The woman’s bulging glasses make her eyes look like over-inflated glass balloons, pointed  needles at their centres for pupils. I wonder how she can write whatever it is she’s writing. I  wonder how she can glance at her watch. I wonder how she can see me. 

“Which ear?” she asks. 

“The right one.” 

“Is it painful?” 

“No. But it itches.” 

The paper bedsheet crinkles under the bony protuberances of my buttocks. I dangle my legs  from the edge of the stretcher, looking at the woman’s feet as she examines me, her head tilted  slightly to compensate for the weight of her enormous eyes. I notice she’s wearing steel-toed  work boots. They look new, and I’m impressed by the way the light glosses over the perfect  curve of the toe-cap, like the polished bumper of a Cadillac.  

“Is that everything?” she asks. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

She retrieves an iPad from the counter nearby and tells me to fill out a few forms. I take it  from her eagerly. Form filling is a hidden delight of mine and I fly through these digital pages  with a wide grin, my teeth glowing bright. I put check marks over the handsomely bolded little  squares with as neat a print as I can manage. It is hardly distinguishable from the original  typeface. I fill out dates, names, signatures, time stamps, employee IDs, social security numbers,  blood types, genders, disabilities, pronouns, body fat percentages, sexual orientations, preferred  room temperatures… 

When I finish she takes the iPad back and tells me I may return to work, and I have to  suppress a disappointed sigh. I step through the door and start down the hallway. It’s a very long  hallway. There are exactly 32,000 cubicles in the hallway, stretching out for 40,000 kilometres  across the arctic tundra. This is where the best Companies have built their one-hallway  warehouses. It is a revolutionary system designed to limit the mental strain on employees by  making navigation as simple as possible. A perfect marriage of architectural prowess and  emotional productivity. There’s nothing simpler nor quite so peaceful as walking an arrow straight hallway. There are no diverting paths to confuse, no hideous posters promoting a holiday  you’ll never celebrate. I belong to cubicle number 26,356, and I know precisely how to get there,  right down to the last step. As I walk I like to imagine there is another person walking next to me  in the other warehouse belonging to the other Company, with nothing but two walls and a foot of  empty arctic air separating us. I listen to his steps and sometimes if I really strain my ears I can  hear the sounds of his shoes against the ground, echoing. 

But I have this thought in my mind and I’m beginning to grow anxious, for the truth is that I  did not tell the woman everything about my ear. Indeed it itches, that part was true, but it is much  more than just a tingle. It feels like something is living in there, crawling, nesting, egg-laying and  mate-eating in the valleys of my brain’s folds. A tunnelling insect washing its hands in my  cerebrospinal fluid, chewing on all the fat and the protein. I wish I had a woodpecker’s tongue so I could reach up there and swat it. I read once that woodpeckers can wrap their tongues around  their brains, securing them in place for their jackhammering. They hold onto their minds to avoid  losing them. I wonder if humans will ever evolve this ability, if only to relieve these phantom  itches of the mind. 

And yet there are times when I can hear a sound, a vocoded wrinkle through those tingles and  itches. I can hardly make it out unless I stand very still and hold my breath. It’s a voice. A throaty  song. Harmonious inflection and modulation, and it loops like a melody in a song. Four bars,  eight, curling through my brain like a snake biting its tail, or like a woodpecker’s tongue, and I  admit that image is profound, perhaps religious. I’m sure it means something. It must mean something. 

I am back at my desk. I watch a woman through my computer screen. She points to a  whiteboard behind her on which a chart has been sketched with black marker. I read the word  “postpartum,” written by who I assume was this same woman. 

“Individual,” comes a voice from behind. I stand up quickly, pushing away my black  synthetic leather office chair with the back of my knees. I see a balding head pop up from beyond  my cubicle’s wall, and then another and another and another and another one after that. I hear  them stand, 5,644 individuals in front of me, 26,355 individuals behind. 

I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn to find a small-statured woman looking up at me. I am  frightened by her unblinking, incessant gaze, and how her eyes seem to roll in their sockets like  billiard balls. I wonder how she can see me at all. 

“Yes?” I say with a soft tone of polite expectation. 

I hear the rest of the individuals sit back down to resume their work. The sound is a cascade  of rustling cloth and mechanical clicks. 

“May I see your identification badge?” 

I hold out the rectangular plastic tied around my neck and she scans it with her iPad. “How  long have you been working here?” she asks. 

I check my watch and glance up and to the left. Up and to the left means you’re digging  through memories. It means you’re taking an innocent moment to pause and recall the truth.  There is nothing suspicious about looking up and to the left when asked a question. Up and to the  right, however, means you are making things up. It means you’re lying, and I have never lied. I  make sure to look up and to the left. I linger here a moment and I make sure she sees me doing  this. 

“About a year.” 

“One year?” 

“Eleven months. I started on the thirteenth of September last year.” 

She smiles, her lips like elastic bands stretched over the skin. “Thank you very much for your  hard work.” 

I smile and nod. It feels good to be commended. That is what I love about this Company:  they are always commending their employees. If they gave me a plaque I would hang it up above  my chair in my cubicle so that it can shield my mind like a dreamcatcher and make me smile in my dreams too. 

“When was the last time you had your Top-Up Training?” Her smile is gone now and she is  looking down at the iPad in her hands. I sneak a glance at the screen and see a cartoon clown  hopping up and down. It extends a gloved hand in a thumbs-down gesture, shakes its head and  frowns. 

“Pardon me?” I ask, somewhat more harshly than I intended. 

“Your Top-Up Training.” I can see mild alarm growing behind her giant eyes. “I don’t think I’ve been given Top-Up Training.” 

Mild alarm turns to intense distress. 

