Life in My Years

Something very odd happened to me at work yesterday – let me start from the beginning:

At its usual ungodly hour of six-ten, my cell phone cleared its digital throat and began to sing loudly until a semi-conscious hand to its left bapped it into quiet submission. It was a rather dull and unimaginative cell phone, never knowing or doing anything very interesting – but it knew enough to suspect, however dimly, that an important reason why it was still in its useful existence was largely due to this very ability to shut up at the slightest tap. So it shut up and I was soon up, throwing on clothes, brushing teeth, and packing up items necessary for an entertaining BART ride to work.

At precisely seven fifty-two, I arrived at the metal building that stood powerfully erect across the street from the world’s last standing Chuck E. Cheese’s. Seven fifty-three, I stepped into Elevator No. Five, a space in which conversation and eye-contact were strictly forbidden by somber security guards in black, and at seven fifty-four on the dot, I pushed open the light-brown wooden doors which led into the world of grey I was to inhabit for the next eight hours.

Absolutely everything was grey, although admittedly, they were different shades. The cubicles were a warm steel-grey, while the carpets were more of a delicate asbestos-grey; the computers were all the familiar shade of cream-grey, and the walls, a delightful white-cement kind of grey; even the small windows in the office that were all huddled on one side of a far, lucky wall were grey: a tasteful double-sided-mirror grey; the entire floor looked at the world through grey-tinted glasses.

It was a long, sobering walk from that door to my cubicle that morning, as it is every morning – one which sunshine, blue skies, and spritely, handsome men like Joseph Gordon-Levitt became mere memories of a world distant and removed. I vaguely recalled admiring beautiful weather and enjoying the rays of sunshine on the BART just that very morning – but now… it was hard to remember as I was walking now, whether it was indeed today or perhaps it was sometime last Tuesday. I squinted at the small windows on the far right wall for a clue, and realized that I must’ve indeed been mistaken about the weather this morning – in fact, the day was the exact same grey-tinted gloom as it always was whenever I’d ever stood up for a look out of the windows of this building.  I reached my cubicle, and quietly pulled out my wheely chair to sit. I set my bag down on the desk, keeping a hand on it so to muffle my rattling bottle of ibuprofen. When I’d first been given a tour around the office four months ago, a frizzy-haired woman had told me with a drooping smile that the office was so quiet you could hear a pin drop; so once, I came equipped with one and dropped the proverbial pin, and lo! – I heard it! It tinkled, sweet and light – the sound of the world’s daintiest bell.

The only time the office wasn’t conducive for audible pin-dropping was when Grioghar was talking to someone. Watching Grioghar talk to someone in this office was like watching a foghorn conversing with a bee. He was talking to someone now, and I could hear his loud booming voice from halfway across the office.

“NEXT TIME HIRUM, YOU DON’T HAVE TO INCLUDE IN THE EMAIL WHY YOU’RE ABSENT.”

There was a buzzing sound – Hirum, I presumed.

“YEAH, IT’S COMPANY POLICY. IT’S NOBODY ELSE’S BUSINESS THAT YOU WENT TO SEE YOUR OPTHOMOLOGIST.

Some more buzzing.

He walked by me and said, “HEY GOOD MORNING! HOW AREYA DOING?”

“Good morning,” I said, and smiled. I hoped the smile looked sincere. Too often, I felt my lips stretch automatically into a thin grimace at a co-worker before realizing how it must’ve looked to its recipient.

The most exciting conversational exchange of my work day now over, I settled into my seat for another day at the office.

Everything hummed steadily on as usual, until precisely two forty-five.

As I often did, I got up from my cubicle, and set off for the kitchen for some water. The kitchen was situated quite a far distance from where I sat; I had to walk across the entire length of the office floor and down through a narrow, grey hallway, where I would then stretch my legs a bit and make funny faces at the walls. But things would be different today.

