File Monkey

Gift . . . were they actually getting someone a gift? The thought itself stunned him. After all that dread and torment he’d gone through . . . now it was time for birthday contributions? The sudden shift in tone was absurd—probably the strangest thing he’d experienced so far, and that said a lot, considering everything else. Still, if they had stopped working for the moment, why not see for himself? Rojif fell in step, curiosity tugging him forward.

At the aisle’s end, he saw Pink One up ahead to the left, a bit further from the break room door. As he approached, he noticed five narrow slots set into the wall, each with a small brass frame above it. Four were marked with the employees’ face numbers, and the last one bore: “File Monkey.” Rojif stared at it. Sure, why not—after everything . . . File Monkey it is.

He and Pink One waited as the other workers arrived, each taking position in front of their designated slots. File Monkey . . . well, at least the plaque was nice and shiny.

As the last worker got in position, a low rumble vibrated through the wall. It deepened, then gave way to a sharp clinking, like loose metal scraps raining onto a tray. A hiss followed, white steam curling outward from the opening in pale ribbons before all went quiet. An envelope slid from Rojif’s slot and dropped to the floor at his feet. He glanced around—the same had happened to the others.

Bending down, he picked up the small envelope, and tore it open. Inside was a folded sheet of paper and five silver, triangular metal pieces, cool to the touch. This must be vending machine currency. His stomach gave a low growl of anticipation . . . finally—he could satisfy his hunger.

He turned the tokens over in his hand, slipping them into his pockets, then unfolded the paper. It was a memo, neatly formatted and addressed to him:

To: File Monkey

Subject: Performance Review Notice

Current Work Status: Poor

Please be advised that continued improvement is required. Failure to demonstrate sufficient progress will result in mandatory retraining under the supervision of Floor Manager (Employee ID: 001).

—Office Administration, January

The page felt colder than the tokens. Retraining. The word stuck in his mind. He glanced over at Pink One—Employee ID: 001. He couldn’t imagine what that would entail, and had no desire to find out.

Rojif slipped the note into his pocket. It wasn’t much, but still, there was a quiet satisfaction in receiving this wage—like something he’d longed for but never really experienced. He didn’t know why he felt this way.

The slots dissolved into the wall until no trace of them remained. In their place, a single one reemerged, with a golden plaque at the center reading: RECEPTION. One by one, the workers stepped forward. Each produced a silver token, slid it into the slot, and stepped back silently. So this was it—the contributions destined for someone named Sarah. A birthday gift. In this place, of all things.

The final token slid in, the hiss of the panel swallowing it followed. Slowly, the workers turned together, faces angled toward Rojif—silent, expectant.

“Hey, uhh . . . I only got five pieces. I can’t really afford to—” His voice faltered.

The workers didn’t move. They stood lined like statues, their attention fixed on him silently. The slot still hadn’t disappeared, the brass letters above it glowing faintly.

“Look, I don’t even know who Sarah is . . .”

Five tokens. His entire wage. If this was their version of a paycheck, it was barely enough to get by. If each token meant one meal . . . one week’s worth, maybe—assuming he could stretch it. He had earned little, apparently, thanks to his “poor performance.” And now, before he could even think about eating, they wanted him to hand one over. A birthday gift. For Sarah. Whoever that was.

Reluctantly, Rojif slid one of his precious tokens into the reception slot.

Rojif stepped back and raised his hands. “There, that’s all I got for her.”

The slot gave a sharp hiss as the coin vanished into it, swallowed whole. A moment later, it was gone—absorbed into the wall.

Rojif turned to them and raised his hands. “There, that’s all I can give.”

The workers gave no reply. They turned back toward their cubicles, the matter settled.

Four meals left. That was what it came down to. Most likely, this was a weekly event—but with no clock, no calendar, no concept of measuring time, he’d never see it coming until it arrived.

As White Collar pulled out a wallet and slid his tokens inside, Rojif saw one slip past his fingers and drop without a sound onto the carpeted floor. He paused for a moment, then tucked the wallet into his pocket and kept walking. The honest thing would have been to call him back, to return the lost token—but four meals . . . four. He’d pay him back another time. Rojif scampered over and grabbed the token, shoving it in his own pocket before the thought could wither.

Rojif had some time to spare. Each worker’s pile of files would keep them busy for a while, which meant he could check out the vending machine. He headed for the break room door. It swung open giddily the moment his hand touched the handle, it seemed to know he had money on him, and was eager for its share.

He approached the vending machine and stood in front of the clear glass, scanning the labels on each package. Food item A. Food item B. Food item C . . . all the way down to Z.

He glared at the plain, clinical writing, his mouth tightening. Nothing appetizing—less food than experiment. Cookies, candy, chips . . . he liked getting chips. None of that was to be found, just rows of alphabetical placeholders, bland and identical. He had been foolish to expect otherwise.

Rojif grumbled in disappointment as he slipped a token into the triangular slot. The machine hummed in acknowledgement.

Which one to choose . . . The labels alone made everything sound unpalatable. He settled on Food Item A. Couldn’t go wrong with the original, right? His eyes shifted to the side panel of buttons, neat rows of numbers from 0 to 9. He glanced back at the tag under Food Item A—it was blank.

None of the packages had designated numbers beneath them—how was he supposed to choose? Damn it. Nothing made sense here. How many times had he told himself that, over and over, as if repeating it would somehow help?

He jabbed at the keypad, punching in random digits just to see what would happen. On the fourth press, a sharp click responded. Food Item G slid forward on its shelf. He’d wanted Food Item A. Yeah—like it mattered; he had no idea what this stuff would taste like to begin with.

The package dropped, and Rojif crouched down thoughtlessly to receive it from the tray. Instead, it fell on his head. He winced. Ah yes—he remembered. White Collar hadn’t taken his purchase from the tray. It had just oozed out of the glass and into his hands.

He picked up the package and carried it to the table, pulling out a chair before sitting down. Don’t let me down Food item G. He peeled back the crinkling wrapper carefully. Inside was an orange, rectangular slab of something. It looked decent, actually. Yes, he was starving—but even so, at least it met the most important standard: it looked solid . . . well for now. He didn’t want a repeat of the jelly water fiasco.

No utensils. Of course not. He pinched a piece off the orange bar and pressed it between his fingers. Soft—like cake—but dense, heavier somehow. He shoved it into his mouth and chewed cautiously.

Rojif did this knowing it would most likely taste revolting, so tasting like nothing was a welcome surprise. No bitterness, no metallic sting. His tongue felt it there, a presence on his palate, but the flavor never arrived. That was enough. He was more than happy for this change.

As he ate, a coolness trickled through his veins, through muscles, all the way to his toes. The fatigue in his body lifted. His arms, his legs—they felt rejuvenated. He wasn’t tired anymore. So this was how he could avoid sleeping in this place. Eating meant he didn’t even need to.

However, his head did not feel the same; it didn't seem to be affected like the rest of his body—strange. He didn’t need to rest, but his mind was conflicted. His body wanted to run laps, while his mind urged him to lie down. He finished his meal, tossing the empty wrapper into the bin beside the vending machine, and walked over to the sink to wash his hands. Out flowed the jelly water, squishing between his fingers, barely cleaning a thing. Fantastic.

He left the break room and headed back toward the printer to restock files. Well . . . this was it. This was his life now for . . . a month, apparently. However long January lasted.