The pattern on this rug tells a story
Another day in the hive, cultivating a hunchback over the Microform Duplicator. I love the name of this machine: the Duplicator. It looks like some kind of archaic German design, like they rescued it from post-war Germany, when even then they realized this technology was out of date. What you do is put a microfiche reel in the press and it stamps out a duplicate, as its name indicates. You then take the duplicate and develop that in a machine called the Diazo Developer, which uses ammonia to complete the final process. Five minutes in, you are totally high off the fumes, people coming in and greeting them with a lurid smile. Half the time I don’t even know where I am, I’m so stoned off the fumes. And that’s OK, because I’m the least miserable person in the building. I stumble around, take a break, work some more. “There used to be someone who did that job full-time,” Ginny tells me today. Are you fucking kidding me? I want to ask her. Are they brain damaged? Are they covered on the insurance plan. Zoning out has taken on new proportions. People come around my cubicle to find me half retarded and muttering things to myself. “—Oh, yeah: sure. I’ll get right on that copy project,” I let them know, wiping the spittle from my lip.

I really should quit soon. My sense of sanity really does seem to hinge on it. The temp agency really did grasp this one from the bottom of the barrel. Somebody, somewhere is having a good laugh right now, I imagine. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Ginny says to me, “if you feel lightheaded, step away for a bit.” As if that’s the answer, which maybe it really is. She does, after all, have a lot of experience in this department.

When I’m not completely high, I’ve been spending vast amounts of time contemplating my coworkers and wondering just what’s Ginny’s deal? She really does seem to be harboring some incapacity that I can’t quite put my finger on, although it could just be the fumes. While outwardly she may appear innocuous and playful, she actually is some draconian caricature of the Skippy Peanut Butter mom, gleefully giving me things to do all day. As tends to be the case with completely subverted individuals, they end up carrying out similar acts of oppression, giving the poor temp worker endless variations of things to do. Even the smallest of tasks are explained in great detail, like how and why the envelopes are arranged just this way. Additionally, as a final blow, she has banned any and all music in our area, not even graced by the Muzak, which gives you the occasional Bowie number, which is something at least. Gracing the silence, you will sometimes hear her saying things like, “fiddlesticks,” as she date stamps the wrong document.

Working environments are weird because you end up being paired with people you would never otherwise actually associate with. You end up spending more time with these individuals than you do with your actual friends and family, and in that sense these people become as temporary in your life as you are in theirs. I just don’t know about this place, though. Everyone here seems completely alien and strange to me. My favorite person turns out to be Raymond in the Life Department, who always seems upbeat and enthusiastic, or the woman who evokes the Saturday Night Live skit. Although, the disgruntled employees are equally amusing from a critical point of view. I’m not really sure where I fit in, or how much of a legacy I’ll be leaving when I do go. I’d like to think that I’ll impart my own sense of self which is totally inimitable, but that’s not really the nature of this job. And even if it were, these people don’t really seem very impressionable. I will be imprinted forever, though, irreparable, I already know. If I even end up remembering anything at all. The fumes really are pretty intense. “—Ryan,” I hear being called from afar, “Are those done yet?” Piles of fiche are everywhere, with the tiny microcosms of information which will be really large soon: Life Insurance, Disability Coverage, it’s all there. And nothing will be excluded. “Almost,” I tell her. “Almost.”