I can't explain here. Meet me at the picnic table in ten seconds and I'll tell you all about it.
The office is the jungle teetering on the edge of the Nam Youm and your coworkers are the Viet Cong.
Every second a bead of sweat drips off the tip of your nose. Every second a bead of sweat joins the millions of others in an ocean on your desk. They say it’s impossible to drown in water if the salt content is high enough. They say you float. Tell that to all the young men who died in puddles of their own sweat. Tell that to the soldiers who swallowed a gallon of perspiration before they finally floated. Facedown.
You blink hard but still see double. You breathe in smoke and exhale fire.
All you need is a trip to the water cooler, but you have to wait till it’s quiet. Charlie is everywhere. Charlie flows around you like a liquid. Charlie seeps into your lungs like a gas. If you move too soon you will be swept downstream, back to the Saigon of agitating, nail-biting, restless conversation.
You tried it once. You tried to make friends. They were nice when they interviewed you. With goofy corporate smiles on their faces they sat, charmed and delightfully intrigued by your stories of honor and success. Your past accolades of glory, your intellect and your resolute yet compassionate character brought them to executive interview committee orgasm.
They faked it.
You found this out when you learned the rules. Expectations exist. How was your weekend? must always be followed with Good, and yours?. No more. No less. The Vice President of Finance, who just happened to walk into the snack room to refill his cup of water at the same time you were orchestrating an air raid on the company refrigerator, does not care what it was that made your weekend good. In congruence, you should not care what made his weekend good. Or if you do, you shouldn’t ask. He doesn’t want to tell you.
Sometimes they trick you, though. Sometimes they can lure you into longer conversations. These are the dialogues of lost souls. The bamboo sliver nail and finger separation torture technique of water cooler chit-chat.
Hey, you’re new here, right?
Yeah, I’m the new Int-
That’s gooooood
Uh…yeah…
What are you working on now?
Well, actually, I was just starting to compile data for the-
Uh-huh? Well, woooow. It looks like they’ve got you doing some pretty nnneat stuff
Uh, well, I guess. I mean, I’ve been trying to get started on this one-
Oh yeah? What’s that like?
Huh?
Yeeeah. Sometimes that happens.
Uhm, what?
Listen, I’ve got a meeting, but it’s nice to meet you finally Brian.
It’s Brandon.
Whatever you say, Brenda.
The memories still come to you in lucid dreams. You wake up in the middle of the night and you’re so scared you seem to choke on your own fear. You can’t scream. You can’t breath. Weight holds you down as you try to rise and move about, like you swallowed a wheelbarrow of sand. You stand, straining against the force until every fathomable actin and myosin in your body cries out in pain and your body breaks like a water balloon.
But you’re careful now. What’s left of your sanity keeps you alive. Wait for quiet. Stay low to the ground. NEVER go around the cubicle side of the complex, always swing near the copier, past the three hole punch and by the executive offices. The doors are normally closed, and lower level employees are more likely to strike up exercises in tedium with you anyway.
Round the final corner, checking to see that the receptionist is engaged in a phone conversation, and then break for the snack room. Stay in stealth mode while you acquire a cup and proceed to fill with water.
The trickiest part may be getting home. Always remember, Charlie is everywhere. Stay on your toes and look carefully before rounding corners. Send a scout intern ahead to check for snipers. If you have to lose a man for the good of the squad, then that’s the way it goes. Just keep your stealth techniques in mind and remember, you’re not safe until you’re back in your desk.
When you finally sit back down in your rolling blue office chair you check yourself for wounds and take casualty counts.
You’re still alive. By the bullet’s grace it only grazed your skin. You’re still alive.
For now.
Every second a bead of sweat drips off the tip of your nose. Every second a bead of sweat joins the millions of others in an ocean on your desk. They say it’s impossible to drown in water if the salt content is high enough. They say you float. Tell that to all the young men who died in puddles of their own sweat. Tell that to the soldiers who swallowed a gallon of perspiration before they finally floated. Facedown.
You blink hard but still see double. You breathe in smoke and exhale fire.
All you need is a trip to the water cooler, but you have to wait till it’s quiet. Charlie is everywhere. Charlie flows around you like a liquid. Charlie seeps into your lungs like a gas. If you move too soon you will be swept downstream, back to the Saigon of agitating, nail-biting, restless conversation.
You tried it once. You tried to make friends. They were nice when they interviewed you. With goofy corporate smiles on their faces they sat, charmed and delightfully intrigued by your stories of honor and success. Your past accolades of glory, your intellect and your resolute yet compassionate character brought them to executive interview committee orgasm.
They faked it.
You found this out when you learned the rules. Expectations exist. How was your weekend? must always be followed with Good, and yours?. No more. No less. The Vice President of Finance, who just happened to walk into the snack room to refill his cup of water at the same time you were orchestrating an air raid on the company refrigerator, does not care what it was that made your weekend good. In congruence, you should not care what made his weekend good. Or if you do, you shouldn’t ask. He doesn’t want to tell you.
Sometimes they trick you, though. Sometimes they can lure you into longer conversations. These are the dialogues of lost souls. The bamboo sliver nail and finger separation torture technique of water cooler chit-chat.
Hey, you’re new here, right?
Yeah, I’m the new Int-
That’s gooooood
Uh…yeah…
What are you working on now?
Well, actually, I was just starting to compile data for the-
Uh-huh? Well, woooow. It looks like they’ve got you doing some pretty nnneat stuff
Uh, well, I guess. I mean, I’ve been trying to get started on this one-
Oh yeah? What’s that like?
Huh?
Yeeeah. Sometimes that happens.
Uhm, what?
Listen, I’ve got a meeting, but it’s nice to meet you finally Brian.
It’s Brandon.
Whatever you say, Brenda.
The memories still come to you in lucid dreams. You wake up in the middle of the night and you’re so scared you seem to choke on your own fear. You can’t scream. You can’t breath. Weight holds you down as you try to rise and move about, like you swallowed a wheelbarrow of sand. You stand, straining against the force until every fathomable actin and myosin in your body cries out in pain and your body breaks like a water balloon.
But you’re careful now. What’s left of your sanity keeps you alive. Wait for quiet. Stay low to the ground. NEVER go around the cubicle side of the complex, always swing near the copier, past the three hole punch and by the executive offices. The doors are normally closed, and lower level employees are more likely to strike up exercises in tedium with you anyway.
Round the final corner, checking to see that the receptionist is engaged in a phone conversation, and then break for the snack room. Stay in stealth mode while you acquire a cup and proceed to fill with water.
The trickiest part may be getting home. Always remember, Charlie is everywhere. Stay on your toes and look carefully before rounding corners. Send a scout intern ahead to check for snipers. If you have to lose a man for the good of the squad, then that’s the way it goes. Just keep your stealth techniques in mind and remember, you’re not safe until you’re back in your desk.
When you finally sit back down in your rolling blue office chair you check yourself for wounds and take casualty counts.
You’re still alive. By the bullet’s grace it only grazed your skin. You’re still alive.
For now.