Tag: Fiction

Barnes had insisted I do this alone. Climbing back up the stairs, I wasn’t so sure.

RONCIN, the subliminal incentive program embedded in the copier was more malicious than I had realized. I felt my pocket where the chip-puller poked into my thigh. Was I really going to do this? I thought briefly about the ficus plant in my apartment. Who would water it if I were gone? Stop being silly, I thought.

Heart pounding from lack of regular exercise, I paused to catch my breath on the landing. I really should go on more walks. Sitting at a desk all day is not the way to extend one’s lifespan. My brain ached for a proper cup of coffee. Wait, didn’t Bob have some quality brew-pods at his desk? I mentally ransacked my failing memory, pulling up the image of a cherry-red container sitting next to his IN box.

My itinerary re-sorted, with a glowing mental bulletpoint of “Proper Coffee” up at the top. It was on the same floor as the DocuMax, so two birds with one stone.

Pushing open the grey door a crack, I peered down the hallway. No one in sight.

I slowly slipped into the hall, shutting the door as silently as possible. Bob’s desk was at the far end, and I would have just enough time to make it before pushing on to the copy room.

Rounding the corner past the wall of prior marketing slogans “Best in business!”, “Industry Defining!” I felt like a vandal who had broken into school to burgle the principals office. Where was everybody? It just didn’t make sense. Nerves on edge, I crept up to Bob’s cubicle, red coffee-pod in sight.

“HELLO THERE”

Sweet mercy, my heart leapt to the roof of my mouth. It was Bob, hair askew and holding some papers curled up in his hands.

“I — I — didn’t see you there.”, mouth was dry as cotton, legs frozen in place.

Bob smiled. It was the smile of someone who knew that they had caught me out. Looking down at his hands, the papers he held had a neon-note sticking out. Oh no. He had been to the copier.

“YOU HAVEN’T MADE YOUR COPIES YET”, a trickle of saliva slowly descended Bob’s chin.

Grabbing the pod, I stammered, “Just sorting out a proper cup of joe first”.

Shoving it in my pocket, I shouldered past Bob back into the hall.

“BUT YOU FORGOT YOUR COPIESSSSssssss”, Bob’s hoarse shout echoed off the painted walls as I stumbled back from where I’d come. The last syllable fizzled out in the barely-audible range, making my skin crawl.

I was nearly there. Pop the pod in, get a cup of something resembling coffee, pull the chip, report back to Barnes.

I mentally reviewed the steps over and over, as if reciting it would make it that much easier.

I burst into the lunchroom, a sullen affair with a few basic appliances and mostly functional tables and chairs. Slamming the pod into the maker, I grabbed a clean pot and shoved it under the spout. Only a few minutes. Then I would be fine. Images of cheery workers on lush mountainsides picking coffee beans, hand-delivering their bounty in burlap sacks filled my mind.

I could practically smell it now.

Noises, coming from the hall. My heart pounded, thinking that Bob had followed me here, waving his copies like a wrinkled baton. Steps, more than one.

Many more.

I peeked around the corner.

Rows of people, nearly filling the width of the hall, all moving lock-step towards the elevators. Each fist holding papers, all marked with the neon notes. Marching orders for the Copyoid army. Scared of being discovered, I left the burbling coffee maker and exited at the opposite end.

Hunched over, I shuffled quickly to the nearest door. Meeting room “C”. A quiet hush descended as the heavy oak door closed, rows of leather seats and polished wood surfaces gleamed in the low light. The executive meeting room was thankfully bereft of people.

Inhaling deeply, I willed my heart to stop trip-hammering my ribcage. Close one.

“Right, lets take it in here.”, the muffled voice outside gave me a start. With no other options, I dove under the conference table, just as the door swung open and the lights brightened.

My lord, this carpet is absolutely hideous. I withdrew to the center, trying to stay out of sight.

“We still have a few holdouts.”, It was the VP of Sales, a nasty chap that always had a smarmy grin on his face.

