The office building is a corporate redundancy, red brick with a glass entrance and black trim. It reminds me of a low security prison or mid-level rehab center – welcoming exterior with red mulched flower beds sprouting speckled green conifer blooms and brightly colored tulips but a drab and muffled interior. Two heavy set women sit at the front desk, April and Cathy, their outfits mysteriously coordinated each day. If April wears a navy blue blouse, Cathy has a camisole that is vaguely similar. Each morning one of the women looks up from their computer as I walk past, flashing a bright, sickly sweet smile. “Good morning,” one croons, emphasizing the long “o”. Their smile follows me as I flash my badge at the sensor and enter the glass door.
I imagine a vapor lock exhaling as I let the door shut behind me. Beyond this point, please conform. Speak softly, refrain from eye contact with members of the opposite sex, and above all, be conservatively appropriate. My prematurely-aged cynicism oozes from me like an odor. I climb the stairs and go to my desk, my head peering over the penitentiary gray cubicle walls; orderly subjects all in a row, dutifully absorbed in the eerie glare of computer screens hide behind each. This is my life.
I’ve come to loathe the question, “What do you do?” How do I answer exactly? I count minutes.
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