5 years from now...
Thud! Shutting the car door and strapping on my bulky and cumbersome blue and black backpack, I start walking from the new employee parking lot toward the office building. The color of the backpack is appropriate since that is the color of my bruised back when I take it off due to its heft. The new parking lot is located off Cantrell Road, a good mile and half from the office building. I use the term “parking lot” loosely. There are no curbs or sidewalks; it is more of a grassy field on a big hill with a few dump truck loads of gravel spread about. There is as much grass and weeds as there are gravel. I never slam my door shut because I am afraid the jar will cause my car to start sliding down the steep slope stopping only when it comes to rest at the bottom of the ravine. It would be nice if they provided a shuttle bus between the office and parking lot but that of course is just a dream. I am thankful for the parking lot no matter how far it is because a few years ago there was not enough parking for employees. People use to park where ever the found a spot, in flower beds, on side walks under the overpass along the train tracks. It looked like the mall’s parking lot at Christmas time just this was everyday.
The clouds are grey and black and there is a coldness to the air that penetrates all the way to bones. Does the sun ever shine anymore or has the weather learned to forecast my mood every weekday morning? There is a stillness that is not natural. There are no birds flying, no squirrels scampering around. It is just me and my heavy breath that I can see expel out of my mouth. There are a few trees in sight but they are as dead as the life that used to flicker in my eyes. The trees are barren with not a leaf in site. No leaves on the trees or on the ground around them. The only things lying around are the broken limbs that have fallen off after their slow withering death. As I get closer to the office building there is a strange tingling sensation moving through my body. At first it is barely apparent but with each step it grows stronger until it feels like every vein, artery and nerve is going to explode. The wind begins to howl and blows directly in my face, as if trying to push me back to my car. Maybe Mother Nature knows something that I don’t or she is trying to save my sanity. With my head down, I trudge on, fighting through the wind and the dread that is now filling my head. At last, I reach the employee entrance. I am safe from the winds but now the dread is so much that it seeps from my open pores like sweat after a hard played basketball game in 120 degree heat.
There at the employee entrance is the guard station. Each day I linger, talking to the security guards, longer the then the day before. Our guards seem to be of the same caliber of people that comes from a half way house, fighting drug and alcohol use or on parole for sexual crimes committed against animals, but at this moment they are my best friends. They are my friends because they prolong my hell for a few precious seconds. I take the stairs up because it is slower than taking the elevator. I have no control of the speed of the elevator but I do control the rate I climb the stairs. Experts say taking the stairs is healthier but how can one worry about physical health when their mental health is in such unrepairable despair. Each stair I climb is as if I am lifting a thousand pounds (which may not be too far from the truth due to the burden of my backpack). I often think this is what a pack mule felt like when early American settlers packed up everything they owned and headed west. This single flight of stairs is as difficult to climb as what I imagine Mt. Everest would be. After several agonizing minutes of hard labor, but what seems as only seconds to me, I make it to the landing at the top of the stairs and out into the hall way of the second floor.
I begin my walk toward the office door. My walk is more of a shuffle because I no longer have the strength or the desire to make to my destination. As I move past the History Commission, I see the employees through the spotless glass of the windows. The employees are moving about their morning routines in order to open the archives. It is like a performance of the Nutcracker. Everyone is moving in unison, dancing and smiling. Everyone is truly happy to be there. Lucky them. Upon reaching our office door, I stand there touching the stainless door knob trying to muster the courage and the strength to turn the knob. There has got to be more to life then this.
I open the heavy, dark stained, oak door to silence; the blessed sound of silence. Maybe there is no one here yet. I can only hope, but the door was unlocked so someone has to be here. With not a moment more wasted, I dart to my small dark hole in the back of the maze of boxes that lie all over the floor due to inadequate storage space. I get to my “station” with the speed and agility of a leopard chasing his prey. I pray that no one saw me come in so I can have a few precious moments of tranquility. It is dark at my station with only the emergency lighting working. Our office “kiddy” did not have enough of money to pay for the electric bill this month; hopefully next month will be better. The darkness is hard on the eyes but you do eventually get use to it. The ever so present foul smell of mold, body odor and yesterday’s food fills my nostrils. Without electricity to run the air conditioning the air has become so stale and heavy you can almost cut it. The tan carpet, that is original to the building which was opened for use in 1979, is still present only now it has turned green. We can tell it use to be the color of tan by looking under the rusty black filing cabinets, which date back to the Eisenhower administration, at the unsoiled pieces of carpet. How does tan carpet turn green? I am not sure and not positive I even want to know. The walls are beige and with permanently stained darker brown spots. We all assume and hope that the dark spots are coffee stains and not some subterranean growth that will eventually get own our skin and spread through our body like some cancerous growth. I am dreading the day already but at least did make it to my station sight unseen and I can take off and empty the burdensome backpack. Pens, pencils, calculator, paper clips, stapler, two reams of paper for the copy machine and at last a phone, each pulled out of my backpack in order to do my job. I sit back and relax for a moment, since I am the only here so far, and remember the good ole’ days when the state furnished things like this to us. Hell they even furnished cups for our drinking water but that stopped back in 2007.