“No matter. We’ll find them in short order.”, the CEO’s smooth delivery made it sound like he was ordering lunch, not leading mindless hordes.

“Agreed. Then we can move on to Phase Two. Just a matter of time. now.”

Raucous laughter, chilling me to the bone. What the devil was Phase Two? I just wanted to pull the copier chip and go home, wrap myself in a blanket and read a book in my favorite chair. But no, I’m under a conference table listening to despotic executives.

Some more conversation, in lower tones that made it hard to hear. Soon the door swung open, and I was alone.

Edging out from underneath the table, I slipped through the door in the direction of the DocuMax, chip-puller in hand. It wasn’t long until I had a side panel open, straining with effort to pull the ugly grey lump of silicon from its motherboard.

Damn it all, had I forgotten to release the locking lever? I leaned in closely, trying to get a proper view around the bulky heatsink.

Aha, it was locked! Pushing the lever upward, the chip popped out with minimal effort. There, all sorted.

A hand gripped my shoulder, then another. Turning around, I saw the smarmy smile grow wider on his face.

“There you are. I’m so glad to have found you at last.”

Oh damn and blast. No coffee for me, then.

I was slowly marched to the elevators, flanked by a crew of Copyoids with the VP in the lead.

(To be continued…)

Next – Part Five

The grey stairwell was quiet and unnerving. I tried not to take the stairs much, there had been an incident last year where a poor intern got locked in and ended up frantically beating at each door until his hands were a bloody mess. I looked at the walls, wondering if management had scrubbed all of the hand prints clean.

Better not touch anything, except the door handles I suppose.

Mr. Barnes was an institution. In the sense that he almost was the institution. The rumors were he was a big partner in the heyday of the firm, before investors got on board and demanded that someone who could see through their schemes be ousted from the inner circle.

Like me, he had been ageing in his cubicle as the world rushed around him. Serene and nearly prophet-like, his bushy beard and oversized glasses were always visible during all-hands meetings. Management tried their hardest not to answer his questions, lest they embarrass themselves.

Chipped paint and a smashed cockroach greeted me at the door labelled “B2”. Management had moved him down here after he raised a fuss about the group lunchroom. I don’t recall what it was about, but apparently it had been the last thin thread holding back their distaste for him.

I looked down at my phone before pushing open the door. Red. No network connection at all. Perhaps it was for the best, the last thing I needed was an interruption. Mr. Barne’s desk was tucked away in what was jokingly called the “Scrap Room”. This was the dumping ground for all kinds of gear, either obsolete or tragically broken.

The organizational chart had him listed as “Resource Officer”, but we all knew it meant “Dead End Career”, with a dotted line to the current Vice President. Such indignity, it pained me to see someone so valuable just sitting in the basement like a forgotten bottle of Bordeaux.

But if anyone knew what was going on, it would be him.

I padded down the hallway, half the lights were out and the ones that worked were buzzing and flashing every few seconds. I swallowed and pushed on, trying not to imagine horrors massing in the flickering shadows. Off in the corner, past piles of old printers and stacks of sturdy chairs, Mr. Barne’s cubicle glowed like a campfire in the remote desert wilderness.

I fought the urge to scavenge for firewood as I approached.

“Oh my boy, how are you!”, Barnes booming voice startled me, I nearly jumped a solid half-meter.

“Doing well, or rather… was doing well. I’m concerned that something is wrong.”

Barnes looked over his large-rimmed glasses, leaning back in his duct-taped chair.

The desk was a mess, full of requisitions and ancient recycling receipts. Things just move differently down here. The sands of time got caught up in the massive filing cabinet, and then trickled in a confused fashion past the green banker’s lamp, down to the linoleum floor, finally resting at the mulched layer of old carbon-copies and take-out receipts.

“Don’t tell me. The copy assignments.”

