"Yoked directly to the machinery of mortality itself"
I've had to do this twice so far since starting my current job. Today was the second time.
So, this is what happens when you die:
First, no one hears from you, and someone comes into the office and asks if anyone has seen you lately. Most responses are "Who?" and then "Oh. No, sorry." Eventually someone who you sort of knew will go to your house and then your neighbor will tell her about the ambulances.
Word will get around. Everyone will look sort of shocked, but slightly distracted, as though you're a song they can almost remember the words to.
Someone in personnel will fill out a form, listing names and dates and what they should do with all of the vacation time that you never took because you were saving it for the summer when things calmed down a little.
Then someone like me will open the envelope containing that form, and will pull your card out of a file. She will have to double-check the list, because she's new and forgets what 47 means on a form like that.
In a matter of minutes, you will be reduced to a sad pile of forms, an empty hanging folder, a battered plastic folder tab, and the index card from the file. The plastic tab will be too battered to keep, so that will be thrown away immediately. The pile of forms will be placed in a drawer for 3 years and then thrown away, too. The empty folder will be put back in the supply closet, and reused when your replacement is hired. The index card will be kept forever, presumably, in a large set of drawers next to the copier and the shredder. Your card will be 51 cards behind a Nobel Prize winner, and 14 cards in front of someone who was fired for accidentally starting a fire in a laboratory.
Someone like me will slip you inside the drawer, and frown as she closes it. She is not sad, not exactly, but something inside her will feel small and quiet. Then the phone will ring in the other room, and she will dash to answer it. And thus are you interred.
So, this is what happens when you die:
First, no one hears from you, and someone comes into the office and asks if anyone has seen you lately. Most responses are "Who?" and then "Oh. No, sorry." Eventually someone who you sort of knew will go to your house and then your neighbor will tell her about the ambulances.
Word will get around. Everyone will look sort of shocked, but slightly distracted, as though you're a song they can almost remember the words to.
Someone in personnel will fill out a form, listing names and dates and what they should do with all of the vacation time that you never took because you were saving it for the summer when things calmed down a little.
Then someone like me will open the envelope containing that form, and will pull your card out of a file. She will have to double-check the list, because she's new and forgets what 47 means on a form like that.
In a matter of minutes, you will be reduced to a sad pile of forms, an empty hanging folder, a battered plastic folder tab, and the index card from the file. The plastic tab will be too battered to keep, so that will be thrown away immediately. The pile of forms will be placed in a drawer for 3 years and then thrown away, too. The empty folder will be put back in the supply closet, and reused when your replacement is hired. The index card will be kept forever, presumably, in a large set of drawers next to the copier and the shredder. Your card will be 51 cards behind a Nobel Prize winner, and 14 cards in front of someone who was fired for accidentally starting a fire in a laboratory.
Someone like me will slip you inside the drawer, and frown as she closes it. She is not sad, not exactly, but something inside her will feel small and quiet. Then the phone will ring in the other room, and she will dash to answer it. And thus are you interred.