“I need you to come with me so we can do your Top-Up Training.” 

I follow her out of my cubicle and back up the hallway. To my right, the taps of my shadow’s  shoes follow us from behind the wall. 

I am led into a small beige room with a single plastic chair in the centre. It looks like the  nurse’s room I was just in but a plaque on the wall reads Top-Up Training Room, so I know it  must be a different room. The woman tells me to take a seat and then leaves. 

I sit. Fluorescent lights pillage the top of my bald head. I can feel the rays jackhammering my  skull. Surely this can’t be healthy. I remember reading how harmful fluorescent lights can be,  and I am sure they’ve been banned. I’m shocked to find them at this Company. I make a mental  note to file a complaint. 

There is a TV screen in front of me. It switches on, and all 70 inches suddenly alight in  images flashing on the screen, so clear that I could as well be looking through a pane of glass at  the real things behind it. There is an image of an ant lying dead in the corner where the black  rubber bases of two walls join together. Its soul rises up slowly from its corpse. The image  lingers here a moment before switching to a close-up of a woman walking in pearl-white socks.  She walks into the camera and the camera moves backwards with her feet. The audience can’t  see her face. There is no sound. I can’t even hear the buzzing of the fluorescents anymore and  now that I think about it I can’t recall there ever being a buzzing of the fluorescents. 

The image changes to a medium-closeup of an ant walking along the edge of a sidewalk in  what appears to be a city. I assume it’s New York but in truth I can’t see anything of the city that  would justify this assumption. There aren’t any cities in the arctic. Tires are hurdling past the  right of the ant and shoes and legs and the hems of people’s pants on the left. The ant is wearing  six socks over its six legs. I find this curious. Why wear socks if you won’t wear shoes? Wet  socks are a miserable experience. Surely any creature can appreciate that, big or small, self conscious or otherwise. But the ant doesn’t seem bothered. It walks with no clear destination in  sight, no mound of melting ice cream on the pavement, no puddle of spilled Gatorade, no half eaten Twix in its wrapper. The ant simply goes and the camera follows. I wonder if there is some  meaning being assembled here by these series of shots. There must be. No sane filmmaker would  stitch two shots together without there being some sort of rope to tie them together. Perhaps there  is something to be said about the insect-human-insect shots. The filmmaker (I guess at Fincher,  Bong Joon Ho, Gerwig) must be trying to illustrate a point, to paint a painting, to tell a story, to create an image. I adjust my position in the plastic chair. There’s a scrape of the leg on the tiled  floor and I flinch, unaware of how long it’s been since I’ve been subject to sound. I decide I do  not like sound and promptly attempt to slow my breathing so as to create as little of it as  possible. I hear a faint voice whisper into my ear and I stick my finger in to try and claw it out. 

The image changes. I see a paper bowl on a desk. Artifacts fill the screen around it—Kleenex  tissues, supplement bottles, a pouch of nail clippers and a nail file, two keyboards, water bottles,  headphones… The bowl is centred and I take a moment to appreciate the image. It is a beautiful  image, with bands of grainy sunlight from an off-camera window and a puddle of drifting dust in  the air, moving as if they too are feeling the laziness of the Sunday evening. The bowl is filled  with powder. It’s too fine to be soil or dirt; too light. It looks like ash, but it’s too brown to have  come from cigarettes; too fine and not quite flaky enough. This bowl is not an ashtray, at least  not in the traditional sense of the ashtray, as in a tray for the ash from one’s cigarette. It appears  to be an incense burner. I even spy a small cylinder of rolled-up printer paper taped to the rim of  the bowl where I presume the wooden end of the incense stick is to be inserted, and as it burns,  the bowl catches the falling ash. But there’s something else inside this bowl, something  glistening from within the mound of orange-brown powder. I squint and lean into the screen. I  blink. I remove my glasses and then put them back on again. There is definitely something else  in there, something not a by-product of the combustion of an incense stick. It is silvery and  metallic, and it reflects the sunlight like a mirror. I don’t know what it is and it makes me  anxious. I stand up and bring my nose up to the screen, nearly grazing it against the warm  quantum-dot LEDs. 

The image changes. There are the same socked feet as before, still this time, sitting close and  nearly touching as the woman they belong to sits in a subway car. I can’t see the woman’s face,  nor even anything above the shins of a pair of mahogany corduroys. The image lingers for  several minutes and I begin to feel uncomfortable. Like an ant watching from under the seats,  hiding behind a grimy bolt and a strewn candy wrapper. How long will this shot last? It’s been  years. I want to look at the incense bowl again, the one with the buried artifact. In there is hidden  the meaning of all this, I know it. I need only understand. The train’s brakes squeal and the  woman’s legs sway to the left of the frame. The train comes to a halt, the woman stands and the  socks walk out of the frame. I let out a breath of relief. I stand but my head hardly clears the top  of the mangled candy wrapper next to me. I glance at the goo of chocolate still inside, a growl  rising from my abdomen. Then the screen fades to black. Credits roll and I discover that David  Fincher was indeed the director. Charlie Kaufman was the screenwriter, the ant was played by  Rupert Grint and the woman was— 

No! How could I have missed the name? I must have gotten caught up with all the names  ahead of it that my eyes simply skipped over! 

Woman #1: An— 

I remember the first letters: An. 

My brain throbs and I feel very anxious. 

The screen is off and the room is silent. I stand like this for a while. I can’t hear any buzzing. 

I can’t hear anything. I stand and think about that thing buried in the bowl. I think about the  woman’s name. I think about David Fincher’s intentions with his choice of shots. I think about  Charlie Kaufman’s intentions with his choice of plot. What are they hiding from me? That ant in  socks, that buried object, that deliberate skipping over that woman’s name? Something is off,  like a puzzle piece in the wrong spot. I can feel it, and I intend to uncover it, the meaning of it.  Because I know it means something. 