His quick summation took me by surprise. I opened my mouth to say so, when he held up a hand, continuing.

“No, don’t bother me with the details. It wouldn’t be the first time we had an abuse like this.”

Abuse? What the devil did he mean?

“But first, I must ask for safety sake – have you made any copies recently?”

My guilty gaze fell on the cream-colored folder that I held. Barnes shifted, squeaking out of his chair and reaching for my parcel.

“Better give that to me, will you? Its not something you should be carrying around.”

He swooped the stack out of my hand, expertly sliding it into the lower drawer of his overflowing filing cabinet.

“So, you’re telling me this has happened before? What about copies?”, my voice sounded almost child-like, but I had to know.

Barnes settled slowly back into his chair, and leaned forward on his battleship grey desk.

“Yes. Before. Now what I’m going to ask is important. Did you make more than five copies today? Of anything?”

I shook my head negatively.

“Good. We can continue. I was afraid that something like this would happen once the board approved the RONCIN strategy.”

I was way out of my depth here. I kept on nodding like I knew precisely what he was talking about. The soft whirring of the ventilation was the only sound back here, and it set my nerves on edge.

“RONCIN, or Retinal Operative Non-Conscious Imprinting Network”, Barnes pushed up his glasses, which kept sliding down his nose as he spoke.

“The idea was to imprint a simple set of commands in the scanning process, enhancing worker productivity. Naturally, it seems the board has again over-reached itself. If we don’t stop this soon, the whole building will be a bunch of nodding yes-zombies.”

“How would that be any different than now?”

“Hah! Humor. Yes, we need to laugh in dark times like these. Simply put, you, one of the non-imprinted, needs to go up to the DocuMax and pull its central chip.”

I gulped and nodded, not entirely sure that I wasn’t going to run out of the front door at the first opportunity. It was then I had the electric jolt of realization. I didn’t have my trusty day planner. My mind frantically retraced my steps, right back to where I had placed it on the input tray attached to the DocuMax.

Oh my feeble failing brain. It was settled then. I scooted forward, took a blank page from the top of the IN box, and Barnes and I quickly hatched a plan, with bullet points and floor diagrams.

(To be continued…)

Next – Part Four

This is a multi-part story. Confused? Start at the beginning – Part One

The DocuMax 4000 had customers, which wasn’t surprising. What did alarm me were the people in line. It is an unspoken rule that those who manage, don’t copy. Ever. That is a job best left to eager interns and office toadies, fighting over scraps of administrative affection. I knew my place, and stepped back, leaning against a nearby concrete column.

From my view, they were like worshipers visiting the mysterious oracle, whose incantations released the green light over its believers. Those in line, well, it would make your jaw go slack. There was a Vice President, a high-level Manager, and that chap there – he was head of Sales.

So out of place, I thought.

And the looks on their faces. Not the usual get-out-of-my-way-you-underling glare that you got when walking the hallway after a major executive meeting, no, this was of an entirely different variety. Not quite vacant, but distant-focused. They clutched their copies in both hands, like a sacred tome of forbidden knowledge.

I waited until the line dwindled down, and the last of them had power-walked to the main hallway. I was about to enter the tabernacle to the holy green light when Bob careened around the corner, panting.

“Hey… come here!”, he gestured with a hand that looked like it had lost a fight with a stack of vicious envelopes. Bob worked in the marketing side, and his primary duties were dealing with a large volume of client packets. This meant a lot of copies, and lots of paper cuts.

I looked both ways to make sure I wasn’t being put on. I disliked pranks, and I didn’t need another story about the old man who got goofed on circulating the lunchroom. Not if I wanted to maintain my dignity, that is.

I stepped forward, wary of a setup.

Bob grabbed my arm, and whispered, “Don’t use that machine.”

“What?, it’s out of order again? Bloody typical, I just needed to–“

Bob drew closer with a finger to his lips, stopping me mid-rant. I see, a secret. I was game, but I firmly put some distance between us and straightened my sleeve.