I was halfway down the hallway before I stopped in surprise, noticing something I’d never noticed in all my four months of working in the office and all my daily trips to the kitchen: there was, at the end of the long, lean hallway, a door. I couldn’t believe that I’d never taken note of it before, because it looked so conspicuous now in its ascetically sparse setting;  it was a rich, dark brown wooden door against the plain, white-cement colored wall – and it was slightly ajar. The lights were off in the room, and the whole scene looked as though someone had carelessly left the door open while in a hurry to go someplace else. I walked up to the door, and was about to pull it shut when I realized that handle was rigid, locked from the outside. I hesitated, and looked behind me. No one was around. Curious, I pushed the door further open instead, and peered inside.

I could see nothing. I glanced to the left and then to the right, but I couldn’t make anything out in the dark. I was just about to close the door when there was a sound – a static crackling – and a computer screen lit up with a white light, dimly illuminating the space around it. The computer was little distance away from where I was standing at the doorway, but it wasn’t far enough that I couldn’t see what happened next.

The screen turned black as quickly as it had turned white, and large words in a sans-serif font filled the screen all at once.

Hello Helen.

I stared at the screen. I then looked nervously around me, still standing in the doorway with my hand on the door handle.

I have been waiting.

“For – me?” Words tumbled involuntarily out of my mouth and sounded loud and awkward amidst the stifling silence of the hallway and the dark room beyond.

It is time. Come in and close the door.

I didn’t move. My body felt stiff, but my mind was racing furiously. What was this?

Come in.

The letters were bigger this time.

I will not ask again.

I let out a slow breath and I could hear it — tempered, soothing like a controlled breeze.

“Okay,” I said.

I stole a quick look behind me to see if anyone was there, and then slid quickly into the room, shutting the door behind me quietly with one hand on the door knob and the other on the door. My eyes strained to adjust to the darkness, but the computer screen –now blank — appeared to be the only source of light in the room, and it was a poor one indeed. I pressed my back hard against the comforting solidity of the wooden door behind me. I waited, but nothing happened. Everything was still.

“Hello?” I asked to the emptiness.

You are a conscientious worker. I have been pleased with your efforts.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling somewhat relieved, but mostly surprised. But taking courage from this compliment, I decided to ask a question.

“Um, I don’t meant to be rude, or offensive, but what are you exactly? How are you – functioning?”

I am Order.

That’s not terribly informative, I thought, and I waited, but nothing more was offered. I stood silently, wondering what to do next.

The blankness went on for so long that I wondered if the computer hadn’t fallen asleep.  “So – how is it that you know my name?” I asked. Lamely.

I know the names of all my workers past, present and future.

“Hmm,” I said, thinking that once again, it – he? she? – hadn’t really answered my question.

Do not be alarmed. This is standard operating procedure for all those whose time has come for the Offering so as to join the Order.

“What is?” I asked. “And what order?” The order of the phoenix, I thought wildly.

A scene from The Matrix flashed through my head: Neo is struggling, held down by agents as they insert a metal shrimp into his belly-button. I felt a little weak imagining a metal crustacean digging through the center of my belly-button and forcing a path into my body.

The monitor had become blank again, and the computer began whirring furiously. I looked at it nervously as the noise grew louder and louder. Then it stopped. A wall of text filled the screen, and as I leaned in closer, I saw that it was all to do with me: addresses of all the places I’ve lived in – some which I didn’t even remember – my full name, date and city of birth, college degree, social security number, weight, height, blood type, salary, work hours, car model and year, percentage of the day I worked hard on the job, percentage of the day I vegged out, average number of times a day I got up to go to the kitchen, average number of times a week I went to the snack shop downstairs to buy refrigerated watermelon slices. When I think back on it now, I should’ve felt more alarmed, but it seemed natural then, as I stood there in that dark room with the conversing computer, that it should have all the information it did.

Standard operating procedure mandates for you to confirm the accuracy or inaccuracy of your personal file by saying yes or no.

