By Shelley Dayton
Unpaid overtime
Roger leaned over to pick up a file, jammed his elbow into the cubicle wall and
dumped hot coffee down his pressed blue shirt. He jerked his head so the
phone pinched between his ear and neck wouldn’t get wet. Steam rose from his
chest, while he stared for a minute at the wall. Some times he could swear the
cubicle was getting smaller.
“Whoah there, Mr. Nelson, I’m going to have to call you back.” He clicked the
phone onto its cradle, walked into the middle of the aisle, and jumped up and
down, all without making a peep. Pulling the shirt away from his chest, he
walked past the rows of empty cubicles to a dark brown cabinet. He opened it,
selected a neatly pressed blue shirt from the dozen already in there, made a
quick change, and hurried back to his cube.
Had he realized this was his last morning as an independent being, he might
have gone home early.
But going home early didn’t make numbers. And making numbers was what
Roger did best.
A dozen fresh manila files, thick as dictionaries, crashed into his inbox. He
smiled at the hand that delivered them.
“And that’s just one hour’s worth!” Norm shook his shaggy blonde hair. “How
do you do it, man?” Confusion washed over his features, highlighting the acne.
“And why? Don’t you ever go home?”
Roger smiled. “I’ve always been happy here. It’s the satisfaction of taking this
pile,” he pointed a neatly-clipped nail at the in box, “cleaning it up, matching the
customer with a great loan, and giving the file to the underwriter.” He pointed
at the empty cube beside him. There seemed to be a great number of empty
cubicles, naked gray walls under the off-white lighting. Today they seemed
different, somehow. Less…angular?
“Then it follows its orderly path to the processor, doc drawer, funder, and then
we all get paid! By the way…where is everybody? I’ve only seen four other
people here!”
Norm rolled his eyes. “Only the other super-producers. Everybody else got a
memo to take the day off.”
“Really?” Roger’s eyes rolled over to the top file, and his fingers twitched to get
working on it. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with Norm. “Can’t see
why. Thanksgiving’s less than a month away.”
“It didn’t say. Most people just took it. Me, I need the hours. Plus I can grab
some paper and ink cartridges to take home – don’t tell the boss lady, right?”
Norm grinned and bobbed his head.
Suddenly a deep noise, somewhere between a gurgle and a growl rumbled
around them. The floor and walls vibrated.
Norm and Roger leapt out of the cubicle. The floor jolted twice, and the ceiling
lights jiggled and clinked in their fixtures. The noise seemed to shake their
insides.
“’Zat an earthquake?” a funder named Don called out from two rows away.
“Just let me know if it is. I’ll try to review these documents from under my
desk. Anybody got a flashlight, ‘case the lights go out?”
The rumbling drained away, and with one last shake, it was over. The ceiling
tiles shifted into place, raining dust down on their heads.
Roger shook his head, matching Norm’s stunned expression. “Just an
earthquake, I guess. I’ve never heard of them making that noise before
though.”
“Freaky,” whispered Norm. “I don’t want to be under these lights if they break
loose. I’m off to the supply room. If you hear something heavy fall on me,
come help, right?” With a punch at Roger’s shoulder, Norm slumped away in his
cool-dude walk.
Roger made a quick trip to the little break room for something liquid, black and
acidic that tasted vaguely like coffee. He made his chalky by adding powdered
creamer and horribly sweet with sugar. He raised his eyebrows, slurped out of
his company-logo mug, and gave a contented sigh.
During his quick trip back to his cubicle, he wondered when Norm would begin
acting like a 25-year-old man and do something good for the company.
At that moment that Roger ducked back into his station, Norm pulled open the
copier’s cover in the supply room’s far corner. There were no more unopened
cartridges. He stared into the machine’s black interior, studded here and there
by green knobs, yellow warning labels, and silvery metal flaps. He reached in to
grab the cartridge.
It slid out half an inch, then stuck. Norm repositioned his fingers and gave a
hard tug. This time it came out halfway. Norm planted his feet, put all of his
fingers on the plastic tab, and pulled using all his strength.
It didn’t give at all.
It did, however, take.
