Tag: workaholics

A birthday at work

“Hey Jared,” called out the new intern. She was much younger than I, but our work etiquette encouraged us to collaborate on first-name basis. I didn’t care much, because it made me, even only just, feel a little younger.

“Yes, Sharon?” I replied without looking up from my laptop. I had a project I had to submit by the end of the day, and I had just begun to put it together. It had been a hectic week, and I was already looking forward to the close of the day and the week.

Sharon didn’t reply. I typed away unpertubed for a while, but she called out again, louder this time, forcing me to look up, irritation balooning within me but a smile spreading on my fake face. “Sorry, was busy.” I added an extra emphasis on the last word. “What’s up?”

What an easy phrase that was—what’s up. So helpful when you don’t know what to say, yet so casual that it won’t sound like you’re pissed off at the person you’re saying it to—even if you are pissed off.

“It’s Wendy’s birthday on Monday, and we wanted to get her a cake, and also decorate her work place.”

Wonderful. Just what we needed now, a birthday party. As if we don’t have enough distractions already.

“Oh.” I replied, instead, unable to say anything further. As she looked at me expecting I’d say more, I forced myself to do so, “Oh, ok. That sounds cool.”

No it doesn’t. You’ve worked here one week, why would you throw Wendy a party when you don’t even know her that well?

“Great!” Her eyes popped with with excitement. We’ll order a cake and hang back after work today to decorate her place. You’ll help us, won’t you?”

Why should I? It’s Friday!

“Oh ok,” I trailed away. If I had to spend time decorating with the new kids in, then I’d better finish my work fast. I heaved a deep sigh. Just then, my phone lit up with a push note from my bank: my credit card bill had arrived, and I owed more than I could afford this month. Ah, well. More dues; no news.

I continued to type away wishing this project would end, and with it my responsibility in it. It had taken us more than half a year to get the project up and running, and even afterward, our clients came back reporting issues and disappointmnet. The boss and I had been emailing each other for a while now, he trying to get me to fix it, and I trying to explain to him that we don’t have enough resources.

“Hey Jared!” Sharon’s voice jutted into my thoughts again. Masking my frustration, I looked up again, and trying to sound as innocent as I could replied, “Hmm?”

She looked down at the notebook in her hand, biting the end of her pencil. “It’s three dollars each for the cake, two for the decorations, and a five more for the Papier-mâché doll—the present.” She narrated in an even voice, careful not to give away the impression of robbing me. I saw right through it.

Brilliant. Ten dollars down the drain. For a birthday that will only depress Wendy because she’s getting old.

Wendy and I had been colleagues for over two years now, and though she loved the occasional splurge, I knew she wasn’t taking this birthday in her stride. She had complained to me on various occasions about feeling “old timey”.

“Woah, that’s a handful.” I had to protest. These kids would do anything to get a few likes on Instagram and Facebook. After all, they still lived under their parents’ patronage. “Are you sure you want to spend that much?”

It’s almost the end of the month, and I’m running short of cash.

But I couldn’t tell them that.

“Well…” She dragged on trying to figure out a way to convince me. “It is a bit fancy, but it’s Wendy.” She cocked her head to one side, letting a little streak of untied hair fall down to her eyes. She pushed it aside in a sweeping motion. “She’s like a mentor to us,” she turned to the other four new interns who nodded as if their life depended on it, “and we want to thank her.”

Oh, well. Wendy will be happy, but I’ll be the one getting her a cab home from the bar tonight, after she weep-drinks complianing about her age.

I knew better than to judge Wendy. I had been there myself, and she had been there for me.

“Oh, alright then. Let me finish this first, and I’ll pay you after.”

If the kids wanted to thank her, but end up depressing her inspite of it, I’ll be there for Wendy.

And with that, I went back to my email, writing to the boss: “Sure, thing, Daniel. I can pull some strings with the supplier, and see how we can solve our client’s issues. You can count on me.”

Manipulator

“‘Mazing!” the boss appreciated. “This is such a great piece, Stan. I might give you a raise right away.”

Stan looked up. He hadn’t had a raise in two years because of ‘unfavourable economic conditions’. “Now?” His heart swelled, but the boss just smiled, and lifting his belly, waddled out the room.

Stan’s interns sat next to him. “It’s going to be okay,” assured Mark, a rich kid whose parents had “purchased” his internship.

“Well,” The boss had returned. “Wrap up that maze of an agreement. It’s brilliant—so binding that people wouldn’t know what hit them. Jackpot!” He exclaimed.

Hit jackpot

jackpot

I’ve never had any strong opinion about lottery and jackpot, except that I knew it was a dangerous addiction. I didn’t have any friends or relatives under the habit, and so I never had to think about it either. Until yesterday.

A close friend sent me a message. He had won about $260, and he had spent less than $3 for the ticket.

My first reaction was joy beyond belief—elation. I felt as if I had won the money myself. But the next moment, surprise took me over. It struck me as weird how easy it had been for him to win so much money. It was like pocket money for him now, and it came from working zero hours, spending almost none of his effort. It was no-sweat cash.

And that made me realise how hard I work for the money I make. I love my job, I look forward to Mondays as much as I do to Fridays, and yet, I work harder—much harder—than he does to make almost the same as he does. And to cap it, he had just won an additional jackpot that doesn’t even count as part of work.

I wasn’t jealous, I knew him too well to feel any bitterness towards his luck. And besides, when you’ve got a lot of debt to pay off, you can never have too much luck or money. And I knew he had debt, and so, good use for that money.

Despite all that, though, I still couldn’t accept the concept of a jackpot. It’s so unfair. Unfair to the hardworking, to the ones clocking eight hours a day at work and another hour or two at commute, unfair to the labourers, those working with heavy machinery, people waking up at 3 in the morning to serve hangry passengers in railway stations. If only they had the luck.

Perhaps that’s why the lottery lures us common folk. The possibility—if only. We yearn for whatever little luck a tiny piece of multi-coloured paper would sway our way because our lives hang in dire circumstances we crave to unhinge. Maybe lottery addiction stems from the desire to do more, to have more, in life.

Which leads me to believe that no one is happy with what they have. No one’s satisfied enough, seeking the bubbling reputation, even if it takes them to the canon’s mouth. We’re all reaching in the dark, hoping to grab the light that would light up our lives, free us of our debts, give us a bigger car, a faster laptop, or a smarter phone. Pity, though, that we lay so much of our life on a piece of paper that—as much luck as it brings—may as well fly right out of our reach.

The mask

Jason was, again, the star in the meeting. He made juniors feel at home and seniors reel at numbers.

It wasn’t new. Jason was the energy machine in every gathering. He’d bust awkward situations, introducing people to fun and laughter.

No one’s seen him angry or sullen. He was the funniest guy at work, the loveable friend in college, and the most helpful neighbour.

Every morning, however, before masking himself, Jason would stare at the dark liquid in his mug. As he’d drown the bitter shot, he’d also drown the bitterness of his phony life. Then get ready for work.

Knowledge

Daniel had spent days picking at circuits and nights poring over assignments. And now with a job in hand, he swelled with pride.

His engineer dad had taught him how vital an electronics degree was. He couldn’t rely on his childhood hobby of deconstructing circuits; he needed a certified document to make a good career. That way, he could make back the cash he shelled out as fees.

The first day, wanting to impress his boss, Daniel walked in crisp and clean. But he was the one impressed—welcoming him wasn’t a fancy degree holder, but his father’s old apprentice.