My time at Company X

Dear diary,

This company that I work for, they don’t even know that I don’t work for them. — I don’t mean that I’m employed by Company X and yet I shirk my duties and slack off every day: no, that would be normal. (Who among all employees out there doesn’t avoid at all costs fulfilling any aspect of their job description?) — What I mean is that Company X never hired me; they don’t even know my name, and I have no reason to be here, in this office inside their corporate skyscraper. But I remain here: I eat here and sleep here. They have a cafeteria and vending machines filled with snacks, and there’s always something left out that I can consume. I actually eat better here than I did when I had a house and a regular job. There’s often arrays of pastries and appetizers left in boardrooms after meetings. And this office where I chose to settle happened to come with a swivel chair that is super comfortable — it’s better than a bed. I’m friends with the janitorial staff: none of them question why I’m here; they just assume that I’m a hard worker who rarely leaves his office. And when a “co-worker” (I place that term within air-quotes, of course) ever wanders in and asks me who I am and what I’m working on, I simply tell them my actual name (I see no reason to hide my identity); then, off the top of my head, I make up some topic and claim that I’m compiling a report on it. For instance, I’ll say: 

“I’m Bryan Ray, employee number 555 from group A-60. I’m working on that dolphin-milk project, running the figures for the graph comparing hairnets to handmaiden sales. It’s for the accounting department; they just need an excuse to fudge the numbers for the cannery that we use as a front for our sub-corp’s drug-development sector.” 

Then if my co-worker asks “Which sub-corp?” I’ll usually say: “Um… the one in Minnesota.” Then I’ll add: 

“I really hope that I can finish this work before six, because I have reservations at the sushi place with my mistress, and then I gotta race across town to attend my daughter’s crossbow recital. This part of the report was supposed to be done last Thursday, but upper management dropped the ball.” 

And the mention of upper management will usually put my intruder at ease. We’re basically acquaintances at this point. She will usually ask the name of my mistress, just to make sure that it is not the same as her own swain or spouse; and when the facts check out, we part ways and never meet again — this building is too large to permit any unplanned rendezvous. 

Only a couple times did I fabricate a name for my mistress that happened to exactly match that of the intruding co-worker’s wife or lover; but I solved this potential problem by quickly making up a foreign-sounding last name for my imaginary mate; and then I gave her an implausibly strange middle name when the initial two names corresponded. There’s always a way to differentiate your fictional character from any other real, living person: just keep adding more false names. The best one I ever dreamt up was “Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart”. This name raised only one red flag, which I had to answer for, after I distinguished it from my colleague’s paramour by adding the “Wolfgangus” part — my questioner said: “That sounds not quite feminine, tho — are you sure that your mistress is a lady?” And I just nodded and said “There is no doubt.” Then I made an angry face, like a new thought just struck me, and I added: “Are you casting aspersions about her honor?” So this closed the case. My opponent left probably attempting to conceptualize how the unclothed figure of a gal named Johannes would appear in a candlelit boudoir. (I sure know that I was.)

And as for the complication that ensues whenever Company X tries to downsize and terminate the majority of their employees (of which group you will recall that I am only feigning to be a member), I simply recline in my comfy chair until the firing squad bangs on the door; then I say, “Come in,” in a very pleasant voice, adding: “how can I help you?” 

The unsympathetic jerks who are tasked with the job of telling everyone that they’ve been let go now address me in a voice that lacks any trace of human compassion: “Everyone in this department needs to pack up and leave, immediately. You get no severance package, and your pension has been gambled away by the bosses. Now, do we need to call security to have them drag you out of here, kicking and screaming?” 

To this, I just smile again politely and reply: “No need for any assistance; I thank you for informing me of this development. I’m sorry to wave goodbye to Company X — I’ve worked here for the better part of the last forty years — but, as they say: all good things must end this instant. Yes, I was just packing up; I’m putting my belongings into this cardboard box here, you see?” (I keep a cardboard box half-filled with staplers and framed fake-family photos, for this very purpose.) “I’ll be out of your hair in five minutes. I already turned in my company phone and my keys and my badge.” — My efficiency and pleasant demeanor always impresses the reps of the wrecking crew, and they inevitably respond like so: 

“Wow, you’re taking this well. Most of your co-workers who got laid off are throwing a fit. We had to use tasers and tear gas on every single one of them. You’re the first decent person we’ve met this morning. Thanks for being a compliant cog in this corporate cabal.” 

Then they leave, and I hasten to the door and lock it. I stand there and wait, listening to the sound of their footsteps gradually fade to a hush, as they walk off into what I imagine are the smooth hills of the prairie land. Then I exhale in relief and wipe my brow with a scented cloth napkin; I sink into my comfortable chair and go back to sleep. 

The point is: I never need to leave, because I gained the trust of my executioners. Eventually, this building gets bought out by another Company X, and the offices are refilled with attractive new employees. Those who seduce me, I engage in affairs with; and I invent elaborate pseudonyms when their lovers come banging down my door.

One of the things that’s fun about being a non-employee who lives inside a skyscraper is that when a jealous mistress accuses me of carrying on with her own mistress and presents photographic evidence of the two of us embracing intimately in my office (I recognize these pics as having been taken last week by the building’s security camera: thus I make a mental note to tape something opaque over the lens of that thing, next time we colleagues interact carnally on the desktop) is that I get to try to win over this offended mistress as well. And I usually do, by voicing a string of heartfelt compliments. This comes naturally to me, as I’m just as attracted to my mistress’s mistress as I am to my mistress.

And one time there was a centaur loose in the building. I could tell that this was the case, because everyone was screaming. So I came out of my office and almost ran smack into the thing’s hairy chest; then I said, “Excuse me,” and I went back into my office and called my daughter on the phone and said, “Sorry I missed your crossbow recital last night; will you come and do the routine here at my place of employment? Thanks! Do you know how to get here? OK, just hail a cab and say: ‘Company X headquarters. And step on it.’ I’ll pay the taxi fee when you arrive. Do we have a deal?” 

Then, when my daughter leaps out of the back door, I stand at the driver’s side and fork out a spellbinding amount of greenbacks to the cabbie (I simply take these bills out of the company strongbox, and no one seems to mind); then I lead my daughter to the floor where the centaur was last sighted, and I say: “Alright, show me this new vaudeville act that you do.” Then her little performance ends with the shooting of an arrow, which flies gracefully over all the cubicles outside of my manager’s office until its poisonous tip lodges directly into the monster’s equine heart. This organ struggles valiantly to continue beating but eventually stops. The beast falls with a thud, leaving a slowly expanding blood-stain on the carpet.

“Thanks for taking care of that!” the employees in the cubicles all say. “Who are you, by the way? None of us can remember seeing you here before.”

“I’m Bryan Ray, from subdivision A-60,” I reply; “and this is Artemis. She’s here for ‘Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day’. I’m currently crunching the stats about hawks and handsaws, for the south-wind report. The accounting sector of the codpiece department tells me they need this information by yesterday. You know how coocoo upper management can be.”

The whole workforce laughs and agrees: Upper management sux.