It must mean something. 

I hear the sound again and it’s haunting. It’s the uncanny valley of human noises. A synthetic  voice. A manufactured cry. I can’t place it. I resist the urge to itch and instead stand still and  observe it. I can’t place the gender, I can’t place the age. It’s simply a voice. The voice. The  amalgamative voice of every human who’s ever lived. I arrive at this conclusion after what  seems like hours and am promptly exhausted. The voice has been looping in my head for the last  week. Upwards inflection, vibrato, pause, upwards inflection, downwards inflection—a vein  nearly bursts in my temple. 

The door opens behind me and the woman with the billiard eyes steps back inside. She hands  me an iPad and tells me to take a survey about my Top-Up Training experience. I nod and take  the iPad, excited again. It asks me to rate the training experience on a scale of disappointing to extraordinary. I tap meagre, three above disappointing, two below extraordinary, and just above  unsatisfactory. The iPad then asks me to explain in at least 3200 words why I selected merely  meagre. It is phrased in a somewhat passive-aggressive way and I wonder if I’ve offended  someone in some way. I explain that I missed the name of the actress playing the role of Woman  #1 and that I believe this to have been a deliberate slight by David Fincher and Charlie Kaufman.  I explain how the writing was pretentious, the shots nonsensical, moving from insect-woman insect to incense-woman while never resolving back to the incense in a proper 3-act structure.  There was no explanation as to why these transitions were made, why the shots were cut in such  a way as they were, and why the actress playing Woman #1 never even had her face revealed let  alone named in the credits. I finish with 4,406 words and hit next. The screen buffers. I hope it’s  another essay. 

It’s not. The iPad flashes the words, “Thanks. I’ll be sure to forward that to HR,” and then  proceeds to rate me as merely meagre. I am outraged. I am seething. This is reprehensible,  disgraceful, detestable… 

The woman leads me out of the room and I walk back to my office and take a seat back down  at my desk. I resume the video playing on my computer screen. A woman points to a chart  behind her with the word postpartum written. 

I used to dream of my father when I slept, but as of late my naps have been dreamless. My  ear tingles. I can feel the ant digging through my brain, erasing my memories of him. He killed  himself with a panini grill and a bathtub. The grill, if my memory serves, had the slogan “So  good you’d grill your socks!” printed on its box. It was a repulsive attempt at marketing but it  just so happened that my father’s body was still wearing socks when I found it in the bathtub, and I will never understand why. Until the day of my own death, I will have this one fact about  my father hanging over me. I ponder it every day. Sometimes it takes up the space of a single  thought, sometimes it is a train of them, but I can always count on it to make an appearance. I  used to see it in my dreams, but not anymore and I think that is perhaps a good thing. Some  people need to pinch themselves or recite an affirmation to awaken from a bad dream. I need  only observe my thoughts. If I am not dreaming, then I am real.

A man will electrocute himself in  his bathtub with his socks still on. Do not ask why. I know you want to, but you can’t. You have  to accept it, and that is the tragedy of the world. You could sprout hairs in your eyes and the  doctors will name a new disease. You could find a cat mangled in your dryer, fur singed and  limbs shattered. It could blink and hop out, trodding on grotesque anatomy, but you are not  dreaming. You can pinch your arms and recite your affirmations, but you have to believe it  because it is happening. You could awaken prematurely in the operating room and find a band of  clowns dancing around you in silence. You could fly over a mountain range and see the land  flicker like a dying fluorescent lightbulb. You must believe it. You must believe all the absurdity  you see. Catch it in your arms and let it nuzzle at your elbow. Let it grow on you. Let it fester. 

I awaken with my finger in my ear and a savage itch just beyond its reach. Something is  moving around in there. I scream and pound the side of my head but the itch doesn’t go away. I  grab the water at my desk and pour it into my ear. I remain still for several minutes, my breath  held, my eyes open and bursting from my skull. 

“Individual.”  

I stand up quickly. My bald head drips water onto the carpet. 

“You’re over your sleep limit,” says the woman. 

“No,” I reply. 

“You get thirty minutes every two hours. You’re thirty-two minutes over.” I check at my watch. “Oh.” 

She tells me I must go into the Late-Employee-Form-Filling Room and fill out the Late  Employee Form. I obey and start down the hallway. My wet shoes squeak against the floor, and  through the wall on my right I can hear the mysterious man walking with me. I laugh because I  can hear his shoes are wet too, reverberating little squishes. 

I find myself back inside the beige room, fluorescent lights irradiating my brain. The room is  empty save for the chair and the giant TV. I don’t see any forms or iPads. I peer into the hallway  outside and see nothing but rows of cubicles fading into a distant point. Maybe the form is  online. I reach into my pocket but my iPhone isn’t there. I start to panic, tearing out my pockets,  spilling coins and mints, my Gucci wallet, the keys to my P.O. box. My ear erupts in a terrible  spasm of itches, more shards than tingles, and I scream not from pain but from the knowledge  that I can do nothing about it. I start to develop a wheeze, violent arrhythmias in my chest that  feel like the walls of my heart collapsing on themselves. I think about calling 911 and then  remember I don’t have my iPhone. I burst into the hallway, sweeping the pale green walls for any  landlines. I begin to speed-walk down the hall, mindless in my misery. My wheezing echoes  ahead of me and I am reminded briefly of my companion on the other side. I hope he isn’t suffering like I am. I hear the voice all around me and I beg for a different sound, anything but  this, these incessant scratchings inside my ear. They have never been so loud. I am weak, I am  sick, I must report it, I must warn somebody, I must… 