“Everyone has got copy assignments now. I don’t like it. When my manager went, she came back like…”, Bob stopped and gulped, trying to force down the fear I saw in his eyes.

“Your manager what? Bob, pull it together man, I know you’re an oldster like me, but honestly… stop joking around.”

Bob drew up slowly, tucking in the tail of his shirt. He had run to get here. Bob never runs. A growing unease started to ball up in my stomach. If only I hadn’t eaten one of those horribly bland sandwiches at that stupid meeting.

Bob opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a loud chirp. It was Bob’s leash, or more precisely, his work issued phone that chirped when his boss needed to see him. The pavlovian reaction was instant, he brushed a hand through his thinning hair, adjusted his tie and whispered, “I have to go, but I’ll see you before you leave today. Don’t make any copies.”

His warning hung in the air as he briskly walked off, down to the elevators back to his marketing warren. I looked down at the rolled up papers in my hand. Then the neon-orange note. I’d better investigate to be sure. There’s no telling what Bob was on to, but it looked like it couldn’t wait until quitting time.

I grabbed a manila folder from the supply rack outside the copy cubicle, wrapping my papers in the camouflage of the busy worker bee, on the way to something important – so don’t bother asking me questions or inquiring how my day has been. Stalking down the cubicle rows, I took a peek over the nearest wall to get a better view.

Every monitor had a neon-colored note on it. Some at different angles and on different sides, but always the same short message, written by an unknown taskmaster for its polyester minions. I walked slowly down one row, still acting like I had important papers to deliver.

Sidelong glances revealed that every chair had papers on them, and when I dared to check one of the notes – the wording was nearly the same. An urgent call to complete a mission, go to the copier, distribute the contents. I felt like I was carrying a pound of plutonium, wrapped in a flimsy paper wrapper. Better not read them, just to be safe.

My unease turned into full-blown alarm. What was going on here, and why was Bob so adamant about not using the copier? I let those questions run rampant in my skull, kicking over the fences of reason and cool logic. There has to be an answer here. If anyone knew, it would be Mr. Barnes. He had been here longer than anyone.

Extracting myself slowly from the cubicle field of neon notes, I walked towards the elevator bank in the center of the building. Just on a routine mission, I thought, boldening my stride. I’m just walking along like any other day, never mind what dark shadows are playing inside my head.

I nearly convinced myself, and even pursed my lips to whistle a jaunty walking tune when I stopped in my tracks.

The worshipers, lined up at each elevator door, turned and looked at me in unison. My camouflage felt as thin as the papers I was holding. Under that collective gaze, even an urgent call for a meeting with the CEO wouldn’t have cut it. I paused and pretended to check my phone, which had been eerily silent today.

“Oh bother, another one-on-one scheduled.”, I said to no one, turning slowly and willing myself not to look back. That might have done it. I wasn’t going to blow it, fake it until you make it, that’s the ticket. Forcing a modest pace, I walked back to the side hallway, a quick left bringing me to a door marked “Exit”.

If I couldn’t use the elevator, I’d have to take the stairs. I hoped Mr. Barnes was in, it would be rather bad if he wasn’t. Pushing open the grey door and checking for idle smokers, I silently closed it behind me, softly descending into the building core.

(To be continued…)

Next – Part Three

This is a multi-part story. Confused? Start at the beginning – Part One

Bloody mid-week meetings. Most meetings were a royal pain, but there was something about the halting presentation of this Wednesday morning meeting that got under my skin. It could’ve been the anemic coffee, caramel-colored water with a slight aftertaste of the real thing. If you took a firehose and aimed it at some coffee beans under the noonday sun, you’d get a stronger result than this.

It might have been the blasting light fixtures. Seriously, who needs that much light to shuffle paper around or type on a computer? Nearly blind monks? Assisted-living residents? I imagined the entire meeting room populated with elderly astronauts, each rhythmically raising and lowering their gold-tinted helmet visors to take sips of weak coffee before shielding their eyes again.