The clouds are grey and black and there is a coldness to the air that penetrates all the way to bones. Does the sun ever shine anymore or has the weather learned to forecast my mood every weekday morning? There is a stillness that is not natural. There are no birds flying, no squirrels scampering around. It is just me and my heavy breath that I can see expel out of my mouth. There are a few trees in sight but they are as dead as the life that used to flicker in my eyes. The trees are barren with not a leaf in site. No leaves on the trees or on the ground around them. The only things lying around are the broken limbs that have fallen off after their slow withering death. As I get closer to the office building there is a strange tingling sensation moving through my body. At first it is barely apparent but with each step it grows stronger until it feels like every vein, artery and nerve is going to explode. The wind begins to howl and blows directly in my face, as if trying to push me back to my car. Maybe Mother Nature knows something that I don’t or she is trying to save my sanity. With my head down, I trudge on, fighting through the wind and the dread that is now filling my head. At last, I reach the employee entrance. I am safe from the winds but now the dread is so much that it seeps from my open pores like sweat after a hard played basketball game in 120 degree heat.
There at the employee entrance is the guard station. Each day I linger, talking to the security guards, longer the then the day before. Our guards seem to be of the same caliber of people that comes from a half way house, fighting drug and alcohol use or on parole for sexual crimes committed against animals, but at this moment they are my best friends. They are my friends because they prolong my hell for a few precious seconds. I take the stairs up because it is slower than taking the elevator. I have no control of the speed of the elevator but I do control the rate I climb the stairs. Experts say taking the stairs is healthier but how can one worry about physical health when their mental health is in such unrepairable despair. Each stair I climb is as if I am lifting a thousand pounds (which may not be too far from the truth due to the burden of my backpack). I often think this is what a pack mule felt like when early American settlers packed up everything they owned and headed west. This single flight of stairs is as difficult to climb as what I imagine Mt. Everest would be. After several agonizing minutes of hard labor, but what seems as only seconds to me, I make it to the landing at the top of the stairs and out into the hall way of the second floor.
I begin my walk toward the office door. My walk is more of a shuffle because I no longer have the strength or the desire to make to my destination. As I move past the History Commission, I see the employees through the spotless glass of the windows. The employees are moving about their morning routines in order to open the archives. It is like a performance of the Nutcracker. Everyone is moving in unison, dancing and smiling. Everyone is truly happy to be there. Lucky them. Upon reaching our office door, I stand there touching the stainless door knob trying to muster the courage and the strength to turn the knob. There has got to be more to life then this.
I open the heavy, dark stained, oak door to silence; the blessed sound of silence. Maybe there is no one here yet. I can only hope, but the door was unlocked so someone has to be here. With not a moment more wasted, I dart to my small dark hole in the back of the maze of boxes that lie all over the floor due to inadequate storage space. I get to my “station” with the speed and agility of a leopard chasing his prey. I pray that no one saw me come in so I can have a few precious moments of tranquility. It is dark at my station with only the emergency lighting working. Our office “kiddy” did not have enough of money to pay for the electric bill this month; hopefully next month will be better. The darkness is hard on the eyes but you do eventually get use to it. The ever so present foul smell of mold, body odor and yesterday’s food fills my nostrils. Without electricity to run the air conditioning the air has become so stale and heavy you can almost cut it. The tan carpet, that is original to the building which was opened for use in 1979, is still present only now it has turned green. We can tell it use to be the color of tan by looking under the rusty black filing cabinets, which date back to the Eisenhower administration, at the unsoiled pieces of carpet. How does tan carpet turn green? I am not sure and not positive I even want to know. The walls are beige and with permanently stained darker brown spots. We all assume and hope that the dark spots are coffee stains and not some subterranean growth that will eventually get own our skin and spread through our body like some cancerous growth. I am dreading the day already but at least did make it to my station sight unseen and I can take off and empty the burdensome backpack. Pens, pencils, calculator, paper clips, stapler, two reams of paper for the copy machine and at last a phone, each pulled out of my backpack in order to do my job. I sit back and relax for a moment, since I am the only here so far, and remember the good ole’ days when the state furnished things like this to us. Hell they even furnished cups for our drinking water but that stopped back in 2007.
posted by Chris at 10:25 AM
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