The screen went white again as the program froze for the
umpteenth time that day. Brick sack back in his rigid swivel chair and let out
a downbeat yawn. He had been working for weeks now and the damned computer kept
freezing whenever he loaded his old sequence.
Despite the occasional headache accompanied with an
existential crisis, the last few weeks were rather dull and consistent. Brick
was working hard for once. The hiring
process was a bit of a blur to him. He vaguely recalled reading words of wisdom
by someone he had once respected, but had trouble putting a name or face to the
memory.
The row of cubicles where Brick was stationed was soon
greeted by its other usual suspects. John D. Slate, the would-be king of promos
led the pack. His hair was nestled back in a blonde tail that was about as
pretentious as his high-pitched 60 mph rants. Behind him was Señor Tigre, an
affable audio expert with a head as shiny as freshly polished boots. Bringing
up the rear was Jacques Ombre, dark and mysterious, mostly because of an
unhealthy addiction to dark clothing and spray can tanning.
Brick ignored his throbbing head and focused on getting all
the promos done on time. The morning dragged and clicked away into afternoon,
with pauses for rendering and freezing alike. The typical parade of characters
passed through the room at regular intervals, like figurines on a cuckoo clock:
the overworked, underpaid secretary who looked mortified 24/7; the jovial
lawyer who was both a badass and a mensch; the voluptuous producer/host with eyes
like stolen diamonds who could always
spare a moment to break your heart and piece it back together for next time; and
the creepy soon-to-be-ex-employee who lingered around with unknown agendas and
nothing to lose...
The trivial matters of running a rock band had become
nothing but a distant memory for the man who now had a steady paycheck and a
comfortable shell of a life to call his own. Sure he barely spoke the same
language as his new co-workers. Sure he was missing sleep like a blindfolded piñata
swing. And then there was that growing
void inside him that grew with every monotonous keystroke and mouse click.
Perhaps his road to adulthood was sacrificing freedom for
stability, passion for consistency, love for malaise. The fire that once roared
within him, the passion to reach for the unobtainable had been doused and the
ashes of his troubled youth were swept aside for the respectable mediocrity of
the forty hour work week.
Hell was a distant memory, but Brick was still a long way from
paradise. For now, there was only the job and the nagging suspicion that something
around him was not as it seemed.
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