Django in the Office
Some people say life is a circle but this life of mine is a cube. I walk in straight lines. I churn and churn, processing, hour after hour. Day after day.
The boss walks by, heels clicking, tie swishing, height the same as girth. A square man. A square man who walks in circles. Threading through cubes. A black and white shuffle.
I watch the spreadsheets, the numbers flashing, changing before my eyes. Evolving. I take my time and think of sheets at home exploding with notes. Except lately, they’re static. I’m too busy with the numbers. The numbers have swallowed my words. The numbers have become personal. The numbers are trying to tell me something. Numbers, they say, can express more than words.
The square screen blares worse than a sharpsharp high note on a trumpet covered in ice. But I’ve got these circles on either ear, pumping the drums, round sounds taking off the edge. My boss walks by, in circles around my desk. I hide the screen, hide the numbers, hide the thread of story from him. Lest he try to take it away from me. Assign me back on the words. Those words, they’d been killing me. So dry, no feelin’ at all.
I could have asked him, what was he doing, why was his tie constantly swishing. Even when he was still, the tie continued its swishing. A tongue flapping without sound.
But I didn’t. As I said, he was a square man. He was a quiet man. He didn’t see numbers, not the way I did. They didn’t speak to him. Words weren’t his thing, either. I don’t think he had any thing at all.
They told me, later, that after the interview they didn’t think I’d type so good. They were worried, I suppose, about my earrings jangling, the noise they were making, how I trembled with nerves. But I churn these numbers out just fine. Numbers don’t look back at you. Numbers don’t think anything about you at all. Numbers don’t lie.
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