24 - We Have Always Worked in the Office (2)

The days turn into weeks, weeks into months.

It honestly feels like the Project will never end.

For every step toward the finish line we take, somehow we take five steps back.

And it's not always Addy's fault, either.

Even without her notoriously terrible luck, the company keeps insisting on making things difficult for us.

Our payroll system goes through five different vendor upgrades in as many months. By the end of the final upgrade, it takes me almost an hour each week to fill out my timeslip—a task that eats into time I (we) could be spending on actual work.

Our email retention period keeps shrinking each financial quarter, for reasons management refuses to elaborate on (hint: it's about money; it's always about money), meaning that one obscure workaround mentioned in a single email chain from years ago, critical for resolving a Friday-afternoon production incident on some third-party service nobody has ever heard of but which the company keeps paying for, for whatever reason, has just disappeared forever.

"How the fuck do they expect us to do work when the tools keep getting worse!?" yells Alex, at wit's end.

We're regularly working nights. Weekends. Eating takeout and microwave dinners. Downing energy drinks like water.

"Valerie, you don't even need the money," says Alex. "Why do you suffer like the rest of us?"

Valerie flips her unkempt tangle of what she calls a hairstyle, sending smell particles flying our way. "I'm here to provide you with moral support," she declares.

"Uh, no. That's what Moeka is for."

Valerie pouts. "Fine. Then I'm just here for the free dinners."

The night time janitor, Sunny, shakes his head when he passes by us as he vacuums. "Working late, again? Work to live, folks—not the other way around."

"Too late, Sunny," I say, "I'm already planning on dying here."

"How morbid," laughs Addy.

The months fly by. The Project never ends.

Meetings on meetings on meetings, with departments we've never heard of. Endless discussions on how to work, without ever coming to any sort of resolution. Procedures and policies and never-ending red tape.

… And I haven't even mentioned the constant gunfights we get into with competing companies. We lose entire days defending the Plaza from corporate espionage goons.

"Ugh," Alex says, re-loading an AK-47 beside me, the two of us taking cover behind a bulletproof filing cabinet. "Snipers are the worst."

Addy has her back against the wall, providing suppressive fire with an uzi.

Even our receptionist Moeka is firing a child-sized 9mm handgun from behind her counter, blindly. "Yay!" she cries. "Moeka is helping!"

Valerie pulls the pin on a hand grenade, and tosses it underhand down the hallway. "Hey, guys … Does this seem at all weird to you?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, feeding shells into my corporate-issue semi-auto shotgun.

Valerie looks troubled. "I don't think … I don't think gunfights are a regular part of normal office work."

I shrug. "Sure it is—that's why it's called 'cutthroat business'."

Valerie has that look on her face that I sometimes get, when I think too hard about why we have a child as a receptionist, or why I can't picture the interior of my apartment, or what exactly the Project actually is, or does.

… So I tell her to stop thinking.

And she says, "Okay." And then she tosses another grenade.

(Addy, after we've successfully driven the competitors away: "I'm just glad that these are all just non-lethal rounds."

Alex: "Wait—they are?"

Me, shooting Alex to demonstrate: "Yeah."

Alex: "… Huh. But, hey, wait, what about that grenade—")

*

A few days later, I find Addy in the break room, in the middle of a freakout.

"If we were as bad at our jobs as the executives are," she says, "we'd all get fired! But they get golden parachutes, and a better position at some other company they'll just run into the ground!"

"This is true," I say.

"They don't do anything. They just like to dress nice and talk big. Every initiative they come up with, who's gotta implement everything!? Us!"

"Well, we do. You're a contractor, so you roll off with the Project."

She looks at me, kind of annoyed.

"… But that's irrelevant," I say. "You're right, Addy. … Fuck those guys. … Um, are you okay? Want to talk about it?"

"It's too much, Odd-kun. There's just too much stuff to do."

Now, having had my fair share of freakouts back in the day, back when I wasn't completely dead inside, I've learned to recognize when someone's on the cusp of losing it.

… And I also know how to handle it.

I put a few coins into the vending machine, and buy a cold energy drink.

Addy looks at the can in my hand. "… I don't think that's what I need right now, Odd-kun."

"No, no—here." I set the can down on the table. "Wrap your hand around it."

She seems skeptical at first, but then she does as I suggest.

"Okay," I say, "and then let go."

She does. "… What was that supposed to do?"

"It feels different, right?"

She looks at me, flatly. I think she probably thinks I'm making fun of her.

"No, no—really," I explain. "The trick is to focus on the difference between the two sensations. You have to realize that everything you feel is just a gestalt. That what you think you feel is simply your brain applying a label to a combination of sensations. If you can manage to do that with your hand and the coldness of the can, you can deconstruct any sort of feeling. Any kind of pain, any kind of anxiety. Nothing hurts unless you let the sensations construct themselves into a greater gestalt. The anxiety you feel is just a … well, feeling."

Addy thinks about this for a bit, taking it in. She grabs the can, lets go of it.

Grab the can, let it go.

"What you're really doing," I say, "is preventing the raw input from becoming anything more than that. You're not feeling anxiety—you're feeling the tightness in your chest. You're feeling your heart beating faster. You're feeling your breathing get faster. … But that's all. They're just sensations. No more. … You can even close your eyes. It's easier that way. I'll close them with you."

We both close our eyes.

"Grab the can," she repeats. "… Let it go."

We both start chanting it, like some kind of mantra.

Grab the can, let it go.

Grab the can, let it go.