The black plastic machinery on the inside of the copier slid away. Thick pink
ridges, like toothless gums, glistened instead. But Norm couldn’t let go of
whatever he was holding…it didn’t feel so much like a toner cartridge anymore.
The gums stretched open wider with a slippery sound.
The machine sucked Norm in so fast he didn’t have time to scream.
He screamed later. But by that point, nobody could hear.
As the front cover of the copier slammed shut, another rumble rattled the
building’s core.
Roger lifted his head. He glanced around the darkened room (no use in wasting
electricity on empty cubicles) but nothing seemed out of place. When he looked
back at his desk, he leapt out of his chair and shouted.
Thick, red, curved lines threaded through the blonde wood of his desk, just
below the surface. They twitched. His eyes followed the lines through the blue
carpet and up the gray walls. And the walls seemed…taller. And pinker.
“You okay, Roger?” Funder Don called out.
“Yeah, yeah. Must be some sort of Halloween joke,” Roger said, feeling his
heart pounding in his ears. “Haha. Or maybe a new cleaner. Do you have red
lines on your desk?”
“Ah…yup. Never noticed those before. Hey, if you’re up, will you get me another
box of Sign Here stickers?”
In the second it took Roger to turn around, he went from free man to prisoner.
A thin, pink membrane stretched across the doorway. It looked like several
thick layers of cellophane. The same thick red tubes threaded through it.
“Ah, Don? Could you come here? There’s…I don’t know! I’m a bit scared…”
Silence.
“Don? You there? I need help!”
Roger prodded the membrane with the tip of his loafer. It was elastic, but thick
as rhinoceros hide.
“Heather? Bert? Norm?”
There was no response except a quiet, steady noise. Roger had thought it was
the rhythmic thudding of the photocopiers. But now, as he poked at the thick,
slimy wall that imprisoned him, it sounded more like a heartbeat.
Roger swung around to grab scissors, a letter opener, anything sharp. But his
desk had been wiped clean.
He only screamed once as thick, blue tubes flew out of the walls, stabbing him
through the neck and stomach. Struggling and kicking, he found that he couldn’
t scream anymore. He felt his feet bruise from hitting the desk, felt his knuckles
crack and his back twist. The thud-thud grew louder.
Roger fought mightily for six seconds – exactly as long as it took for the
Organism’s chemicals to hit his brain.
Roger’s muscles went limp and he felt himself slump into the chair. Staring,
dazed, at the pink membranous ceiling, Roger experienced old sensations in a
new way.
He tasted sweet, creamy coffee. The best coffee he ever had. It soothed his
throat, warmed his belly, and flushed him with energy. The perpetual soreness
in his back and shoulders drifted away, and suddenly his rickety chair felt as
comfortable as his recliner. The gentle light opened his eyes and lifted his spirits
like natural daylight never could. The world was good again.
No, it was better!
Roger sat up in his chair. A momentary sadness stabbed his heart, seeing his
slimy, pink, pulsating desk completely naked of files and computer.
As if in answer to his pain, a round hole opened up before him. It was black as
pitch inside, with a thin lip of skin around its perimeter. He stared at it in
wonder. It gurgled for a moment. Then it spat out a rectangular white object,
which made a dull thud when it landed before him. The hole remained open,
gurgling quietly, as Roger lifted the peculiar thing, white as bone, jagged on
one side.
Ah yes, said a calm voice inside of him. It is for the cutting function.
Roger hefted his new tool. The handle of the saw fit his grip to perfection.
The hole gurgled again, and spat out Roger’s very first work assignment at his
new job. It was hard to tell beneath the layer of yellow slime and blood, but it
looked much like an arm. An arm wearing Norm’s watch.
The hole in front of him closed, and a much smaller one opened in the
membranous wall to his left.
Make into smaller pieces from the bigger pieces. Very simple.
So Roger got to work, and spent the rest of the Organism’s life very much
enjoying his job as Organ #6.
The Organism had chosen the very best of the employees to work for it.
