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He
drives his black Mercedes to work today. It's been paid for—with
cash. The retractable cup holder grips a steamy Starbucks coffee
cup. It won't biodegrade for hundreds of years. Multiply poverty
by sixteen and you get the automobile's price tag. In Europe,
they're used as taxicabs. Style is as relative as poverty.
The
fluorescent lights flicker softly, dimly, emotionlessly in his cubicle.
When he sits down it's hard to tell who's who. Eight hours of typing.
Click. Click, click, click, click, Tap, tap. File. Print. Queued.
It waits in line like everyone else. He reads it over and finds
a mistake. Spell check failed.
He sends
an e-mail to his old college roommate who lives in Wisconsin. His
boss reads it too. They monitor for work productivity and it's legal.
Perhaps Orwell was right all along.
Home
harbors an unhappy, overworked wife and two children who don't think
daddy really cares about them. His mistress proves that it's not
the children he doesn't care about. She's only 19. He's only 32.
Hearts are only broken when secrets are revealed. He was always
good at keeping them.
Work,
CNN, dinner, sleep, repeat. Sounds like shampoo instructions without
the rinse. Vacations are out-of-town work trips. Happiness is the
caffeine he consumes every morning found in his chocolate latté
topped with whipped cream, lightly sugared. He biodegrades faster
than its container.
Copyright
© 2001 David Ball. All Rights Reserved.
David Ball is a student at the University of Central Florida
studying graphic design and photography. He, contrary to popular
belief, biodegrades as well.
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