Grab the—

"What the fuck are you two doing???"

We open our eyes.

Alex and Valerie are staring at us in the doorway.

"I was just … I was showing Addy … how to … relieve stress."

Alex, disgustedly: "Odd-kun … I didn't think you were that type of person …"

Valerie, who literally smells socks for fun: "Odd-kun … You can't do that kind of stuff at work …"

It takes a while for Addy and I to clear up the misunderstanding.

*

The Project goes on, and on.

We joke around, to keep from going insane.

Addy practices the gestalt-prevention techniques I taught her.

More overtime, more late nights.

Meanwhile, for all of us, all the stress just keeps building, and building, and building, until—

"—That's it. That's it!" yells Valerie, one afternoon, as she stands up in her cubicle.

We all turn to look at her.

"Listen to me. Tonight, we're going to karaoke, and we're getting drunk. And that's final. Consider this an order from your superior!"

Alex: "(You're not our superior.)"

Addy and I look at each other. We smile weakly.

Karaoke actually sounds like a really good idea right now.

*

Once work finishes, the four of us leave our stuff in our cubicles, and head for the elevators.

On the way, we also manage to grab Sunny and Moeka, who both tag along.

(Alex: "Sunny, aren't you just starting your shift? Is it okay to just leave?"

Sunny: "Work to live, remember? Not the other way around."

Alex: "… I don't feel like that's applicable here."

Valerie, holding Moeka's hand: "Do you like karaoke, Moeka-chan?"

Moeka, nodding excitedly: "Uh huh! Moeka loves to sing!")

Once outside, we walk to the karaoke place, which is pretty close, just a block away from Parallax Plaza.

"It's weird," I say to Addy, the setting sun suffusing the city streets in a red-orange tint. "I can't remember any season other than … summer. But we've been working on the Project for months, haven't we?" I wrinkle my forehead. "That doesn't seem right … does it?"

"Are you okay, Odd-kun?"

"Yeah, I—it just hurts to think about, for some reason."

Addy smiles. "Then stop thinking about it, silly!"

At the karaoke place, we book a room for a couple of hours.

The six of us—Alex, Valerie, Sunny, Moeka, Addy and I—order drinks and food, which all arrive shortly. Pitchers of beer (an iced tea for Moeka), plus pizza, takoyaki, french fries, chicken wings.

We start queueing up songs.

(Me: "Do they have any J-Kw*n?"

Sunny: "'Jae Kwon'? Is that a new K-Pop star?"

Me: "NO! J-Kw*n. J-hyphen-Kw*n. You know. … He did T*psy. As in, 'Errbody in the club, getting ____'."

Sunny: "Oh. Oh! You're talking about Bar S*ng. By Shab**zey. Love that song."

Me: "Alright, screw this … Just give me the tablet."

Valerie: "What song did you pick, Alex?"

Alex: "K*mm S*sser T*d. Do you even have to ask?"

Valerie: "Pfft, plebian choice. Real chads go for T*mashii no Refr*in. But you probably skipped De*th and Reb*rth, like a FAKE FAN.")

We order more drinks. We do some shots.

Addy and I are sitting side by side, laughing as we watch Alex do his best rendition of As* e no H*ukou. (He doesn't have the voice for it, to put it lightly. He keeps telling me to play M*v-L*v. … I will—someday.)

We clap as Moeka makes her magical-girl idol debut, performing C*tch You, C*tch Me, spinning a Se*ling W*nd prop as she sings.

Alex and I take center stage, performing a duet medley of N*n*mori-chuu Gor*ku-bu songs. ("Yu-ri-yu-ra-ra-ra-ra, **ru-**ri, dai-ji-ke-n …")

Valerie does Hiir*gi K*g*mi's character song. (Not 100% Na* Na* Na*, the other one.) She's terrible at it. (But it's okay.)

Sunny picks F*rgot Ab*ut Dr*. He's scarily proficient when it comes to the Em*nem part for some reason. We're too scared to ask why.

Then, as a group, we sing the requisite songs, required of any group karaoke session: P*per Pl*nes ("ALL I WANNA DO IS *GUNSHOT* *GUNSHOT* *GUNSHOT*"), I M*ss You (in the exaggerated mannerisms of T*m DeL*nge, of course), closing with the aforementioned T*psy.

We have a lot of fun.

… We have a lot of fun.

*

It's late.

We stumble outside, and somehow find our way to the train station.

On the platform, we're in various states of inebriation. (All except for Sunny, who can apparently handle his alcohol pretty well; and Moeka, who obviously isn't allowed to drink at all—the former carrying the latter on his back, the child sound asleep.)

Alex and Valerie are completely faded, the two of them trying desperately to keep the world from spinning.

Meanwhile, I'm looking after Addy.

"Ughh … Odd-kun … I don't feel so well," she slurs.

"Ish—ish alright, Addy. Train'sh … almosht here."

She leans on me for support.

(I'm trying my best, but in all honesty, I'm also pretty far gone at this point.)

I hear the train approach.

But just before it pull into the station, I hear—

"—hurrgghh!"

Addy runs off, covering her mouth.

Uh oh.

I follow her around the corner, down the hallway.

She's got her head stuck in a rubbish bin. … For obvious reasons.

She looks up at me, wipes her mouth.

"Feel better now?" I ask.

She nods, embarrassed.

When we get back to the platform …

… The train's already gone.

The others with it.

And wouldn't you know it—that was the last train.

Addy and I look at each other.

… What now?