?

Does anyone know what the special is today? It was Sid, boldly raising his voice above the monotone hum of the machines.

Yes, in this great corporate culture Sid stood out. About Brian's age, in his early twenties, he had long curly brown hair: hair which was long and unruly enough to immediately mark him as being at the bottom of the corporate hierarchy. Hair which sometimes courted frowns of disapproval. But Sid didn't seem to care. Always poking his nose into things, openly curious, frequently wisecracking, he donned large plastic horn-rimmed glasses on a cold deadpan face and at times even appeared careless about shaving, as if his razor had missed a small patch of beard that morning. For Sid most certainly was no fashion plate. Alternating daily between two aging tweed sports jackets, with slightly curling lapels, he customarily wore a pair of black scuffed sneakers to work. This raised a few eyebrows too among the more dedicated but since they were completely black, with faux wingtips, they were allowed to pass. Sid wore these unconventional shoes for comfort, and something about the unique unspoken irony these odd shoes expressed seemed to amuse him. His manner at work tended to be quite independent, even cocky, spontaneously reacting to whatever struck him as incongruous or amusing with an instantaneous wisecrack or laugh which often sounded like a sudden bark.

Now Sid had boldly raised his somewhat nasal honking voice above the monotone hum of the machines, loudly, spontaneously, as if not caring how barking out this loud discordant question would affect anybody at work. Doesn't anyone know? he plaintively asked again. What's the special today? Anyone?

It's meatloaf.

Thank you Sister Maria, Sid responded in a wiseguy manner. Had his rejoinder been an effort to protect his dignity and small private space? For it had sounded slightly too harsh to Brian.

Oh don't be such a smarty! she responded.

Was she kidding? Or was she serious? Brian couldn't tell.  Maria was an attractive Puerto Rican woman in her thirties, married, with children. And since she didn't bother anybody Brian liked her. That Anot bothering anyone@ was an important virtue, Brian thought.

It's because you're so sweet! Sid barked out.

There was a rippling sound of a low guttural amusement throughout the room now. That was how it always started. Brian could hear it first poking up here and there throughout the large space the clerks' occupied. Just a tiny rumbling of amusement coming from deep within the throats of only a few of the clerks.

Wha'do you know? Charlene, a young black woman, added.

Everything!

The throaty sound soon gathered and intensified and now it broke open with a few cracks of sharp giddy laughter. Brian could feel it in the air. Like an approaching storm, filling their office space with electricity. And then the laughter began to grow like growing thunder: something explosive.

Oh he know everything! Charlene shouted satirically out. He just know everything!

And then the room exploded. Laughter filled its entire space and Brian's ears and mind with its enormous raucous energy. For a good three or four minutes the room rocked with fierce hilarity. Shrieks, cackles, screams, whoops! The machines became muted by its sound and in the center of it all, the exact eye of the storm, sat Sid, the focus of the entire room. And he was red as a beat as howling wave upon howling wave of satire was mercilessly dumped on him.

And deep within the ferocity of this scathing laughter Brian could sympathetically feel peel after peel of raw burning red skin torn from Sid's face. And Brian desired to crawl beneath his desk: to hide, to get away, deeply praying this howling satire would never be directed at him. And when it finally subsided and the room became calm again he could feel a thin layer of warm dry sweat, like a soft mist, covering his cold skin. For the air conditioner had maintained its normal level throughout the storm: nor was it long before normality and calm returned to the room. And everything was as if nothing had happened.

A Monotone Hum

No, in his second week of work, Brian hadn't become bored yet. That deadly agonizing sense of repetition combined with a sense of menial insignificance didn't fully grip his soul yet. The halls, elevators, and numerous offices within the Smith Holliday Building still offered a uniquely novel corporate atmosphere as he hand delivered reports and various inter-office communications to various departments throughout the building. His own desk and the bright canary yellow walls within his large office were still foreign enough to him to offer a spark of novelty whenever he arrived at work in the morning. Even the machines and the formal structure of the corporate world he occupied aroused his interest and curiosity. There still remained something new and unique about it all. And the clerks and people he worked with were unlike anyone he had ever known or associated with before.

But what was truly novel and new to him was the abrasive atmosphere of hostility he felt every day in the office: a hostility he couldn't exactly pin point or define, which wasn't overt but for Miss Damion's fierce reprimands. A subtle hostility which made him constantly uneasy, as if he were always being judged and criticized, and found somehow lacking. But by who? By what? It seemed contained in the very atmosphere of the office itself and though he tried hard to do his best, to fit, to be a valuable and productive team member, he nevertheless spent nearly his entire day at work asking himself: When am I going to be fired?

For he was on probation after all, and had to be very careful. And Brian was determined not to fail at his first job. For the thought of going home to inform his mother that he had been fired, suddenly let go, was unbearable to him. And if he ever were fired he would have to invent a convincing, vindicating tale to tell her, for he couldn't bear the thought of doing this to his mother: the shame, the terrible humiliation of having been fired.

But no one here at the office ever smiled or encouraged him or praised his work or ever told him he was good or that he was even needed or wanted. That what he did possessed some significance. So each morning he arrived at work feeling somewhat like an intruder, an outsider, a mere interloper who was somehow barging in on all the other people he had to work with. And seated at his desk he felt he could expect nothing from his fellow workers but the collective scorn, howling mindlessness, the sheer scathing satire which highlighted his social ambiance.

True, some of these women nurtured close friendships with one another and occasionally he would see two or three standing together talking in a calm, intimate, and reasonable manner. A few were friends though collectively they were a powerful unified force which appeared intent on bludgeoning anyone who stood out, principally Sid. So Brian had begun to increasingly seek to escape in his work, turning his back on the department by facing the wall, concentrating on the menial tasks he had to perform throughout the day: seeing that the copy machine was always filled with