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Wednesday, May. 01, 2002 / 11:42 a.m. ~Workers Unite~ So it�s May Day, Workers Unite!, and la dee fucking da. Yeah, see how united I am, I�m at work. 8:59 a.m., cubicle time. I was early, but it doesn�t count. The time will read 9:00. No credit. Should it matter? Listerine just walked by saying, �Good morning, Good morning�, always a double thing, to the air, so I just sat here. Was she talking to me? Was she talking to Riley? Was I supposed to respond? No one did. So she started humming, loudly. I love my job, I love my job, I love my job, I love my job, WORKERS UNITE! Why am I here? Oh yeah, money. Cheese. Rent. Cable. Internet. Electricity. Gas. Food. Right. I remember now. I applied for another editorial job at the free weekly, and now I can mention it, now that I know I�ll never hear anything back. Oh sure, I�ll be notified further in the selection process, the Editor says. Right. Who would YOU hire? Me? Or some kid fresh out of journalism school? Gee, let me think� THE KID! I practically begged for an interview at least, in my little email cover letter. Sure. Right. Bitter. Angry. Depressed. Yesterday, as usual, D., the Supervisor passed out our little Daily Progress Logs, info on the previous day, during which I had the highest call volume. 55 calls. This is very slow. So, she writes on the Daily Progress Log, a �congrats� to Kathy and Riley, who both had 45. I go to her, ask, �Excuse me, but if I had 55 calls, how is it that Kathy and Riley had the highest with 45?�, oh, she has to check her report, oh, yes, she�s sorry, a curt �I�m sorry�, and no revision, while everyone congratulates Kathy and Riley, and I sit fuming. No recognition. I tell Lulu that D. secretly hates me and it was a subconscious effort to overlook me, she�d prefer not to recognize my efforts. Oh, Lisa Fucking Lopes, what the fuck ever, they�re all talking about her funeral, what, were they her friends? Are they going to take a day off and go? Jesus. Did you not realize that the ��sounds vaguely familiar� comment in the guestbook would piss me off? It was different with you. I liked you. We had fun. I picked up my phone all day to call you, to put my phone�s mouthpiece in front of my radio, �Here, listen to this song!�. I�d ask, �So what are you doing NOW?�. It went on all day. We went out, we had fun. You started to like me more than I liked you, or differently, and you wanted to tell me I felt the same, but I didn�t. The kiss was an experiment, it was me wanting Nelson, it was me supremely disappointed, you know that. You know that. I had to reject you. I thought men didn�t mind, I thought they could handle it, like Sandy said he can, he�d prefer to be rejected, than to reject. I met Sandy on the bus, I was flattered when he asked me to lunch, I thought we�d have lunch, some day, I never expected him to call so soon, so often, to keep at me, to pressure me, to bombard me, to make me so uncomfortable. What is the �vaguely familiar� part? The email I wrote to him? The overall situation? The horrible situation in which he has placed me? My trying to feel something for him? My liking him, but �not in that way�? Which part? Me being mean? Feeling I�m being mean, but really just forced to be painfully honest? I don�t want any of this. I don�t want to be around people at all right now. I can�t stand knowing that I�m surrounded, that I�ll have to make eye contact at some point, I�ll have to say �hello� later, I�ll have to hear Listerine humming, mumbling, over the din of my fan pressed up against the cubicle wall, that airplane sound again. I�m on a plane, the constant low humming is making me sleepy, we�re climbing above the clouds, the rain, soon there will be sunshine on the horizon, and the pressure increasing in my ears, causing pain, loss of hearing. I�ll be uncomfortable at first, then I�ll give in to not being able to hear the smaller sounds, I�ll put on my Walkman and listen to Moby instead, picture him on a plane to somewhere, writing on his laptop, writing to the people he never sees. This is not the life I want. This is somebody else�s dream, or maybe it�s a nightmare and the person cannot wake up. One of those dreams which leaves one struggling, trying to pull one�s self up from the sleep. Must. Wake. Up. Tired of this dream. Let�s move on. Wake, gather self, close eyes again, back to sleep, put another dime in the dream jukebox, play another scenario, let�s make this one about sex, or kittens fresh in the world. Maybe the one where I�m ice skating, or the one wherein I stretch, my head is resting on my knees, I feel no discomfort, only a good long stretch. I need a new immersion, a new passion, and that will be Playoff hockey. I�m deciding right now. They�ve made it to the semi-finals, yes? Time to jump in, to choose my team, to watch hours of it, men, skating, banging their sticks all around, shooting that vulcanized rubber disc at lightning speeds, crashing into one another, pounding, slamming, hurting, desperate. That sounds like fun. Lulu�s leaving. 9:33 a.m. Something about her daughter. Her kids manipulate the hell out of her. Constantly calling her at work, all day. And she constantly talks of getting away from them. How she longs for a vacation from them, how she dreads when school is over and they�re at home all the time. I wonder why she had children? Was it accidental? She loves them, sure, sure, but she can�t stand their needs. Laverne is gone too. She�s been gone since early Monday morning, since before I got to work. We don�t know why she�s not here. Although yesterday I heard whispering. When do I get up and walk out of here? When will the whispering be about me and where I�ve disappeared to? Okay, the rumor is its not her daughter at all, it�s Lulu�s diabetes, her blood sugar skyrocketed and she got scared. D., the Supervisor, is taking her to the Emergency Room. Have I lost my compassion? Why do I not care? Because Lulu should know better. She knows what she can and cannot eat, I gave her a printout, others have too, she�s not taking care of herself. I don�t know. This is just a bad day. Cost of the War in Iraq
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