Product in, product out, absolutely no distractions – the team was happy as
ever.
the end
Back to the Top
Back to Sketch Notes
Unpaid overtime
Roger leaned over to pick up a file, jammed his elbow into the cubicle wall and
dumped hot coffee down his pressed blue shirt. He jerked his head so the
phone pinched between his ear and neck wouldn’t get wet. Steam rose from his
chest, while he stared for a minute at the wall. Some times he could swear the
cubicle was getting smaller.
“Whoah there, Mr. Nelson, I’m going to have to call you back.” He clicked the
phone onto its cradle, walked into the middle of the aisle, and jumped up and
down, all without making a peep. Pulling the shirt away from his chest, he
walked past the rows of empty cubicles to a dark brown cabinet. He opened it,
selected a neatly pressed blue shirt from the dozen already in there, made a
quick change, and hurried back to his cube.
Had he realized this was his last morning as an independent being, he might
have gone home early.
But going home early didn’t make numbers. And making numbers was what
Roger did best.
A dozen fresh manila files, thick as dictionaries, crashed into his inbox. He
smiled at the hand that delivered them.
“And that’s just one hour’s worth!” Norm shook his shaggy blonde hair. “How
do you do it, man?” Confusion washed over his features, highlighting the acne.
“And why? Don’t you ever go home?”
Roger smiled. “I’ve always been happy here. It’s the satisfaction of taking this
pile,” he pointed a neatly-clipped nail at the in box, “cleaning it up, matching the
customer with a great loan, and giving the file to the underwriter.” He pointed
at the empty cube beside him. There seemed to be a great number of empty
cubicles, naked gray walls under the off-white lighting. Today they seemed
different, somehow. Less…angular?
“Then it follows its orderly path to the processor, doc drawer, funder, and then
we all get paid! By the way…where is everybody? I’ve only seen four other
people here!”
Norm rolled his eyes. “Only the other super-producers. Everybody else got a
memo to take the day off.”
“Really?” Roger’s eyes rolled over to the top file, and his fingers twitched to get
working on it. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with Norm. “Can’t see
why. Thanksgiving’s less than a month away.”
“It didn’t say. Most people just took it. Me, I need the hours. Plus I can grab
some paper and ink cartridges to take home – don’t tell the boss lady, right?”
Norm grinned and bobbed his head.
Suddenly a deep noise, somewhere between a gurgle and a growl rumbled
around them. The floor and walls vibrated.
Norm and Roger leapt out of the cubicle. The floor jolted twice, and the ceiling
lights jiggled and clinked in their fixtures. The noise seemed to shake their
insides.
“’Zat an earthquake?” a funder named Don called out from two rows away.
“Just let me know if it is. I’ll try to review these documents from under my
desk. Anybody got a flashlight, ‘case the lights go out?”
The rumbling drained away, and with one last shake, it was over. The ceiling
tiles shifted into place, raining dust down on their heads.
Roger shook his head, matching Norm’s stunned expression. “Just an
earthquake, I guess. I’ve never heard of them making that noise before
though.”
“Freaky,” whispered Norm. “I don’t want to be under these lights if they break
loose. I’m off to the supply room. If you hear something heavy fall on me,
come help, right?” With a punch at Roger’s shoulder, Norm slumped away in his
cool-dude walk.
Roger made a quick trip to the little break room for something liquid, black and
acidic that tasted vaguely like coffee. He made his chalky by adding powdered
creamer and horribly sweet with sugar. He raised his eyebrows, slurped out of
his company-logo mug, and gave a contented sigh.
During his quick trip back to his cubicle, he wondered when Norm would begin
acting like a 25-year-old man and do something good for the company.
At that moment that Roger ducked back into his station, Norm pulled open the
copier’s cover in the supply room’s far corner. There were no more unopened
cartridges. He stared into the machine’s black interior, studded here and there
by green knobs, yellow warning labels, and silvery metal flaps. He reached in to
grab the cartridge.
It slid out half an inch, then stuck. Norm repositioned his fingers and gave a
hard tug. This time it came out halfway. Norm planted his feet, put all of his
fingers on the plastic tab, and pulled using all his strength.
It didn’t give at all.
It did, however, take.
