I
am in Corporate Hell.
Not to be confused with Hell’s
Corporate Headquarters, although I imagine the two would be quite similar.
I’m working in a conference room
with eight other women. No, we’re not
having a meeting; we have all been displaced from our cubicles during
renovations and must work literally side-by-side for two weeks. My Work Wife and I have been informed that at
least two people in this room are dogging our footsteps, keeping spreadsheets
on our movements: what time we arrive,
what time we leave, how long our lunch breaks last, how often we use the
restroom/get coffee/etc.
They don’t talk; not to us, not to
each other. It’s just clack-clack-clack
on their keyboards, and occasionally one will try to sneak a peak at our
monitors to see if we’re working. If one
of our work phones rings, necks snap in our direction and they eyeball us like
we just devoured a batch of aborted fetuses and splatter-shat them out in the
middle of the room.
Slouched
down in my chair—done with my work for the day—I’m thinking about something I’m
certain no one else is. I am wondering . . . how many knives should I take with me this weekend?