Story 125: No Need

“I’m tired of this,” the Boss said to his Friend as they sat at a table in the cafeteria.  Friend also happened to be one of Boss’s subordinates in the office (they had a very good friendship).

“Tired of what?”  Friend asked, fearing he was about to be told on the sly that yet another company merger was in the works.

“This!”  Boss gestured to his half-eaten sandwich.  “Having to stop every few hours to shove processed food into my mouth just to keep everything running.  Do you know how much of a disruption meals are to my day?”

“I’m sure starving people would disagree,” Friend said with his mouth full.

“On the contrary, I think they’d wholeheartedly agree with the freedom that comes from no longer needing to eat!  Think of how much money could be saved, how much time wasted in meal preparation that would be regained, how much less stress there would be in not wondering where your next meal is coming from, how much less crime there would be in not needing to steal to eat, how much less violence, how much less oppression of people over the control of the food supply, the list is endless!  I think world peace would be an attainable goal at that point.”

Friend mulled this over while chewing his salad.  “That makes some sense, I suppose, although the stronger argument would be for water.  It’s a nice hypothesis.”

“I’m going to test it.”

“Test what?”

“Not eating!  Ever again!”

“Oooh… kay… you do realize that you would be dead inside a month, right?”

“Says who?”

“Science?  The Laws of Nature?  God?  The Gods?  Pick one!”

Boss threw his napkin onto the table, stood, and gathered his tray.  “Well, I’m not just going to keep bowing to the whims of some outside force anymore.  It’s time someone took a stand and said ‘Enough is enough!’”  And he left.

Friend shook his head as he finished his lunch.  Looks like that promotion could happen any day now, after all.

ONE MONTH LATER

“So, you haven’t asked me,” Boss said, leaning on Friend’s cubicle wall as he stood by the desk.

Friend had to pull himself away from the report Boss had just sent him an e-mail telling him to do.  “Asked you what?”

“How my experiment is going!”

“What experiment?”

“The one where I said I wasn’t going to eat anymore!”

“Oh, that?  I thought you were just doing a Lent thing.”

“No, I gave up running red lights for Lent.  For this, I actually completely stopped eating.”

“For what, two hours?”

“Thirty-three days.”

Friend would have spit out his coffee if he was drinking it.  “You are such a liar.”

“Honest to goodness, I have not eaten a single thing since we had lunch together a month ago.”

“Ba-lo-ney.”

“You haven’t seen me eat anything since, right?”

“Yes, I haven’t seen you eat anything – that doesn’t mean you haven’t all the other times I don’t see you.”

“I haven’t been standing you up for lunch because of the upcoming merger where they might let you go – I’ve been standing you up for lunch because I no longer need the fuel.  My productivity has increased by 30% just from the lack of interruptions alone.”

“First of all, we need to discuss my possibly being let go, real soon.  Secondly, that’s half an hour a day where you’re not getting paid to work.”

“I’m management and salaried, not hourly like the rest of you expendables.”

“Oh.  Right.  So, have you saved lots of money with your new initiative?”

“You bet!  About $1,000 a month, now that I no longer have my caviar habit.”

“Really.”

“And you know what?  I also noticed that so much activity revolves around food, it’s sickening.  Every party I go to is focused on the meal, it’s like, what would a group of 30 people do for four hours if there wasn’t food to socialize around?  Boy, humanity’s come a long way in a short time – food in most places went from ‘essential to survival’ to ‘recreational activity’ just like that!”

“I see.”

“So, since I’ve saved so much time in doing away with meals, I’m now going to tackle the next obstacle.”

“What, breathing?”

“Ha ha, no: sleeping.”

“Whaaaat?”

“We lose practically a third of a day, every day, just recharging our batteries – you know how much more could get accomplished if we didn’t need to reboot constantly and for so long?  Plus, how less tired we’d all feel, and how much more productive?”

Friend looked around nervously.  “Please don’t let H.R. hear you!” he hissed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll test it out first and let you know the results,” Boss slapped Friend on the shoulder and went off whistling “Brahms’s Lullaby.”

ONE WEEK LATER

Friend was suddenly awakened to his phone ringing on his bedside table.  He turned on the lamp, saw the time on his clock read 4:32 a.m., and picked up the phone in a panic.

“Hello?!  What happened?!”

“Nothing, it’s just me,” Boss said.  “Listen, I’ve been looking for an open store for hours and all I can find are sleazy gas stations – you mind if I come over and hang out?”

“It’s 4:00 in the morning.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And, I was sleeping.  Like most day shift people.”

“Oh right, I’ve been losing track of the time lately.  You won’t believe how much work I’ve been able to get done since I gave up sleep: don’t tell anyone, but I think I might be promoted to CEO soon, even though there’re about 20 people in line ahead of me!”

“Wonderful.”

“Are you mad that I woke you up?”

“Extremely.”

“You should give sleep up like I did!  It’s so freeing – I can make my own schedule, close down bars, throw out my bed, chase away those teens prowling on my property at night, figure out how to keep you on the payroll for years after the higher-ups terminate you on Monday, even take a mini-vacation without any even knowing I’ve gone!  I’ve never felt more alive!”

Friend was trying to go back to sleep to delay thinking about his pending unemployment.  “Are you sure you’re not really undead?”

There was a brief pause on the line.  “You know, I did get into a tussle with some very pale dude a few months back and he got a bite in – you think he may have turned me into some kind of vampire?”

“More like a zombie; I wouldn’t worry about it.”

As Friend began to hang up, he heard Boss chime in with: “I suppose it’s for the best and the effects have been amazing, but before being drastically transformed I would’ve appreciated being asked first, you know?”

