"Calm the fuck down you obnoxious little prick."
The office whirred obtrusively. The electrical hum of outdated hardware and inundated hardwiring making its own constant backbeat. Cubical walls bore up from the ground to reduce eye contact and increase productivity, the muffled sound of a radio whispering just the other side of audible, intense artificial lighting, clichés. Extreme sensory deprivation and policed isolation, psychological assault, white torture, Patrick.
"Back to the grind, hey guys?" He chirped in objectionable autonomy. The crescendo of Windows XP starting up filled the air with orchestral guise, a .WAV starter's pistol for another day of drudgery and self-loathing. Patrick bounced assertively between desks, asking customary questions about peoples weekends, the project managers training in visibly literal application to his routine. It's all routine, when does the actual living start?
"Good weekend, John?" Beamed the halogen smile of Patrick's artificial integrity. This was getting to me now, I could see why people turn a blind eye to this level of lifelessness, but still; "Why?"
"Why?" I enquired.
"'Why'?" Patrick repeated.
"Why." I stated, no rising inflection, the word no longer a question.
"Uh-oh, I think John's carrying some of the weekend with him!" Patrick announced to the office. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
"What the fuck was that supposed to mean?"
"Steady on John."
"Fuck off Patrick, you self-replicated, 'team player'-cunt."
...
The pause lasted for some time.
The white noise of the office computers stopped.
The air-conditioning stopped.
The photocopier stopped.
The office stopped.
Then noise, actual noise, cubical walls fell back, conversation became meaningful, honest, heated even. People looked at each other, there was mood. Even Patrick managed to say something that wasn't advised by team/micro management course. Life happened.
John cleared his desk.
The office whirred obtrusively. The electrical hum of outdated hardware and inundated hardwiring making its own constant backbeat. Cubical walls bore up from the ground to reduce eye contact and increase productivity, the muffled sound of a radio whispering just the other side of audible, intense artificial lighting, clichés. Extreme sensory deprivation and policed isolation, psychological assault, white torture, Patrick.
"Back to the grind, hey guys?" He chirped in objectionable autonomy. The crescendo of Windows XP starting up filled the air with orchestral guise, a .WAV starter's pistol for another day of drudgery and self-loathing. Patrick bounced assertively between desks, asking customary questions about peoples weekends, the project managers training in visibly literal application to his routine. It's all routine, when does the actual living start?
"Good weekend, John?" Beamed the halogen smile of Patrick's artificial integrity. This was getting to me now, I could see why people turn a blind eye to this level of lifelessness, but still; "Why?"
"Why?" I enquired.
"'Why'?" Patrick repeated.
"Why." I stated, no rising inflection, the word no longer a question.
"Uh-oh, I think John's carrying some of the weekend with him!" Patrick announced to the office. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
"What the fuck was that supposed to mean?"
"Steady on John."
"Fuck off Patrick, you self-replicated, 'team player'-cunt."
...
The pause lasted for some time.
The white noise of the office computers stopped.
The air-conditioning stopped.
The photocopier stopped.
The office stopped.
Then noise, actual noise, cubical walls fell back, conversation became meaningful, honest, heated even. People looked at each other, there was mood. Even Patrick managed to say something that wasn't advised by team/micro management course. Life happened.
John cleared his desk.