The meeting ritual was nearly complete, I could sense by the shifting of everyone in their seats that a concluding point had been made. Snapping back to the present, I smoothed my tie and hefted my ever-present organizer. Faded simulated leather with a small monogram, a gift after ten years of service.

Released, we all shuffled out of the room, glad to be somewhat trusted to navigate to our desks without having to fill out forms in triplicate. I had some notes that I needed to make a copy of, otherwise I was going to sit at my desk and space out for a while. I considered it part of my paid work/life balance program. One that I made myself, thank you very much.

Like most offices, our machines bore the brunt of our combined frustrations.

Bad day? Kick the copier in the paper tray, pretending the broken lock lever had been like that all along. Unfavorable review? Smash down on the three-ring punch, until the ill-fitting cover popped off, showering the carpet with circular confetti.

The result of such torture meant that what did survive managed to do so with a whisper of maintenance and nearly zero cleaning. My interim destination was the DocuMax 4000, a hulking machine that not only took the abuse, but growled and spit out collated copy jobs with the attitude of a caged jaguar.

Technicians, when they rarely were called, never turned their backs on this machine. I refused to either. Taking out a few notes, slapping them down on the still-warm glass, I brutally punched in the number of copies, < 3 > and hit the oversized green < START > button.

The DocuMax cranked and gurgled as electrostatics and shifting charges seared images into virgin paper stock, emerging from the slot, toaster-warm. In winter sometimes I made a few extra copies, just to hold them in my hands and let the heat soak into my aching joints. The small luxuries of office living.

I plopped down in my desk chair, glad to be in the semi-privacy of my cubicle. There were calls to be made, and emails to be sent. But you know what? This was my time. I had carved it out from the formless void of responsibilities with my own two hands, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t get my post-meeting “meditation” in.

“You coming to the Learning Lunch?”

I popped out of my pleasant dream, involving a few female co-workers and a bottle of champagne. Oh damn it all, I must’ve nodded off.

“Yeah, sure. Just have to get things sorted here.”

Satisfied, my co-worker popped back into the shuffling flow of office traffic. You’d think he was keeping tabs on me, but it was a ritual, this “learning” thing. God forbid we were left to our own devices during lunch hour. We had to sit around munching on sterile sandwiches, while feigning interest in some obscure business-related presentation. What a waste of time.

I rounded the corner a few minutes later, expecting pre-learning shop talk and casual conversation echoing down the hallway, but was met with only muted whispering. Odd. Even on Mondays people didn’t bother whispering anything here. Which was why I knew Sally had a bad date, Brad was going to punch his roommate, and Leslie was furious with her recent birthday gift.

I sat in a free chair, one of the oldest in the room, made back in a time when employees had a future and benefits meant something more than just being out of the weather. A few turned and nodded, but the rest were focusing on an indeterminate point in space, somewhere in the middle of the room.

That was odd, to say the least. I didn’t say much during the presentation, letting the words flow over me like water. I haven’t lasted this long by sweating needless details. Still, the lack of conversational banter bothered me like an untied shoelace.

The learning concluded, with crumpled sandwich wrappers and stray crumbs littering the meeting room desk. I had some more work to do since my pre-lunch nap had disrupted my schedule. Arriving in my favorite cubicle I saw a neon-orange note stuck to my monitor.

“Plz 10 copies, dept heads asap”

This shorthand meant I was to make ten copies of the clipped set of papers on my chair, and distribute them to the department heads, implying that it was an urgent job. I looked over my partition, trying to get a glance of who had copy-bombed me. Wasn’t this the admin assistant’s job? Never mind. It didn’t pay to make noise about random tasks. You just accepted and got on with it.

More copies. What a bother. Gathering up my assignment, I stomped off in the direction of the DocuMax, scowling.

(To be continued…)

Next — Part Two