I peer into every cubicle I pass. Most are empty, but every few thousand cubicles I see a Van  Gogh gallery within the four fabric walls, or a man on all fours, bent like a desk. I see a thin  humanoid creature feeding cat food to a dog; a woman rearranging the organs in her abdomen,  watching herself through a vanity mirror across the room. I see a cubicle flipped upside down, a  man sitting in a chair stuck to the ceiling watching a woman point to a word on a whiteboard.  Cubicle number 12,846 contains a rainforest. Cubicle number 9,812 contains two seconds of a  pornographic scene playing in an infinite loop. 290 is a void of white—I don’t linger here. When  I reach the end of the hall I find a blank wall. The cubicle at the end states that it is number 1,  and it is empty. The itch grows worse as I turn and make my way back down the hallway, faintly  aware of my companion hurrying with me from behind the wall. I wonder if he’s also got an itch  in his ear, and I wonder if he’s also punctured his tympana trying to claw it out. 

Everything in cubicle 13,001 has been turned inside out, including the man sitting in his  office chair. He watches me with the back of his eyeballs as I pass. In 16,046 there is a thin  humanoid creature feeding dog food to a cat. In 29,049 there is a man without a mouth standing  on his desk. 30,108 is filled with a thousand boxes of vegan Q-Tips. 31,474 contains a clown  without makeup. 31,832 is an abyss that drops into an infinitesimally small point, at the end of  which I think I can make out a Coca-Cola billboard flickering in the distance. In cubicle number  32,000 there is a bright red landline bolted into the fabric of the wall. I pick it up and dial 911.  The line rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and

I notice the door at the end of the hall just ahead. There is a bright red neon EXIT sign above  it, as well as some text on the door warning that an alarm will sound if it’s opened. I can hear the  symphony of the wind outside; the ice blowing in frigid tycoons. I’ve never heard it roar so loud.  I drop the receiver and step toward the door, place a hand on its cold metal panic bar, and push gently. The alarm blares behind me as I step outside. The world is dark, lit only by the white light  spilling from the hallway behind me. I can feel my skin shrivelling up against the frigid air. The  ground is soft under my feet. I look down at the snow, the fine white powder blowing over my  shoes like dust. Spells of it blast my face. I can vaguely hear the sound of crashing water in the  distance, massive chunks of ice breaking and splitting against a glacial tide. I look to my right  and see an array of hallways like the one I just came out of, extending out into the dark air like a  mirror in a mirror, only their doors are shut. To my left are more of the same hallways, except  there’s a door ajar, the one belonging to the hallway immediately next to mine. A giant ant stands  in the swirling snow, pearl-white socks stretched over its six legs, staring at me with pinpoints  for eyes. 

Sometimes I wonder where everyone went. There are thirty-two billion people on this planet  and I haven’t seen a soul. I don’t see anyone in the streets. I stroll in deserted supermarkets  listening to nothing but my tiny feet against the linoleum floors. I feel as if my skin is in a constant state of being torn. As if my brain is one giant spool of sinew and is being stretched and  knotted, pulled apart and then crushed back together. The world is so infinitely complex. It’s too  much for me to bear. I have so many desires, whims, things I was chasing thirty-two minutes ago that I no longer care about now. I have not seen another face in decades. I’ve forgotten how  mouths see, how eyes talk. I hallucinate these things, these humanoid features over the slates of  flesh I see sagging over the fronts of people’s heads, melting off their skulls like cheese. I think I  imagine the features correctly but there’s no way to be sure. At times I think I’ve made the eyes  too big, the lips too puckered, too downturned, too melancholy. I’ll cry when I step on an ant. I’ll  nurse it back to life, perform CPR, give it three pairs of white knitted socks and send it back on  its way so I may recognize it if I see it again. The world only exists because I dream it. Because I  picture it and mold it into what it is. I don’t even know what my own face looks like. That too I  model and form with the tips of my nail-bitten fingers. My head is throbbing. I feel tremendous  anxiety. I wish I was dead, and yet I am a grain of sand in the Sahara desert. I am a hydrogen  atom in a collapsing star. I am a dead ant’s soul rising from its corpse. I am a puddle of meat  dissolved by light, my ego dissected from my solid form. I am the naked brain of a dead man. 

I find myself standing in the light of the hallway behind me, listening to the sound in my ear,  the voice that has never plagued me so loud as it does now. I hear the distant echoes of a  woman’s voice on the intercom piercing through the blaring alarms, telling us that it is now time  for our stretches. I do not obey and they will be here soon to ask me why. They will tell me of all  the benefits of stretches. They will prescribe me only the most effective antidepressants. They  will remind me how grateful I should be for having been born after all the wars and the famines  and the poverty. They will show me photographs of skeletal children. They will tell me we are all in this together. 

As I wait for them to come I reach down and grab a fistful of snow from a mound at my feet,  but it’s too powdery to be snow, too light and too dusty. I see a glimmer of silver inside it. Ants  crawl in and out of an opening near the crest of the mound, flecks of black blinking over a  glimmering object. I reach in and dig it out, the insects swarming over my fingers. I don’t know  what I’m holding. Something mechanical, electronic. Something that was once used to listen to  music, or tie a shoe, or deliver a baby. Whatever it is there is no doubt that this is the source of  the sound. I put it up to my ear and listen, and there is no doubt that it is a voice, one spoken  from the mouth of somebody long dead. It loops. I wonder if it is a remnant of this person’s life,  like permanent shadows from atomic bombs. Voices still in echo, neurons still reacting. 