“Yes,” I said. I was careful to speak loudly and to enunciate, like when you speak to those phone machines.

You do not need to speak loudly and enunciate to me as you would to an automated phone server. I am advanced.

I felt silly. “Sorry,” I said.

What?

“I said – ”

ROFL. A little bit of humor so to lighten the mood.

“Oh.”

The computer ROFLed a few more times on the screen as I stood there, feeling like the world’s great prat. I recalled all the numerous times I’d rolled my eyes and smiled amusedly whenever someone had said “Rofl” to me.

Standard operating procedure mandates that it is now time to execute the purpose of this meeting.

I waited for it to continue, but felt a smidgeon more nervous at its use of the word “execute.” The screen of the computer began flickering and the loud whirring sound started again. Then everything came to a stop again:

You have been a faithful employee at  ———- now for a complete cycle of four months. Your performance has been commendable. You have been punctual and polite. Most importantly, you have been reliable. Apart from going to the kitchen an average of two times more than the average employee, you have been a diligent and smart worker and you are an increasingly valuable asset to the Company.

“Thank you,” I said. My toes grew warm and my mind was pleased at the favorable appraisal.

Standard operating procedure mandates at this time for the Offering of the Key.

I looked quickly to my left and right, half expecting to see someone — or something — creep out of the darkness with a gold skeleton key on a red silk pillow. My heart beat a little quicker.

I, on behalf of ———-, offer you the Key.

What key, I was about to ask, and then I saw it, lying there next to the keyboard, glinting in what little light there was in the room. It was small, about the size of half my pinky.  My arm automatically reached out to it, and I touched it gingerly. It was cold.

Take it, keep it safe.

I looked at the key resting the center of my palm. It was heavier than it looked. “What is it for?” I asked.

Foresight.

“What do you mean?”

The feasibility of control and certainty in life’s trajectory and consequence as much as life will allow.

“And what is that?” My voice came out sounding like a stranger, it was so low.

Comfort enjoyed of luxury; Freedom granted by options; Love and Warmth of family and friends that come with the availability of time, energy; Trust bred of familiarity; Peace of mind granted by stability and consistency.

I stood silent. The computer had turned black again.

“And in return – ?” I asked, after a long moment.

In return, you will be giving exactly what you have been giving, but both feet will be in the door. You will become a part of the Company and the Company will become a part of you. We will become a mutual unit in purpose, direction, strength, devotion, and rewards.

I looked at the key, and then looked at the computer. My body felt cold, but my cheeks were burning hot – I felt a little dizzy.

As following the standard operating procedures, you will have three full days to consider your decision. Should you choose to accept the offer, on the third day at precisely the same hour, come back and insert the key into my body.

I looked at the computer. “In there?” I pointed at a small hole near the bottom of the computer, the perfect size to fit the little silver key that was still resting in the palm of my open right hand.

If you decide to accept the offer, yes.

I stood there, my left hand hanging by my side and worrying the silky fabric of my dress, thinking. Now it was my mind that was whirring, and I felt my thoughts fly through my brain like a flurry of birds swarming furiously in mid-sky

I’d stay at ———- for real now – for good; I’d finally cease jumping from job to job, settle down roots, and then I’d work – harder and better than now because I’d be invested long-term now, mentally; time would pass and I’d be given more challenging tasks, more trust, more responsibilities; I’d continue getting to know my co-workers – I’d really put effort to making friends now that I’m staying for keeps – I would nurture enthusiastic references and connections, and then move on to more lucrative positions elsewhere, and after a time, I would be successful; I could see that I’d be successful.

And then what?

