A day in the cube
The work a day world is what makes the world go round. Problems abound and solutions thereof, are what makes the day a good one or a bad one. Television brings these collected situations to our living rooms, taverns and I-phones. The F.B.I., C.I.A. and all other alphabet members race to keep a terrorist bomb from the White House and are usually a good bet to succeed, across the networks and cable. These quandaries affect us all, hold our interest and the results can impact all humanity. Reality however, doesn’t provide everyone with cliff hanging dilemmas but those that do exist, are nonetheless urgent:
An office cadre consisting of virtually all women works busily, laboring at the data and documentation division of the operation. Idle chatter fills the conversational gaps throughout the day. Over the cubicle walls we hear, jurgle, zap, jurgle zap. “What are you doing over there?” No answer. Jurgle, zap, jurgle, zap. The inquisitive co-worker, steps around the five foot wall to find the jurgle zapper is pulling off pieces of tape to seal an envelope. “I’m not licking envelopes,” the zapper vows. Probably thought by most as a stand alone comment, another staffer can’t help herself. “Oh, you’ll lick the envelopes.” “I’m not licking the damned envelopes.” A third lady presses ‘add to cart’ on her Amazon screen and turns, “why can’t you lick the envelope? We all lick the envelope.” Now the implication is, the non-envelope licker must think she’s better than the rest. Another sits and types silently, lick the envelope, don’t lick the envelope, shove the envelope up your ass. What am I gonna make for dinner? Another voice heard, “yeah, why do we have to lick envelopes?’ A revolutionist in waiting springs into action. A sleeper cell for twenty six years, sees her opportunity to overthrow ‘the man’. Too young to be a hippy, too old to burn her bra doesn’t stop her from envisioning the building in flames, her standing in the ashes to the music of Nine to Five. She considers featuring a Dolly Parton cameo as she glances down at her chest.
Returning from her daydream, she hears, “I don’t give a fat rat’s ass. Everyone’s toes are ugly.” The brewing coup has switched gears, to employees not being permitted to wear sandals. By this time three of the five, in the solitude of their walled kingdoms, have covertly checked their toes. One of the abstaining members does not because she is wearing her husband’s high top tennis shoes and the other declines because her feet stink.
A young woman, several years their junior walks past with a pearly smile, “good morning ladies.” “I’d smile too if I was twenty-four years old.” “Why’d she even bother to wear a skirt?” Jurgle, zap, jurgle, zap.