The woman tells us to move on to lumbar rotations. I cross my six socked arms around my  abdomen and rotate. I listen to the countdown. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. I do not feel  anxiety. I wonder about the silver thing in my hands. About the sounds it makes, the faint ticking  of some mechanism inside, bleeding through a veil woven with the voice of everything I’ve ever  been. I know it means something. 

It must mean something. 

The post An Ant In Socks appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Today was unit’s first visit to Packard Public Repair Center. The primary  complaint was subjective dysfunction in the left arm.  

In unit’s words: “There’s like, a pain shooting up to my shoulder when I move it.” Standard cyborg mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was  achieved, though there was a clicking sound at full extension.  

From the transcript: “clack-clack-clackclackclack.” 

Unit made expressions of discomfort throughout but was compliant—thus, it was  concluded that the unit’s dysfunction is merely subjective. Follow-up visit was scheduled  at unit’s request, and unit was instructed to monitor subjective pain.  

3/15 

In today’s follow-up, unit insisted on being given a replacement arm. In unit’s  words: “You’re a repairhuman, you’re supposed to help me, aren’t you?” Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional results were the same,  though unit was agitated throughout assessment. To report unit’s words: “Believe me when I say it’s getting worse. I can’t even cook dinner anymore without it acting up.” Unit was asked to elaborate on the significance of cooking, specifically whether it  was a component of unit’s work responsibilities. In unit’s words: “No, it’s just for fun.

I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, so like, helping my dad. Pork chops and garlic fried  rice and all that. I try to do it every day.” 

No further action was taken. 

Supervisor.auto: Good work dissuading unit from requesting new  arm, in accordance with Cost Saving for Public Centers. 

5/10 

Unit reported experiencing arm dysfunction while at work. As such, the  Occupational Questionnaire was administered. 

Unit selected both “exclusively monitor-based” and “does not require heavy  lifting” in Q5 and Q6 respectively. Unit listed occupation as “part-time Facer for  Finerone Manufacturing.” Because repairhuman was unfamiliar with this line of work,  unit was asked to explain. 

From unit’s transcript: “So being a Facer means I sit in on these really gnarly cases where Finerone is being sued because one of their products failed. Like today, we  had a case where a cyby tried to use Finerone’s Super Duper Oil and choked to death on  it because the safety nozzle on the can was defective. Then the cyby’s kids came home  and found him that way. So yeah, gruesome.  

Anyways, my job is pretty much to listen to these cases while they film my  reaction. If I smile while hearing about a case, then like, I guess that legally means  Finerone can say that cyborgs aren’t affected by the issue because otherwise I would be  visibly upset. So yeah, that’s Facework in a nutshell. Couldn’t do it for more than 4 hours straight, which is why I’m part time. And yeah, I know I would get private  documentation through Finerone if I was staff, but you couldn’t make me do that unless  you like, took my brain out.”  

Supervisor.auto: Unnecessarily long and detailed transcript excerpt detected. Q5 and Q6 already provide adequate info for cross-checking documentation coverage. Cyborg repairwork should be thorough, but not thorough to the extent of wasting time.

During interview, unit verbally confirmed that the work was exclusively monitor based. Because the function of unit’s arm is objectively irrelevant for the completion of  their work tasks, no further action was taken. Follow-up visit was rescheduled. 

9/8 

Unit checked in to the Center at 5:24pm for a scheduled appointment at 6:00pm.  Due to a shortage of staff, wait times were longer than usual. 

Supervisor.auto: Disgruntled language detected. Avoid making written reference to “short-staffedness.” Remain productive and optimistic, Repairhuman Jess. 

Unit was finally seen at 8:42pm. Unit’s disposition was irritable, and they  reported worsening dysfunction. In unit’s words: “Nowadays, it’s not just that it hurts to move, but to hold still. I was glad they finally called my name back there because  seriously!”

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was impeded:  unit’s arm locked up involuntarily upon full 180 degree extension, followed by loud  electrical sounds. From the transcript: “snapSNAPsnap-SNAPSNAP.” Unit expressed audible discomfort throughout assessment. 

Functional impediment was graded as Level 1. As such, Rehabilitation Plan was  initiated, consisting of 10mL Finerone Canned Joint Fluid daily intake for 100 days. Unit initially disagreed with Rehabilitation Plan. In unit’s words: “Sorry, it’s just… It’s made by Finerone, and you know… Isn’t there anything else?” Unit was made aware that no alternatives were covered in unit’s documentation.  Because unit seemed unfamiliar with the implications of documentation coverage, it was  explained in simple terms that alternatives would have to be paid with unit’s own  money. 

After initial hesitation, unit provided written consent for Rehabilitation Plan. 1L  of Finerone Canned Joint Fluid was dispatched to the Supply Center in unit’s vicinity. Throughout visit, unit’s general affect was tired, likely due to the 3 hour wait  time.  

Supervisor.auto: Second instance of disgruntled language detected! Avoid making negative reference to “3 hour wait time.” It is expected of cyborg units to wait patiently and agreeably for service at Public Centers. 

Follow-up visit was scheduled after 60 days of Rehabilitation Plan. 

11/7 

Unit confirmed adherence with Rehabilitation Plan but reported new concern. In  unit’s words: “Yeah, so the fluid’s been making my whole arm feel numb, which I guess isn’t like, technically pain? But I’m not sure if it’s better to feel numb than painful,  right?” 

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Full functional flexibility was  achieved, and the previous clicking and snapping sounds were absent upon extension.  Unit’s disposition was cautiously optimistic. In unit’s words: “I guess I’ll have to wait and see if the numbness goes away. But anyways, thanks for seeing me again,  Repairhuman Jess. I know you’re busy, but I feel like you sincerely care about me.” Unit brought a thank you gift. From unit’s transcript: “It’s homemade coconut  yam cake. I spent all night making it, so there’s that.”  

