Far away. far away, I want to go far away
He typed as quickly and accurately as possible on his little touch-screen tablet keyboard.The sound of large buckets of ice crashing down upon flats of canned beverages several hundred feet behind him was made louder as it reverberated throuhout the cavernous room. He we only othe person in the room, aside from the worker who was distributing the ice. The gauntlet buttons of his shirtsleeves caught the light from the windows that made up the walls and reflected back onto the screen, screwing with the automatic brightness sensor. The scraggily-haired man leaned back in the stiff, uncomfortable chair and sighed as he completed the last touches on the report he had been clamoring away at. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it a fair bit more touseled than before and thought of how he missed typing on a good old fashioned keyboard, or even a type writer. There's just a special sort of merit that comes from composing to the little click-clacks that the keys make as you type on a proper keyboard, along with the added swishing you get on top of that with a good old fashioned typewriter. Several decorated his book cases at home, along with his favorite vintage tomes. Only one was well maintained enough to actually function but he saved it for certain things, such reports as this not being one of them. This drudgery was reserved for more modern technology.
After a quick skim through for any errors cause by the ever fallible autocorrect feature, he signed off on the screen and sent it on it's merry way to be read by the intern who was surely tasked with filtering such correspondence before they reached Mr. McGregor's desk. It was about this time of year that they'd be bringing in a new lot to the company and he could vividly recall the poor intern who last year had to e-fax him a written apology for the delay in getting his submission to the man in charge and apologizing profusely for not knowing who he was. It was all well and good enough at this point. Hopefully they'd left some sort of post-it on the desktop of whoever was assigned the task now so there would be less delay. McGregor had set the deadline on this project so his staff should know to be expecting it.
With his late afternoon task complete, he stowed the tablet into his well-worn leather bag. Charisse had always called him Indie when he carried it because it reminded her of her dear Dr Jones. While Richard was no adventurous archeologist with a massive whip and a phobia of snakes, he didn't mind the nickname or her annual marathons. He tidied up his seating area in the Observation Deck and straightened his collar and cuffs before heading off. Every year on Harrison Ford's birthday she held a viewing party with the most ridiculously time consuming petit fours and hors d'oeuvres she could find. He swore she went out of her way to be so particular about it, as if one of these years Harrison himself might actually show up and she wanted him to be impressed with the spread and the finesse with which she pulled it all off.
He arrived at her door just about 20 minutes later, stopping just for a mo' at the shop midway to fetch a hostess gift for Charisse. The handmade, imported baklava would do just right, he thought. He had probably missed a good portion of the first film at this point but she was just as happy to see him when she answered her door as if he had been right on time, which he never was. So in he went and together they enjoyed the evening with a few other friends popping in and out for a bite on their way into the night shift or home from the day shift. He stayed with her and helped her to tidy up at the end. It helped her cope with being stuck here, year after year, and he supposed it was better than notches and slashes upon the wall. Being a cog in this machine was akin to a prison sentence for her. He presumed that is why she liked to bury herself in the adventures of Indiana Jones so regularly. They were both doomed to a life of monotony and there was nothing wrong at all with taking a break from that.
After a quick skim through for any errors cause by the ever fallible autocorrect feature, he signed off on the screen and sent it on it's merry way to be read by the intern who was surely tasked with filtering such correspondence before they reached Mr. McGregor's desk. It was about this time of year that they'd be bringing in a new lot to the company and he could vividly recall the poor intern who last year had to e-fax him a written apology for the delay in getting his submission to the man in charge and apologizing profusely for not knowing who he was. It was all well and good enough at this point. Hopefully they'd left some sort of post-it on the desktop of whoever was assigned the task now so there would be less delay. McGregor had set the deadline on this project so his staff should know to be expecting it.
With his late afternoon task complete, he stowed the tablet into his well-worn leather bag. Charisse had always called him Indie when he carried it because it reminded her of her dear Dr Jones. While Richard was no adventurous archeologist with a massive whip and a phobia of snakes, he didn't mind the nickname or her annual marathons. He tidied up his seating area in the Observation Deck and straightened his collar and cuffs before heading off. Every year on Harrison Ford's birthday she held a viewing party with the most ridiculously time consuming petit fours and hors d'oeuvres she could find. He swore she went out of her way to be so particular about it, as if one of these years Harrison himself might actually show up and she wanted him to be impressed with the spread and the finesse with which she pulled it all off.
He arrived at her door just about 20 minutes later, stopping just for a mo' at the shop midway to fetch a hostess gift for Charisse. The handmade, imported baklava would do just right, he thought. He had probably missed a good portion of the first film at this point but she was just as happy to see him when she answered her door as if he had been right on time, which he never was. So in he went and together they enjoyed the evening with a few other friends popping in and out for a bite on their way into the night shift or home from the day shift. He stayed with her and helped her to tidy up at the end. It helped her cope with being stuck here, year after year, and he supposed it was better than notches and slashes upon the wall. Being a cog in this machine was akin to a prison sentence for her. He presumed that is why she liked to bury herself in the adventures of Indiana Jones so regularly. They were both doomed to a life of monotony and there was nothing wrong at all with taking a break from that.