The 8-Ball is wise beyond it’s years and manufacture. Now was not the right time. No-one was in the office. It was late, and everybody but a few spare souls left grinding out the late shift.
Terrible news comes to the Human Wreckage of the Helpdesk. A merger means redundancies across the board as position are written off as irrelevant. People are being headhunted by the corporate versions of the vicious Dayak tribes of Borneo. This could not come at a worse time. With a work load that would make Atlas blush, it’s been a wonder why we all haven’t found better jobs, something more towards our calling. The threat of losing work may mean the end of the Desk of Doom. Is this ironic. No. Like Ouroboros, it folds back to doom itself. It will live again, albeit at another cube if necessary.
The Basement is a bar that lies, sunken and low, underneath a sports store and next to a Chinese Restaurant that is mostly empty. Here at the bar, half the lights are gone from the hanging fixtures. An old cobweb hangs from the recent Halloween. I’m sure it won’t be until march next year, before someone has the wherewithal to bring it down. The only patrons here are regulars and fixtures. It’s Tuesday and the pool tables are free. It is a vicious night that won’t rain or clear. Clouds hanging overhead like the redundancy. Like Madam Guillotine, locked in her pose, ready for that razor-sharp blow: Quick, painless and entertainment for those not in her stock.
Plots of Revenge are brewed as quickly as they are discarded. The gnashing of teeth, the slugging of drinks down the hatch to wash away the bitter aftertaste. The quiet brooding. That is the nature of the Help Desk. It is a cruel one. We receive flack on both sides: from customers that only hear us as some disembodied, alien voice, and management, who only see the numbers at the end of the day.
These are times that I remember of the time I was fired from the Fire Rescues Service. That was a job with stress, with lives literally on the phone line. I had trouble sleeping then. But no more now. The only time I don’t sleep, is when I cannot wait to face what happens on the next day. Sometimes, I’m tempted just to stay awake. to exercise, jog, lift waits and get the adrenals running. It’s more potent than caffeine and cheaper than speed. I want to one day see the sun rise on the day of greatness. I want to see it roll, majestically over the horizon and light this miserable world. Then, while drunk on my own excitement, stand in this brand new world and say, “Fuck You Ra.”
I swore I would never bring my work home. But I broke that promise a couple of days ago. Then again, it was writing and as Doctor Thompson once said that writing was better than any drug that he had encountered. I am an addict to this. This is like running through the opium fields of Shambhala. You lock yourself in for the ride and let it take you there. It’s the purest therapy for me.
If the barely budding blossom of the documentation job dries up, I want to fall into something where writing, how I want to write, is not only allowed, but grossly encouraged. “Fuck Yeah,” someone behind me yells. I think they’re talking about something else. There’s no way they can read my inner monologue (or can they?).
Some cunning is required here. I need to tap that wellspring again and slide through the cracks like a snake. I need to be a blur like a fox. And I need to claim my territory like a bear. Absolute pure cunning dug from the centre of my mind. If you can’t get that, sink some spare cash into a Magic 8-Ball™ and let the random chance of the Quantum Universe be your guide.