Story 124: Professional Applauser

            I arrive with most of the audience: definitely not early and not too late, but late enough so I don’t have to wait forever in the seat for the opera to start (we all hate that). The theater is its usual grand self and I would appreciate the décor more if it wasn’t the 1,067^th time that I’d seen it.  As always, the regular grind ruins all magic.

            A few of my colleagues are sprinkled strategically throughout the theater – we’re not allowed to officially know each other as to keep our secret identities intact, but I can’t help it when I regularly spot the same apathetic faces that almost certainly match my own, in disproportion to the pre-show excitement in the air.

            I unobtrusively check my notes tucked into the show’s program: even though they’re unaltered throughout the show’s run, I never take anything for granted (that way lies sloth and unemployment).  Let’s see, four acts, one intermission where the cast, crew, and I take a break, and done in less than four hours.  Each act has five major songs, and I know the key words by heart (I usually listen for “O,” “amore,” “Dio,” “cuore,” “bellissima,” “amico,” and all forms of “morire” to guide me).  The initial tune-up five minutes after the listed showtime is my signal, and I wait until I see the top of the conductor’s/maestro’s head as he (almost always a “he” at these things) emerges into the pit before I begin clapping madly at his entrance.  He hasn’t done anything yet, the members of the orchestra invariably hate him, and he always is acknowledged over the opera’s director, but he gets to bow before the show even starts.  Whatever – I don’t make the rules, I just get paid to follow them. 

The opening song most times is setting the scene or just flat-out exposition, boring as anything, but the lead singer on those is a step below the principals so he or she has to have their due.  I watch the maestro mainly for that final lowering of the arms to end the song, wait ¼ beat, then go to work: clapping madly to signal to the audience that the song is over and that they can and should reward the singer with appreciative noise (the orchestra can take a flying leap until the final bows, as far as the audience is concerned – this is the singers’ show now).  A good seven to 10 seconds are enough for the secondary singer and ensemble; 20+ seconds are required for the principals.  My stopwatch comes in handy many a time for these.

Once the lead soprano/mezzo/alto/tenor/baritone/bass make their entrances, that is when I really get to work.  Their performance quality varies from show to show, so it’s hard to tell ahead of time whether the Act II aria should have the same length of applause consistently or whether the second love duet in Act IV trumped it this day.  The lead soprano’s not been on her game lately either, which makes it trickier: there’ll be applause out of politeness after her mad aria, but should I throw in a “Brava!” even though she was a bit off-key, a bit off-tempo, and a bit off-putting?  My instincts say “Yes” and I “Brava!” away, seconded by some guy five rows behind me.  I know once the show’s run is over, though, that she is totally going to be fired.

After the grand finale and the stage lights come back on, I stand and clap as if I am trying to break my hands for at least the next five minutes, with a few classy whistles thrown in the mix for the well-received singers at that performance.  The applause intensity increases for the principals and then for the conductor, whom the orchestra members subtly snub as he gestures to them to receive their long-overdue recognition.

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, curtain falls, and I’m out.  Off to the gym to keep my triceps, biceps, and deltoids toned, followed by an ice-down of my hands.  The opera company pays for my membership so it’s worth giving it my all, I figure.

If I ever again attend a live theater event that I’m not being paid for, I’d appreciate it if someone would let me know when to clap.  The cues for the ­­­audience sometimes are unclear.

Story 123: Office Supply Thief

            Darn it, I’m out of staples again.  How am I supposed to keep the reams of my very important personal papers together if the company doesn’t chip in for the cause?  Speaking of reams, I need another one of those, too – at least there’ll be a delivery of paper this afternoon, especially since I’m the one who placed the order.

            I can’t believe the company I work for makes so much money yet is so cheap that it can’t pay me a decent home office supply wage.  I figure at the very least it owes me some paper clips.  And correction tape.  And regular tape.  And all the binder clips.

            They raised the cafeteria prices again?!  What for, the food’s still gross.  I think they want me to starve when I stay overtime even though I don’t have to.  This calls for some extra spoons and ketchup packets for the old apartment kitchen, I think.

            Ah, that lady in Cubicle #38 left that really good brand of scissors on her desk, unattended, yet again.  When will she ever learn?  Hopefully never.

            Another budget meeting.  Did they leave out those laser gadgets again for us to use “just for the meeting”?  Yes they did!  My nieces love these things.  I tell them that they’re gifts from vendors wanting our business, so the devices won’t be infected with any potential feelings of guilt.  Not that I ever have any of those, but they’re sensitive little girls.

            Shift change: time for pen rounds.  Some desks have really nice ones – you know, the ones that it seems a shame to throw them away after they run out of ink `cause they’re so elegant or pretty, but really, what is a pen without ink?  Worse than useless.  Those are the ones that I crave, and Cubicle #57 has them aplenty.  This time, though, there’s a note on the pen holder: “Dear Pen Stealer: Would you like more variety?  Different colors?  Please, let me know how I can brighten your day.”  Well, that was thoughtful; I take the biggest pen and write back in disguised script: “Yes, please – some fluorescent greens would be great.  Thanks a bunch!! ♥ ♥”  People like it when you take a moment to show sincere gratitude.

            Let’s see, end of the work day, my hand truck is nearly full – I’d say I got a lot accomplished today.  I wheel away my new possessions, dumping my computer keyboard on top of the pile (the one I have at home has a stuck letter “E,” so forget typing anything ever again on that), and whistle all the way to the elevators.  As Security meets me there and escorts me to H.R., I lovingly slide the special pen up my sleeve for safekeeping.  The rest of my stash can be returned to their rightful owners or thrown out or whatever, but only I can possess that pen.  The company owes me that much.