Objective measures indicated Finerone Canned Joint Fluid have provided an  improvement in arm function. No further action at this time. 

Supervisor.auto: Self-congratulatory language detected, specifically the mention of “thank you gift” and inclusion of the transcript excerpt in which unit describes feelings about repairhuman. Avoid reporting irrelevant (ie., not outcomes-based)  elements, as your time could spent better elsewhere. 

11/27

Unit showed up to the Center on own accord. Visit was unauthorized. Unit’s  disposition was confrontational, and they refused to wait to be seen. From unit’s  transcript: “So yeah, the numbness went away but then like, the pain came back worse than ever. The pain’s so bad, I’ve had to drop out of like, 11 cases just last week, and  that’s when Finerone put me on probation. You have to do something.” 

Unit was probed about the timeline of dysfunction recurrence. To report unit’s  words: “I mean, it started when I ran out of joint fluid last week.” 

Repairhuman revisited the Rehabilitation Plan, and it was deemed that unit  should not have run out of Canned Joint Fluid until 32 days later. When probed about  the discrepancy, unit admitted to taking >10mL/day Canned Joint Fluid for the last  several days. From unit’s transcript: “I found that if I took enough, the numbness spread from my arm to everywhere, and being numb made it easier to get through the day. It  was like, I no longer was really thinking about what I was seeing in my cases or what it  all meant, so I was able to do back-to-back shifts like nothing. Taking the fluid makes it  possible to cook again too! I mean, the flavor of the food doesn’t really come through to  me anymore so I don’t eat what I make these days… But my housemates do! Anyhow, all  in all everything was good and productive until I ran out of the stuff. Then things got  really bad. So can you please just get some more sent over to the Supply Center? They  can’t give me anymore without your approval.” 

Unit was informed that because of their misuse, no additional Canned Joint Fluid  would be provided to the Supply Center, as per the terms of unit’s documentation.  Unit began to cry. This became open weeping, which was disruptive to the  Center. As such, the unit had to be subdued. 

Rehabilitation Plan to be reassessed at a later date. 

11/30 

After review, it was deemed that unit’s issue with Canned Joint Fluid was one of a behavioral nature. Because Repair Center does not handle behavioral dysfunction, repairhuman sent recommendations for Behavioral Reprogramming Specialists via  remote correspondence. 

Unit replied to the message: I reached out to your recommended specialists, but  none of them are covered in my documentation, and they’re too expensive to pay for  with my own money. With all due respect, I don’t have the fucking time to go searching  the city for a specialist that’s covered. I need Joint Fluid now. My probation just ended  SO I HAVE TO DO CASES 24/7 OR I WILL LOSE MY JOB AND I AM IN PAIN. Do you  understand? I thought you were on my side, Repairhuman Jess! 

The unit’s message was deleted, due to incendiary language, and no reply was  sent. 

Supervisor.auto: Negative facial expressions were detected when  you checked unit’s message today. Remember to avoid unnecessary outbursts such as crying, as it puts a strain on staff and leads to delays. 

A follow-up visit was scheduled to re-assess unit’s arm dysfunction.

12/28

Unit informed Center that this would be their final visit, due to a change in documentation coverage. 

To report unit’s words: “Being put on probation scared me. Like I knew I had to make things work, no matter what. So anyways, I found some knock-off Joint Fluid  online and started taking it round-the-clock. My Facework performance went up once I  was numb again, and soon I went from barely managing 1 case a day to doing 30-40 no  problem. My manager saw and promoted me to full-time staff. So yeah, now I have  private documentation, courtesy of Finerone. Anyhow, they need me to close out my file  with the Center. So let’s do that?” 

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was achieved,  but upon completion of assessment, unit’s left arm fell off.  

Reattachment failed, though unit did not seem concerned. In fact, unit laughed. In unit’s words: “Well, I mean, I just don’t need it anymore. At this point, my life is pretty much round-the-clock Facework, then taking Canned Joint Fluid. Neither of  which require a left arm, really.” 

Unit was asked about cooking. 

Unit did not answer. After not saying anything for a marked period of time, unit finally commented on the fallen arm.  

From transcript: “Keep it. Maybe someone else could use it.” 

Unit left the arm behind at the Center. It was subjected to standard detached part testing, deemed to be unusable old tech, and marked for disposal. 

The post Case Study: Left Arm Dysfunction appeared first on The New Absurdist.

“It?” is all I can muster. 

The short man trembles with some strange, almost religious conviction. 

I feel as though I’ve forgotten something important. 

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” he growls, snapping me back into the moment. 

“I honestly have no clue,” I mutter, sitting down. I’ve been here one minute and I’m accused of a crime. 

The short man balls his fists, two small hams quivering with anger, and slams them on my desk with a sharp bang! 

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re responsible. Thief! That is my property. That whiteboard defines my work, my legacy, and I will not be disrespected.” 

A whiteboard? There are dozens scattered throughout the office. What makes this particular whiteboard sacred? 

“I just got here. Is it possible you misplaced it?” 

“Misplaced a five-foot-tall whiteboard?” he snarls, eyes wild. “That board contains the sum total of my thinking, my diagrams, my very soul!” 

I glance around my cubicle, my desk, computer, and walls. No whiteboard. It must be exceptionally important for him to lash out like this. 

“All the information I need is on that whiteboard. It’s irreplaceable,” he says. 

“You didn’t keep copies on your computer?” I ask.

“So anyone could access my ideas on the shared drive? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No. I won’t make it easy for you to steal everything I cherish.” 

He buries his face in his hands and exhales sharply. 

