And then there’s a dial tone.
I sit alone at home.
Things feel empty.
I can still smell her perfume.
A few stray hairs are still lying in the bed.
It’s Thursday night.
We used to go dancing on Thursday nights.
‘She called you?’
‘Yeah.’
Franklin looks curious. Intrigued. He’s getting sucked into the drama.
‘What’d she say?’
I’m hesitant to tell him. My lip pulls between my teeth in a sort of nervous tick. My fingers are tapping my desk. My feet are tapping the floor. There is no discernible rhythm, but it’s not for lack of trying.
My only response is ’Don’t worry about it.’
‘Why’d you tell me about this if you don’t want me to worry?’
There’s no real answer. Why does any human being spill emotions out into the open air? Perhaps it’s just a basic cleansing ritual; perhaps it’s just habit and routine. Perhaps it’s biologically imperative that we feel understood by those around us.
Feet tapping.
Fingers tapping.
My stomach has a dull ache. A sort of ache that I’m not familiar with. It pulls at me.
‘Ok, you can worry about it. Just, fuck, I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
And so Franklin goes back to work. I sit at my desk. From the corner of my eye I’m watching him walk away. He seems frustrated. Agitated. Perhaps it’s because I’m not telling him everything. Perhaps it’s because he genuinely cares about me.
That’s what friends do.
Right?
Work moves on. I catch snippets of conversation. None of it seems interesting. Every conversation seems to blur together. Every conversation seems the same. Maybe it’s because I’ve heard them all.
People are still talking about the same things they talked about 2000 years ago.
There has been no real progress in the art of talking.
My boss stops by my desk. He’s smiling. He’s wearing a tweed jacket. He looks the same age as me, he could be my father. This isn’t something I consciously think about. Everyone looks the same age. We all might as well be the same age.
‘Did you hear?’
‘Hear what?’
‘We’re having a meeting at the end of the day. It’s mandatory.’
We never have meetings.
Everything runs smoothly.
There is no need for meetings and pep talks when everyone that works here is considered a senior employee. We’ve all danced the same dance in this office for longer than we can truly remember.
We’ve all settled.
We’ve all moved past the inherent boredom.
We’ve all accepted our fate.
And so we work.
Day in and day out.
Getting lost in your job is the easiest thing in the world when you don’t actually think about it. Eventually when people ask what you do in life, all you have to do is answer with what you do for a living.
The lines get blurred.
We become our jobs.
We are efficient.
No one quits because no one cares to change. We have forever to change, why worry about finding a new job just yet?
That vacation to Hawaii? It can wait another ten years. Maybe one hundred. Maybe one thousand.
It’ll happen eventually.
My boss leaves after spending a moment hovering over me.
My fingers feel awkward.
I finish typing a memo.
My back feels rigid.
I’m slumping in my chair.
Something is off.
And so the day continues to pass. Electric lights and phones ringing. The faint sound of typing. I think about Evaline. I’m not thinking about her enough. It’s become a vague pulling. Complacency has settled in like it so frequently does. Why worry when everything works out?
Evaline, Her picture isn’t even on my desk.
On my desk are meaningless trinkets.
The day nears an end. The shadows in the office stay the same; outside they’re growing longer. It’s Friday. A weekend. Fifteen minutes before the day ends and everyone’s jamming into a conference room. We’re sweating. We’re confused. We’re not used to this interruption in our tightly scheduled lives.
Someone whispers a joke to someone else.
There’s laughter.
It’s because we’re nervous.
The management team walks into the office. Tweed jackets. Stern faces. It’s an awkward sensation, and my already pained stomach tightens even more. My body is acting strangely. The walls pulsate and my head throbs.
‘As you may or may not know by now, the company has been bought out.’
There’s a rustle. Gasping. People are realizing what’s happening. The whole room vaguely resembles cattle on the slaughterhouse floor.
‘And so effective today, you are all terminated. I’m sure you will find the severance packages more than generous. We thank you for your years of hard work, and wish you all well in the future.’
Someone throws up.
Someone starts crying.
Someone falls to the ground.
This is as close to death as things come.
At the bar with Franklin.
We’re both drunk.
We’re both depressed.
We’re both in shock and jobless and wondering what the future means when you can no longer define it.
Things are supposed to remain static. It’s why we bothered to live forever in the first place.
The guarantee that we’d always be comfortable.
It’s the reason for all these botox injections and chemical peels and endless trips to the doctors where we get fed pills with names we can’t even pronounce.
‘What am I going to do?’ Franklin is worried and sweating.
Franklin’s face is red.
Franklin’s face isn’t red because he’s drunk.
