The Year of the White Rabbit (3rd enrty)
White Rabbit continued...
I snuck in, crouching below the low walls of the vomit beige cubicles me and my fellow slaves were confined to. I just didn’t want to deal with my supervisor. The lectures I had endured as a result of my slipping performance were no fun at all. He was always so damn happy. Projecting, and enunciating every goddamn syllable with that incredibly strong coffee breath. Gesticulating and showing me how much he “genuinely” cared for me by getting in close and putting his hand on my shoulder, the whole time blabbing away. I made it to my cubicle and powered up my computer, the only thing I would be looking at for the next few hours. I was feeling a little spark of sobriety catching wind and flaring up, so I opened my cubicle drawer and removed a pill bottle. As far as anyone else was concerned it was some generic ibuprofen, but I knew what gems truly rattled around in that bottle. If I was lucky there would be one or two more percocet in there. I blacked out on so many occasions sometimes I would legitimately be surprised at what was in there. Not the best thing to waste on a day at work but I had no social life to put them to good use. Whatever helped me to forget to be miserable would be ingested. With fervor. I rattled the bottle around a bit to listen for what could be in there. There was no sound, it was empty. Just then I felt an all too familiar hand rest on my shoulder.
“Benji!” he exclaimed, way too excited for seeing someone he had to know hated him. “What'd you do sneak in here!? I didn't even see you come in!” That miserable fuck, I couldn't even think of a response I was so floored. “Meet me in my office after you've signed in. I need to speak to you.”
I took my time signing in. I wasn't in any rush to speak to my supervisor. I would in most cases be excited about time off the phone, I mean I was still on the clock. I was being paid. The meetings between me and my supervisor were getting nerve-racking though. I had exhausted every excuse I could possibly use. It was becoming painfully obvious that I just didn't care. For the most part I was kept to myself, and in my silence people would decide to color me in whatever shade suited their experience. Luckily my superiors felt I was a sweet person, compassionate, and respectful. It really worked out in my favor because whenever I fucked up, it seemed like I was genuinely sorry. Where I was rolling my eyes they saw a glistening set of puppy eyes. My lack of effort seemed to slowly erode at the disguise they themselves had handed me. It wouldn't be long before they just gave up on me. Honestly I was surprised it had even gotten this far.
“So do you know why I called you in here?” He asked as I sat down in the chair positioned awkwardly in front of his desk. Why do they always ask that? Do you know why I called you in? Do you know why I pulled you over? Do you know why we are here today? No you fucking idiot. I don't. Its most likely some dime store psuedo-psych tactic. I took a deep breath and replied as calmly as I could.
“No, I don't.” I said flatly.
“Well, Benji my boy. Plain and simple your numbers are terrible.” He motioned towards his desktop PC and spun it in my direction. “If you take a look at your performance from when you started, to where we are today you can see an almost comical decline.” He cleared his throat and took on a more detached demeanor. “You came in almost three hours late today, do you even want to be here? Because I'm sure there are more than enough people who would kill for your job.” I geared myself up to respond but I recalled most of his questions were rhetorical. As I thought there was more to his rant. “We're at the end of our rope here buddy, if you don't shape up soon the only course of action is to terminate your employment.” It was a little difficult to take in the gravity of what he said, I had to pace my breathing to avoid taking in giants whiffs off his breath, and it was making me light headed. “You know, I like you Benji.” Oh no, this was the part where he got closer. He got up and rounded the desk taking a seat on the edge and continued. “Is everything OK at home? Is there anything we can do to help?” he asked seeming concerned. I'm sure he wasn't, but I didn't know him well enough to know whether he was just going through the motions or actually concerned.