My stomach drops. Did I move a whiteboard? Maybe I touched it? Maybe I rolled it away without even realizing? I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? 

“Pay attention! Where is your shame? You will show me respect!” he snaps. 

I look at him, puzzled. Maybe he’s confusing me with someone else. Or maybe I’ve been demoted to the office scapegoat. 

“Give it back, or I’ll escalate this to the supervisor.” 

“Go ahead! But unless I’ve been rolling whiteboards around in my sleep, I’m not your guy.” 

The short man’s face crumples like a wrinkled mask. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down as if he’s standing under a spotlight. 

“Disrespectful thief!” he bellows, spittle spraying. His finger shakes, a trembling spear of accusation. 

“You’ve robbed me, and you sit there, like a fool. That board is everything, it’s my life’s work, my proof of existence. Where I’m from, rules are sacred. Break one, and the universe splits at the seams, vomiting a hell so fierce even devils scramble for shelter.” 

Turning quickly, he storms out toward the supervisor’s office. 

I stand and peer over my cubicle wall. One by one, heads poke out like meerkats on the savanna, watching for predators. 

The short man gestures wildly in the supervisor’s office. The supervisor leans forward, locking eyes with me. His sharp stare pierces my chest. I shiver. I don’t think he likes me.

The door creaks open. 

“We will get to the bottom of this,” the supervisor says gravely. 

His eyes fix on mine and they say: Here. Now. 

As I walk toward the office, the short man stomps past me, possessed by all the devils in hell. I catch a glimpse of my face in the window of the supervisor’s office and see the face of an unkempt stranger staring back. The meerkats watch silently, eyes wide, as I enter the lion’s den. 

“Please sit,” the supervisor says. His tone is flat but firm. 

I sit. His desk towers over me, littered with coffee mugs. The one facing me says: But first, coffee. 

The walls are lined with diplomas and a single photograph, a tree on a hill, barren and dead. As if a skeletal hand is reaching from the grave. A family photo sits on his desk: his wife in an orange sundress, her smile strained. His two daughters wear identical expressions, solemn and heavy, as if they understand the weight of existence. 

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” he asks dryly. 

“It seems a whiteboard has been misplaced,” I reply in the same tone. The nagging feeling I’d forgotten something swells into a full wave of fear. 

“Misplaced? How does one misplace a whiteboard? Can you misplace a desk? A chair? How about the office itself?” 

“Of course you can,” I say. 

“Nothing happens in this office without my approval. I control the very air you breathe. Are you suggesting I authorized the removal of company property?” 

I stare. Is he serious? 

“Everything in this office is as it should be. I work day and night to maintain order in a world of chaos. Every person in my machine is meant to do one thing: produce. Until today, we held a perfect balance. Now the balance is disturbed. Disturbed balance is like a disease, leave it untreated, and the organism dies.” 

In this moment, I realize. I forgot to brush my hair this morning. What an oversight. If I can’t manage that, what else have I done without realizing? 

“All I ask is that you prove you didn’t steal the whiteboard. Simple, right? If you can prove your innocence, the matter is closed. If not, we are talking about disciplinary action. Perhaps termination.” 

I nod reluctantly. 

“Everything from this point on will determine how we proceed. Do you understand?” 

I nod again. 

“Do you know what happened to the whiteboard?” 

I shake my head. 

“Have you ever touched office equipment that didn’t belong to your section?” 

I hesitate. Of course I have. I nod. 

“So you admit it,” he snaps. 

“Admit what?” I ask, confused. 

“You admit to tampering with company property in direct violation of policy.” 

“I admit I’ve touched office equipment,” I protest. The phone rings. 

“Return to your desk,” he says, turning away. 

What just happened?

I stand, dazed, both fists clenched as I walk back to my desk. 

“Oh, and take some pride in your appearance. Coming to work disheveled reflects poorly on the company.” 

As I sink into my chair, the office is silent. Everyone stands, watching. The meerkats are on guard. The lions have caught the scent of prey. 

I stare at the blank glow of my computer screen. 

The weight of sins I never committed crushes my chest. I wish I was the culprit. At least then I could control my fate. I’d strangle this farce in its crib. 

Instead, I sit here. Innocent and guilty all at once. Schrödinger’s employee. 

A tall man appears at the edge of my cubicle. Menacing and brutal. His hands look as though they could crush the life out of me. 

“Come with me,” he says sternly. 

“Where are we going?” I manage as I grab my bag. 

“This way.” He walks with purpose, but slowly. 

We move to the back of the office. The lights are dimmer here. A dying bulb flickers; it’s near death. 

A row of doors greets us in the growing darkness. 

“Here,” the tall man gestures to an open room. “Continue your work. Someone will be along shortly to collect you.” 

The room is barren. Four walls. No window. The desk is empty except for a single chair. 

The door slams shut. 

I sit. The chair groans under me. As I lean back, its spine gives way, and I nearly topple over.

How can I work without a computer? They want me to stew in guilt. A guilt I shouldn’t feel, but it’s flooding me all the same. Did I do this? No. Of course not. I would remember. Wouldn’t I? 

I should shout at the top of my lungs, “I am innocent! I’ve done nothing!” 

Instead, I sit in silence, judged and exiled. 

Time dissolves. Minutes, hours? I can’t tell. Humans spent centuries mastering time, measuring it to feel in control. Yet here, time is meaningless. 

Soon they’ll come to walk me out like a criminal on his final march to the gas chamber. 

Will the meerkats avert their eyes when I pass? Or will they jeer and chant in unison: 

“You’ve earned this! No mercy for the wicked! Finally, his reign of terror is over!” 

The chair screeches. The walls close in. 

How much longer will I wait? 

