A Case of the Mondays

Coming back from the weekends was when it was the worst. The beauty of two days spent under a boundless sky, to then be replaced by yellow lights, stained ceiling tiles, and the dull clicking of keyboards. Not that I did much on those days, sometimes I just stared at that infinite expanse from my window and counted the minutes until my temporary freedom was over. Or, if I felt productive, I did all the household things I didn’t have time for during the week.

I hear feet approaching my gray cubicle across the thin, beige office carpet, and brace myself. For impact, for disappointment, for the week to start.

“Hey there mister, how was the weekend?” Bob says from behind me.

I consider, briefly, not turning around. I consider picking up my phone suddenly and calling someone, anyone, to avoid this. I consider these things every week, but I never do them. Instead I turn and return Bob’s smile. This is important, happiness in the workplace. They are watching. What isn’t important is what he looks like–we’re all the same, really.

“Hey there Bob, it was good, and yours?” 

“Aye, good, good, but happy to be back of course.” He did not look happy. None of us ever did, but especially not on Mondays. It was important to not acknowledge this. Verbalizing this was the worst thing one could do.

“Of course, of course.”

“I hear you’ll be giving the quarterly earnings report this afternoon, can’t wait for it!” False enthusiasm, and on a Monday too. Good for you, Bob.

For a moment, my smile falters. It falls on one side, making my face a sneer. I find the needed facial expression deep inside me, deeper than it ever really should be, and pull it back up quickly. I hope Bob didn’t notice, he could report me. Surely it can’t be another quarter, and my turn to present already? Panic wells in my chest, and I strain to maintain my composure. 

“How time flies, thanks for the reminder.” God damn you, Bob.

“Of course, of course. Well see you around then, chap.” Bob gives me a small toast from his coffee cup, the steam rising up to curl around his short, uninteresting hair, and pads softly away.

“Be seeing you.” I call after him, and turn back around, smiling for the cameras once more.

With my face to my keyboard, I can let the weight of this impact me. We all grimace when we concentrate, and we all concentrate when we type. This is normal, within the toleranced expectations of performance. I will not be pulled in front of The Board for subversive activities.

***

I am adrift in an earth-toned sea of keyboards clacking, and air conditioning whining. When I close my eyes I see the waves of it rising around me, buffeting me in their concertos and movements. It pulls me under, until I can’t breathe. Until I’m certain I’ll drown here, like this, sweating and hunched over a screen filled with meaningless charts and data.

I pretend to care about it, but really I’m transfixed by the reflection of the air conditioning vent on the ceiling behind me. A lifetime ago, someone tied bright colored streamers to it, and they’d somehow never been taken down by the Ethics and Compliance department. Whenever the air kicked on, they danced in the wind. Deflated of purpose, but guided by strong currents, I watched them perform, and then snap slack again. They’ll repeat this cycle until they finally fatigue, and break.

Across the office, someone screams in primordial rage. It’s early in the week for this, usually people wait until Wednesday to break. Like the others around me, I stand to get a view over the tall boundary of my cubicle. On the far side of the room, I watch as Glen throws reams of paper into the air. They hang there, and float down slowly. He grabs his keyboard, and smashes it against his desk. Screaming, laughing, crying.

The woman in the cubicle next to mine turns to face me. Her name’s Ruth, or Katie, or Rebecca, I’m certain. “A case of the Mondays.” She says. There’s deep fear in her smiling eyes, I can see she wants to say so much more. But these are the only words that we’re permitted.

“A case of the Mondays, of course.” I respond, nodding at her sage wisdom. We turn in unison back to the screaming man. Five men in black suits emerge from an unlabeled door near him, and guide him back through. He does not resist. When the door clicks softly shut, the office sits down in unison. Our thoughts are our own, we don’t share them. The work continues.

***

Around noon, we are delivered lunch. It’s always a liquid that tastes like the colors of the office, bland grays and beige. Devoid of all color. Of course, we are all full of glorious purpose to continue working, especially under The Board’s watchful gaze, so no breaks are taken.

Glen joins us again after lunch. There’s a stir around the office as the men in suits again open the door, and walk him through. They navigate the cubicle aisles like death’s specters, inviting us to stand witness as they guide him back to his seat. His gaze is empty now, expressionless. He blinks slowly, and must be guided from behind by soft pushes and prods. We have a word for this here, it’s shared in whispers that I hear like a current or breeze as he passes my cell. Reformatted. I suppress a shudder and sit back down.

Still, I see his vacant eyes whenever I close my own. Over time, he’ll gain back some semblance of the old Glen. But it will only be an echo. He’ll have no memory of what happened. It’s always this way. Has this happened to me too? Am I still myself, or am I only an echo?

Do I remember when this started? How long have I been here? When did I start this? Who am I, outside of this? The questions open doors inside me, but behind them is blankness. A void. I’ve always worked here, I was born here. Constructed specifically for this purpose. But that can’t be right, can it? Surely I’m here for a reason? There has to be something before this, right? Does that indicate there will be something after this, as well?

These thoughts carry me through to the Quarterly Earnings Review. Here I will share a report, generated by someone else, that contains data of things we don’t understand, and sales figures from products we’ve never seen, and I sometimes doubt are real. Sensible questions will be asked, mostly to clarify charts, to show that the speaker still exists as a thinking being. I will answer them, or take action items that I won’t ever consider doing. Everything will be neat, orchestrated.

I take my position at the head of the faux oak table. The existential struggle is never more concrete than when I stare out at the assembled crowd. Backlit by the projector’s radiance, their eyes are hollow and black, their faces interchangeable. I stand in the glow of it, and feel cold panic grip me.

I cannot do this, I cannot do another moment of this. I’ll break, right now, and be reformatted. And maybe that’s salvation, maybe being vacant is better than being here. In this. Every day. Working through a mindless job that we have to say we love. Feigning happiness. Smiling. Every day the exact same. Into an endless oblivion. Working for the weekend to stare out the window at a world I don’t understand to work for the weekend to stare out the window at a world I don’t understand to work for the weekend to stare out the window at a world I don’t understand…

Bile rises in my metal throat as I see people are leaning forward. Curious, wondering if they’ll see me break here. I feel them urging me to do it, to say something, to do something. To break free, to break them free. To rise up. They want spectacle, they hunger for the destruction. Mine, theirs, everything.

A scream builds in my chest like steam from a boiler. The pressure builds, amplifies, demands resolution. It wants to tear this world apart. I don’t know how I can safely vent it, how I can disperse it. I want so badly to just open my mouth, and breathe fire on them all.

But then, I see it. Salvation in a simple phrase. A pressure release, and safety valve. 

“Sorry folks, must have a case of the Mondays.”

“Of course, a case of the Mondays.” The crowd agrees in unison, and leans back in their chairs. Deflated now, relegated to normalcy.

I grab the remote, and start the review.