The black plastic machinery on the inside of the copier slid away. Thick pink
ridges, like toothless gums, glistened instead. But Norm couldn’t let go of
whatever he was holding…it didn’t feel so much like a toner cartridge anymore.
The gums stretched open wider with a slippery sound.
The machine sucked Norm in so fast he didn’t have time to scream.
He screamed later. But by that point, nobody could hear.
As the front cover of the copier slammed shut, another rumble rattled the
building’s core.
Roger lifted his head. He glanced around the darkened room (no use in wasting
electricity on empty cubicles) but nothing seemed out of place. When he looked
back at his desk, he leapt out of his chair and shouted.
Thick, red, curved lines threaded through the blonde wood of his desk, just
below the surface. They twitched. His eyes followed the lines through the blue
carpet and up the gray walls. And the walls seemed…taller. And pinker.
“You okay, Roger?” Funder Don called out.
“Yeah, yeah. Must be some sort of Halloween joke,” Roger said, feeling his
heart pounding in his ears. “Haha. Or maybe a new cleaner. Do you have red
lines on your desk?”
“Ah…yup. Never noticed those before. Hey, if you’re up, will you get me another
box of Sign Here stickers?”
In the second it took Roger to turn around, he went from free man to prisoner.
A thin, pink membrane stretched across the doorway. It looked like several
thick layers of cellophane. The same thick red tubes threaded through it.
“Ah, Don? Could you come here? There’s…I don’t know! I’m a bit scared…”
Silence.
“Don? You there? I need help!”
Roger prodded the membrane with the tip of his loafer. It was elastic, but thick
as rhinoceros hide.
“Heather? Bert? Norm?”
There was no response except a quiet, steady noise. Roger had thought it was
the rhythmic thudding of the photocopiers. But now, as he poked at the thick,
slimy wall that imprisoned him, it sounded more like a heartbeat.
Roger swung around to grab scissors, a letter opener, anything sharp. But his
desk had been wiped clean.
He only screamed once as thick, blue tubes flew out of the walls, stabbing him
through the neck and stomach. Struggling and kicking, he found that he couldn’
t scream anymore. He felt his feet bruise from hitting the desk, felt his knuckles
crack and his back twist. The thud-thud grew louder.
Roger fought mightily for six seconds – exactly as long as it took for the
Organism’s chemicals to hit his brain.
Roger’s muscles went limp and he felt himself slump into the chair. Staring,
dazed, at the pink membranous ceiling, Roger experienced old sensations in a
new way.
He tasted sweet, creamy coffee. The best coffee he ever had. It soothed his
throat, warmed his belly, and flushed him with energy. The perpetual soreness
in his back and shoulders drifted away, and suddenly his rickety chair felt as
comfortable as his recliner. The gentle light opened his eyes and lifted his spirits
like natural daylight never could. The world was good again.
No, it was better!
Roger sat up in his chair. A momentary sadness stabbed his heart, seeing his
slimy, pink, pulsating desk completely naked of files and computer.
As if in answer to his pain, a round hole opened up before him. It was black as
pitch inside, with a thin lip of skin around its perimeter. He stared at it in
wonder. It gurgled for a moment. Then it spat out a rectangular white object,
which made a dull thud when it landed before him. The hole remained open,
gurgling quietly, as Roger lifted the peculiar thing, white as bone, jagged on
one side.
Ah yes, said a calm voice inside of him. It is for the cutting function.
Roger hefted his new tool. The handle of the saw fit his grip to perfection.
The hole gurgled again, and spat out Roger’s very first work assignment at his
new job. It was hard to tell beneath the layer of yellow slime and blood, but it
looked much like an arm. An arm wearing Norm’s watch.
The hole in front of him closed, and a much smaller one opened in the
membranous wall to his left.
Make into smaller pieces from the bigger pieces. Very simple.
So Roger got to work, and spent the rest of the Organism’s life very much
enjoying his job as Organ #6.
The Organism had chosen the very best of the employees to work for it.
Product in, product out, absolutely no distractions – the team was happy as
ever.
the end
Back to the Top
Back to Sketch Notes
| Important Note: All of the original writings are copyrighted, belong to those who created them, and should not be used in any way without their permission. |
A Short Story