slavesincorporated

Lunch Time!

In Boss, Health, humor, Office, Office Romance, Wage Slaves on April 17, 2011 at 17:28

It is past noon. You have willy-nilly worked-up the appetite for some calories. Yes, machine-dispensed caffeinated drinks and tobacco do give you the strength to go on. But even desk-bound organisms need some edible organic stuff every few hours.

Until a few generations back, food used to be a primary reason to work in the first place. Now, it is a lot more complicated. But we digress.

The point is; it is lunchtime. And you need to go to the canteen damn it. On holidays, when you have greater freedom as to what to do with your person, you eat late into the afternoon whilst recovering from the brunch. You let your mood decide when and what to consume. It can be a stressful process. Hence, some employers generously take this difficult call for you.

1.30 pm to 2.00 pm

Take it or leave it. And you don’t want to be the 3rd person to be waiting in line for the photo-copier machine on an empty stomach. Have you ever noticed how the last guy in front of you always seems to be Xeroxing a huge stack of papers, papers that can be bound together to rival the Bible (King James’s version)?

But we digress again. It is already past 1.40 pm. Any further delay and you will not get the dessert, again. You say, ‘Screw everything, I should eat!’ And you get up to storm out of your floor. A gut feeling slows you down. You know you shouldn’t look back but you just can’t help it, like a Slasher movie. And it happens.

Your phone, no. 653 on the speed dial, is ringing. The silhouette through the blinds and the generally deserted nature of the rest of the floor tells you it is probably the boss. He has evolved into an alternate life form, one that does not require proteins and carbs like you lowly amoebas. He probably just feeds on your brain waves! Come to the think of it, you have never seen him in the restroom either. He is too young to be on a catheter.

All this pondering has eaten into another couple of nutrition-less minutes. But the phone refuses to shut up. You pick it up but are too disgusted with yourself to say hello. “Where’s the file on Turkey?” utters a soulless voice at the other end. You look at the clock, unforgiving, detached and not hungry. If only you could be more like it. You sit down and start looking for the file with only yourself to blame.

You try to turn your apprehension in humanity into neutral detachment. You forge a smile as your co-workers trickle in, sub-standard food in belly. “Lucky you didn’t come for lunch, it was nasty! Grabbed a sandwich for you, here”, says Rita with a smile that is immaculate in conception.

Mini-miracles defy prediction. Detachment will have to wait.

–          J.

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