Day Five: Copy/Paste

Something is living in my attic, I swear.

I went to work for my uncle, who owns Financial Resources National, inc. He's got a lot of money because of this and while he may never admit he is rich, he is. Nothing is difficult for him.

He told me, that to work for him, this is a business atmosphere and I need to dress appropriately. I didn't pack any khakis, so I'm wearing jeans. I'm wearing a business shirt so old it has stains from when I worked at Safeway. My Radiohead t-shirt is underneath, and sometimes you can see the skull and crossbones. My hair is flopping like Dilbert's tie. I haven't shaved since spring break.

My uncle gives me the once over, a sneer really and shows me the terminal I'm going to use. I chose the word terminal for a reason. Some office women teach me how to transfer from one database to the new one. Basically, a copy/paste job. A monkey could do it. Which makes me that monkey. I'm dressed up like one. The same as everyone else, waiting for lunch and to go home. To watch TV and work harder for things that won't make them happy.

Deliver me from clever art and Swedish furniture.

All this information, thousands of names and numbers for clients for my uncle. Basically, a strange geography lesson. Most of these businesses were mortgage companies, all of them the same boring names. NATIONAL AMERICAN PREMIUM MORTGAGE BROKERS OF GEORGIA. Sadly, the only original titles were when managers decided to use their last name. Found a Michael Hughes, a Clayton Human and a Carl Hurlbut. Names that made me smile.

I was thinking of how if I destroyed any of this information so much money would be lost. I could cause several businesses to go under, especially my uncle's. Just copy/paste/delete. The economy is swaying, I could cause it to collapse. Domino effect.

I went through all the G's, the H's, and the I's in seven hours. It was so boring but the trouble was it required just enough thought and motor skill that I couldn't think of anything else, but just the minimum to torture me. I'm not meant to be this unproductive. And I mean that nothing I did matters. If I died in that office, no one would even smell me.

But at least I get my own office. It used to belong to someone named Michelle or Melissa or Lindsay. She quit the other day, and so I'm a temp, just filling in. I'm Ryan from the Office, only I don't see why he wants to move up in the business world. Sick, horrid place.

Anyway, Lindsay or whoever left behind a lot of crap and I dug through the trash and took it. Some cough medicine, which I tasted. Lots of pens. A disaster DVD. A few giftcards, I'm not sure they're good.

I had gurgled down a No Fear energy drink, and I was shaking all day. I coughed up some bile into a Santa vase that I found. I did some voodoo to a poor little bear. I stapled tape. Sure, laziness is a sin, but I think so is boredom. Man, was I bored. When I finally left at five, this numbing feeling released me. Had I really done all that much typing? Was it all just some torturous nightmare?

I've been revisiting some memories I had of this place when I was 13. The people around me, every face familiar, are putting the pieces back together. I revisited the house I lived in when I was three. The backstory is: I was born in Phoenix, but my dad kidnapped me and took me to his parents. So my mom just followed him and we lived here for two years, in a tiny blue duplex. It's painted green now.

But seeing that house brought back memories that I never knew existed. They popped into place, just like like a jigsaw puzzle. Copy/paste. I went to an arcade hall. Same feeling. It was so overwhelming I wanted to crumble into a million pieces. Cry or scream or something. Break the madness.

I earlier said that I was terrified of driving here at night, but I've gotten used to it and it's really beautiful. I cruised slowly up a hill, lights turned off, just breathing in the eerie darkness. A chorus of voices in the woods. Then silence.