And then after another time, I’d be at that place:  I’d be able to have most of all the things I desired, travel with friends to where I wanted across the span of the world, eat wherever and whatever I wanted in hip, fancy restaurants with glowing ambience, buy elegant, lovely things that’d flatter me to look better than I actually do. I’d be able to enjoy all the plays and concerts I’d ever want to see, freely engage in whatever fun activities and events I wanted with friends and family – and there would be none of the worry or burden because there would always be enough. There’d be acceptance and there’d be ease surrounding me like cushions– my parents, friends, acquaintances; and I would have ample time with all of them. I could buy a house if I wanted to, purchase a nice car, and if there ever grew the desire, I could raise my own family in my beautiful house and car and be able to provide for them everything they would ever need and want. Everything would be so blessedly comfortable and safe; life might be good – great even, maybe.

But from as far as I can remember in my life I’ve never felt compelled to buy things almost ever, and I rarely feel happier when I do; I don’t care a snit about cars, and I don’t know if I’d even want to have a child to raise; and when have I ever longed for home ownership? – in fact, the thought of being anchored to owning a house was immensely unappealing. I do enjoy going to nice restaurants, but I don’t miss it when I don’t because good conversations are ubiquitous and the dollar rice at Super Taco Taqueria is the height of epicurean perfection with a little salt and Tapatia; as for spanning the globe, traveling vacations have proven thus far to be largely overrated, and there’s probably very little most people could get from vacations that they couldn’t from attentively watching Rick Steve’s video adventures, or posing for a picture against a convincing backdrop — they’d probably even learn more history and get better camera angles for their shots. And all of those things – well, not all, but most – they were nice, but they weren’t important. They’re comforts – that’s all. They’re last week’s trinkets: shiny toys of Lucite that sparkle briefly in the sunlight and then forgotten, discarded for the next and the next and the next.

But another brief pause in the run for just a moment: Were these things actually trivial? Or did they only seem so because I’ve been fortunate enough to never want for anything in my entire life?

You may turn up your nose at what I am offering, but the more pertinent question for you is whether you can realistically achieve what you do think is important.

This interrupted my thoughts, and I stopped. My hands fell cold and I didn’t say anything – I just looked at those blindingly white little words that hurt my eyes, they were so clear and bright. “What are you saying?” I asked.

You know. You have lofty dreams, but you lack resolve. You long to move, but you are frozen. You could, but you don’t. You fear, doubt, weaken.

My mouth felt dry. My voice caught a little as I said, “But – I’m working on that. On all of that. I’m trying.” My chest hurt at the sound of what I was saying.

You sleepwalk as you daydream – meanwhile time fleets. Your strides are neither big nor brave enough for what you wish to happen. You are aware of this fact yourself.

I stood there quietly now. The ache in my chest dug a little deeper. It hurt like it does when I feel heartsick about something, but it’s a cold seeping spread now – slow, patient, almost gentle.

Little decisions cast long shadows which linger. Do you really think you possess the will and determination? Do you really think you are brave enough, self-disciplined enough?

The screen was getting brighter and brighter. My eyes were having a hard time keeping on the screen, but I didn’t look away.

I will provide for you, I will guide you along the ordered path. You will be happy.

I looked at the word “happy” on the screen. It seemed a slightly larger size than the other words in the sentence. “Are the others happy?” I asked after a few minutes.

Most are.

“Okay,” I said after a while. I felt the key in my hand and touched it with my left hand. It was still as cold as when I first touched it. The silver was beautifully clear, and I caught a glimpse of my shape in the reflection. It was so bright that it almost appeared as if it were glowing. I looked at it for a long time until my fingers closed upon it, snapping shut like a flytrap. I squeezed my hand tight, and I felt it digging into my palm. It felt safe.

“Thank you for the offer.” My hand was squeezed so tightly that it was starting to hurt. I eased up a little. “It’s quite something.”

I look forward to your decision on the third day.

“Okay,” I said.

Do you have any more questions for me?

I thought for a few long seconds. “No,” I said finally.

I shall now conclude the Offering with the last standard operating procedure. It is a warning: Do not communicate this offer in any way to anyone during these three days, or the offer shall be rescinded and nullified. Do you understand?

“Okay,” I said.