Then there's Whitney, this lady who's cubicle is opposite of mine, thank God we have a wall in between us. She's that kind of person who says it's all about whom you know, not what you know and stuff like that. Bossil, our boss who I call Bossil since his name is Basil and he's practically an escapee of the Smithsonian. Well anyways every time Bossil says something she acts like its either hilarious or the smartest thing to ever say. To her the sun shines out of old Bossil's every orifice. Then she uses people, and when she's done with you and you're of no use to her any more she flings you aside like an empty shell. She does that after she sucks out the happiness, ya know? But the whole time she's scheming and plotting and draining you, you don't even know. You're a step to be conquered and used to continue up, always upwards. She's tricky like that, some people are. Secretly they think only of themselves and viciously claw their way to the top. They step on and use whomever they can in a desperate attempt to raise themselves. They're constantly struggling for power, and the sad thing is, that appetite will never be satisfied. She's one of those people who will flounder and strive for happiness, but she'll never attain it. She can't, it's her nature to seek it, but never earn it. Whitney has this annoying giggle that everyone else says is cute. Nothing cute about a snake amongst rats. Nothing cute about it if you ask me. She brown noses and gossips and threatens, hoping to climb the "corporate ladder". I hate that phrase. It drives me crazy.
I think of our office as a maze, and we're all simply rats. Like those little white lab rats. So we try to find the cheese, but only those big-shot bastard rats the CEO's and the likes of them find that cheese. I suppose the rest of us will never find our way out of the maze, never. We'll wander on until we starve or something.
I don't just simply think of it as a maze, I actually like to think of it as a maze. I mean, I know its weird and all, but I like to think of it as a maze rather than an office. Because if I think of it as an office, it's kind of sad. All these people just work and work and work. it makes your hope die. People trapped in their own habitual patterns of work and work and work. And you're stuck in it, really you are, there's no crawling out of the maze, you can only go deeper. Plus if you're stuck in this Hell, where's everybody else? Maybe everyone has their own Hell, here on Earth, ya know? I wonder how many of us are living in our own Hells. Everyday going somewhere we don't like, doing what we hate, a life of mental torture. Because sometimes mental anguish is a thousand times more Hell than the physical ones. A Hell of your own devising and creation, perfectly fitted specifically and tailored for you. Maybe Hell is what we make it; maybe we even make Hell.
Anyway that day at the office was the same as the rest. They're always the same. It's true, I live a God damn boring life, possibly so much so that you could argue that I don't live, I only exist. There's a difference, ya know? Existence is being alive, without the emotions and all. To live is when you enjoy your existence. Welcome to Hell, would a cup of tea make it more enjoyable? It's monotonous, that's what it is I tell you. Though my life is boring I don't consider myself boring. A lot of people though don't consider themselves boring, even though they really are. I mean, if you're boring, don't lie about it, we already know. Trust me, we really do. If you are, you are. You might as well admit it. Maybe though, if you're really boring, you might not know it. Maybe all the boring people go around thinking they're not. Could we all be secretly boring? I hope to Hell we're not all boring. Maybe some of us can be boring, because if nobody was then everybody would be. Ya know? My boss, old Bossil, now there's a boring guy. He's practically a fossil. He doesn't say much about anything important just about work and stuff. He's never interesting. Never.
Old Bossil will walk in and not even ask about your family. True, the only family I have is Caulfield if he even counts. But that's not the point; he doesn't care about you or your family, or his family, or anybody's family. He only cares about the office. It's always "form this" and "did you fill out that?" or "did you send that to So-and-so in accounting?" Poor old Bossil is a bore and I don't think he even knows it.
So my day at the office-Maze was boring. Faxing this, signing that, calling What's-their-face, filling out God damn form after God damn form. Nobody in their right mind wants to sit in a stuffy cubicle from nine in the bloody morning to five at night filling out forms. Anyways come around five thirty, I began to pack up. That's another thing, you work all day and it always takes you longer to do the work than what they're paying you for. You work six hours, they pay you for five. Rip offs, scheming bloody CEO's. They always do that.
I took another taxi back. I could've walked, but it started to rain again. Did I mention I hate God-spit? It makes everything all slick and gloomy. People are always more in a rush, and you always get caught in the rain in your best clothes. Here in New York, rain can be colder than Hell frozen over, I swear to God it can. It'll freeze you through and through.
Anyway after a long wait a taxi pulls up and I hop in. The older Jamaican cabbie asks in that damned thick accent of his where I was going. As soon as I answered him and told him where my apartment complex is though, he too cranks the radio and ignores me the rest of the way. I nearly laughed, but I didn't. It cracks me up. It's funny. I think they avoid me, I really do. They sit here waiting all day for people to flag them down and when I do, they make a point to make me wait so damned long. They avoid me. And when they do pick me up, they're ungrateful enough to ignore my existence. Maybe I'll be a taxi driver some day and ignore people when they hop in. I'll let them in and then just pretend they don't exist, that they're not really there. All day long driving around people that don't really exist. Actually, I don't think I will, taxi drivers have to drive around a lot of bastards, always be in traffic, and stay in that tight little car. No, I don't think I'll ever be a taxi driver.
I sort of almost want to bang on the window that separates us and complain about him ignoring me and how he's such a rude bastard, but I don't. As we're going along I spot this homeless guy. And he's trying to get out of the rain. I felt guilty, as we left him there on the street. That I could go into my apartment, out of the God damn rain and into the warmth. Its odd how some of us can't afford anything and some of us can practically own the God damned bloody Earth. I wonder what would happen if you put a bunch of stinkn' rich guys in a room with a bunch of stinkn' poor people an locked 'em in. I suppose the world is like that already though. I mean the whole God damn Earth is the room and we're all locked in. You can't just up and leave the God damn planet. The crazy thing is, we're all on this patch of dirt together and yet it's every man for himself. Dog eat Dog. We make this planet a terrible place to live. Far too many Hells. C'mon, I mean it. That homeless guy isn't gonna eat caviar tonight, but somebody will, somewhere. And the thing is they'll stay there, either rich or poor, chained to their social status like and iron ball. Enslaved to a society, where we have our place. We fit, change is scary and familiarity is a soothing feeling. Even if society sucks, we accept it and submit to it. We fear losing that monotony that we've become accustomed to.
Anyway I got home and called to old Caulfield. Of course the damn dog didn't come. I looked around, it wasn't too hard, it's a very small apartment. And finally found him. He looked up at me with those grey-blue eyes, this time from under the sofa. Here I was damned tired from the office, and there he was hiding under my sofa. I had to put up with old Bossil, and the Godforsaken rest of the world, and what's he do? He hides under a sofa. The ungrateful thing. I worked like a dog all day long dealing with Davis, Jameston, and bloody Whitney; and here he is lazing under a sofa. Damned thing should be treating me like the master I was. Fetching my slippers and stuff. I got angry, what with old Bossil treating me like a dog all damn day long. So I sat down with the full intention of catching him when he came out from under me.
But as I sat there I began to think, I do that a lot. People say I'm a deep thinker, and even say I think far too much. Some even question my sanity. Anyways, as I sat there I began to think. I guess I couldn't be a God in Caulfield's eyes because, in a way, we're all our own Gods. I don't mean to say that I walk around smiting people or sending plagues around, no I don't. But we have free will and all. We spend our lives for ourselves, you could say sacrificing our very lives for ourselves. I suppose that's what a God is, a higher being that does what it wants. Spits when it wants, and stuff like that, ya know? Immortality and mortality have such a blended line that they are one and the same. No longer separated. So I wasn't angry at Caulfield, he was his own God, as I was mine.