I should storm out. Seize my fate. Preach hellfire like a Baptist minister: Sinners! Every one of you is a sinner, and only through fire can you be forgiven! 

But I don’t move. 

I lean back in the broken chair, staring at the ceiling lights. I close my eyes, letting the glow filter through my lids. I imagine golden light washing over me, purifying me. 

Grace. 

“Sleeping on the job?” 

The tall man’s voice cuts through my baptism. He stares down at me with cold contempt. Those hands balled into fists.

“He’s ready for you,” he says. 

Here we go. 

I stand and follow him. Thoughts of thick crowds, gallows, and a swinging noose swirl in my mind. 

But the office is silent. No faces. No jeers. Of course, it’s not a public execution. It’s a purge. Silent. Efficient. 

The supervisor stands with arms crossed, fire burning in his eyes. The meerkats are gone, burrowed deep underground. 

“Sit,” he commands. 

I sit, my stomach in my throat. 

“Sir, I would like to say…” 

“No.” He raises a hand. “No need to apologize to me. It is the people you should be apologizing to. The group is more important than the individual.” 

I shift unsteadily in my chair. 

“You’ll give a formal apology to the entire office,” he continues. “Additionally, you will be docked a day’s pay. You’ve been here all day and failed to even log in. You have cost this company enough with your disruptions. Any more inappropriate conduct from you, and I will replace you. Understand?” 

My face burns. Rage coils tight beneath my skin. I nod once, stiffly. 

“Good.” 

He smacks his hands together sharply. CLAP. “You’re ready, I hope.” 

We exit the office into a sea of faces. 

“Attention, everyone!” the supervisor shouts. “We don’t allow unprofessional conduct here. When a cog is out of sync, the whole machine breaks down. Now it is time to set the cog on this machine back into place.” 

He turns to me. 

“Well?” 

Blood drains from my face. Every eye pierces me like a blade. 

I should shout my innocence. Condemn the system that crushes us all. But the words won’t come. Why can’t I think of anything? 

“I apologize,” I whisper. 

The supervisor cuts me off. 

“There. The affair is over. No more interruptions, back to work.” 

He faces me. 

“No more screw-ups. And please, catch up on your hours before you leave.” 

I walk towards my cubicle and pause a moment when a familiar figure catches my eye. The short man sits at his desk, typing away, oblivious to me. 

I glance at the printer as it hums to life. A single sheet slides out: a comic strip. 

With a smug satisfaction he reaches over and clips it to a whiteboard. 

I hadn’t noticed it at first. The whiteboard stands there, whole and unremarkable, a monolith to this short man’s whole belief system. 

Multiple comic strips are clipped across its surface. I stare at the back of his head. 

“I see it’s been returned,” I say quietly.

“What? What are you talking about?” he replies, not turning around. 

“The whiteboard. It’s back.” 

He pauses. 

“Hmm… So it is,” he mutters, still turned away. 

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He’s already forgotten me.

The post The Idol appeared first on The New Absurdist.

We all know why we’re here: our country is being stolen. They’re here to take our food, they’re  here to take our jobs, and they’re here to take our homes. They think they’re entitled to our  healthcare. They think they’re entitled to our wealth. They think they’re entitled to our possessions.  We know what’s going on: they think they can be the new us. 

For too long, we have suffered this injustice. I say, no more! No more to their lack of morals! No  more to their terrible English! No more to their sucking on our women’s breasts! It’s time to act.  Babies will not replace us! 

Look around! Babies are everywhere: in our pre-schools, in our playgrounds, even in our maternity  wards! And they’re disgusting. They don’t even look like people. Their heads are gigantic, their  hair doesn’t grow right, and — and — Excuse me. It’s just so unnatural — no real human is that  short. We should not have to share our air with these aberrations.  

And have you ever talked to one of these monstrosities? It’s impossible. Many of them just make  noises. Not a word of English! And the rest are even worse. They need you to read to them. Can’t  do it themselves! No education! And they don’t even listen if you try. They refuse to understand.  You read about green eggs and ham and they talk about “gween eggs anam.” You read about three  little pigs and they go on about “free yidduw bigs.” And don’t get me started on Peter Piper picking  peppers! If they won’t hear us, why should we tolerate their presence? They have to go! 

Now, I know some say we should love babies. “Babies are God’s creatures,” they say. But I’ve  read the Bible. Look at Genesis! It’s right there. God created one man and one woman. Where are  the babies? Nowhere. It’s Adam and Eve, not Mommy and me. “We were all babies once,” they  say. But we’re not anymore. We left that behind. We’re better than them. “We need babies to keep  the population up,” they say. But what about the immigrants? Our beautiful immigrants need space  to live. Their accents are so musical and their cultures are so vibrant. We don’t need babies and  they don’t deserve our compassion! 

So what can we do? Well, first, deportations. The babies have to go. All of them. Back to where  they came from. Back to women’s bellies. It will take determination, but if we do enough chopping,  and grinding, and maybe seasoning, our women, our capable, capable women, can eat all the babies  within a year. Then they’ll be gone. And then? Then we make sure no more of those minuscule  abominations enter our great country ever again: We need new laws to defend ourselves. Our  schools must teach the dangers of heterosexual sex. Free contraception must be available to the entire population. And abortions — abortions, our God-sent panacea! — abortions must be  mandatory. Everywhere. For everyone. The character of our country is at stake.  

We can’t wait any longer to save ourselves from being replaced. We must act. And we must act  now! Vote for me and I promise to do everything in my power to save our way of life. Down with  the babies and up with the flag! Make our country grown again! Now is our time! 

Thank you. God bless you and God bless our great nation. 

The post The Growth of a Nation appeared first on The New Absurdist.