Brigit's flame week 3
The theme this week is "arrival." It reminded me of going to work every day and doing the same old things in the same old comfortable building, so I wrote this story about routine.
Mr. Jones arrived at the building at precisely half past eight, just as he had each morning for the past forty-two years. After swiping his time card, he walked into the mail room, but no mail awaited him in the box labeled with his name. He shook his head sadly, remembering that before the internet, there was always something: a circular, an advertisement, endless memos from the staff. Nowadays, everyone used email, even for useless junk.
His meeting was not until a quarter of nine, and so he took the long way around to the kitchen, content to meander through the maze-like hallways. As he walked, he glanced into each doorway, mentally taking note of those who were already seated and working at their desks, and those who were not. Most of the copyeditors were present and accounted for; they tended to be so busy that they arrived early and stayed late. To his pleasant surprise, the two summer temps, both young girls, were already working. As usual, Joe Short, the typesetter, wasn't in his office yet, since he only made it to work by the seat of his pants at nine o'clock sharp. Joe's assistant, an M-named girl whose face Jones recognized, was diligently poring over layouts on her oversized monitor. At least someone in typesetting could be prompt. Marion? Merrill? He knew it was close to Mary.
In the kitchen, he peered into the refrigerator and smiled. The tray of fresh fruit and cheeses he'd specifically requested was waiting. He also spied two tubs of cream cheese; someone must have brought bagels. There was even a carafe of juice! Usually the staff provided a few of Jones's favorites for his monthly managers' meeting, but they seemed to have outdone themselves with this spread.
His curiosity piqued, he bypassed his office to check out the conference room where the meeting would be held shortly. His eyes boggled at the sight of it: Dana the marketing manager had made her cinnamon rolls, and was that baked brie en croute? That, or a pie. The room was already filled with the scent of fresh coffee.
Hearing the idle chatter of his staff coming to finish their preparations, Jones retreated to his office. He checked his calendar, thinking that perhaps he had forgotten it was one of those Hallmark holidays: Kiss your boss's ass day, or the like. It was just an average Monday, the third of the month. He was struck with a sudden horror that perhaps someone had really screwed up, big time.
His computer was on, and his email was up and running. His assistant had already skimmed through his inbox, deleting the ads for penis enlargement and cheap drugs from Canada, flagging the important messages as high-priority. It seemed that not many "red emails," as Jones called them, had come through since Friday, and that meant it might be a slow week. There was no message indicating that anything was amiss.
He checked his watch. They should be ready for him by now.
"Good morning!" he sang as he entered the conference room. He smiled his most brilliant smile, to let them all know how much he appreciated their efforts.
No one looked up, and Jones had a sinking feeling in his gut as he realized they were all holding hands with their heads bowed. As the circle closed around the table, his assistant intoned, "Let's have a moment of silence for Adam Jones, our beloved director for forty-two years."
Mr. Jones arrived at the building at precisely half past eight, just as he had each morning for the past forty-two years. After swiping his time card, he walked into the mail room, but no mail awaited him in the box labeled with his name. He shook his head sadly, remembering that before the internet, there was always something: a circular, an advertisement, endless memos from the staff. Nowadays, everyone used email, even for useless junk.
His meeting was not until a quarter of nine, and so he took the long way around to the kitchen, content to meander through the maze-like hallways. As he walked, he glanced into each doorway, mentally taking note of those who were already seated and working at their desks, and those who were not. Most of the copyeditors were present and accounted for; they tended to be so busy that they arrived early and stayed late. To his pleasant surprise, the two summer temps, both young girls, were already working. As usual, Joe Short, the typesetter, wasn't in his office yet, since he only made it to work by the seat of his pants at nine o'clock sharp. Joe's assistant, an M-named girl whose face Jones recognized, was diligently poring over layouts on her oversized monitor. At least someone in typesetting could be prompt. Marion? Merrill? He knew it was close to Mary.
In the kitchen, he peered into the refrigerator and smiled. The tray of fresh fruit and cheeses he'd specifically requested was waiting. He also spied two tubs of cream cheese; someone must have brought bagels. There was even a carafe of juice! Usually the staff provided a few of Jones's favorites for his monthly managers' meeting, but they seemed to have outdone themselves with this spread.
His curiosity piqued, he bypassed his office to check out the conference room where the meeting would be held shortly. His eyes boggled at the sight of it: Dana the marketing manager had made her cinnamon rolls, and was that baked brie en croute? That, or a pie. The room was already filled with the scent of fresh coffee.
Hearing the idle chatter of his staff coming to finish their preparations, Jones retreated to his office. He checked his calendar, thinking that perhaps he had forgotten it was one of those Hallmark holidays: Kiss your boss's ass day, or the like. It was just an average Monday, the third of the month. He was struck with a sudden horror that perhaps someone had really screwed up, big time.
His computer was on, and his email was up and running. His assistant had already skimmed through his inbox, deleting the ads for penis enlargement and cheap drugs from Canada, flagging the important messages as high-priority. It seemed that not many "red emails," as Jones called them, had come through since Friday, and that meant it might be a slow week. There was no message indicating that anything was amiss.
He checked his watch. They should be ready for him by now.
"Good morning!" he sang as he entered the conference room. He smiled his most brilliant smile, to let them all know how much he appreciated their efforts.
No one looked up, and Jones had a sinking feeling in his gut as he realized they were all holding hands with their heads bowed. As the circle closed around the table, his assistant intoned, "Let's have a moment of silence for Adam Jones, our beloved director for forty-two years."