Day 1

The Inductee

I arrive for my first of day work—alert, chipper, hopeful. I have purchased a new suit, new shoes and scrubbed my face shiny. This is the first day of my Career – a legacy of events I am certain will provide me with intellectual satisfaction, a sense of personal accomplishment, and lasting financial security. Not the mention that Mom and Dad will be so proud.

I am met in the lobby by a person. This person is from Human Resources and, as I learn later is typical of the HR tribe, is female. Her Prada shoes alone cost more than my entire corporate ensemble. She sports one of those expert hair buns – the kind with just one or two spiky pieces flailing about that makes it look elegantly “undone.” She is pretty, very pretty, actually, though her beauty is somehow severe. Her eyebrows are overarched, her nail polish a little dark, and she wears a form-fitting suit with a high cinched waist that looks extremely uncomfortable.

Miss HR provides me with a firm handshake, introduces me officiously to four other new employees, and begins to lead us all through glass doors that must be accessed with a pass.

I will later be given such a pass — my optimistic mug shot to be worn on my lapel, around my neck on a cord, or clasped to my waistband, as Miss HR seems to prefer. I learn later that if you work in certain industries, your fingerprints will be taken, your credit report reviewed, a physical required. Even in low level situations of scrutiny, you will regret any online conduct.

Miss HR walks at a brisk pace, which, considering the height of her Prada heels, is admirable. We traverse a series of corridors. There is activity around us—palpable, tense—yet almost entirely quiet. “How does this dichotomy of atmosphere exist in the Universe simultaneously?” I wonder.

Though moving urgently, I take note as I pass cubicle after cubicle. Nobody looks up as our fleet of inductees sails past. Nobody is smiling. Everybody is either staring at a screen or is on the telephone. Clusters of people congregate in what seem to be anti-chambers of some kind. I am getting confused by the walk, suddenly having childhood memories of Halloween corn mazes. “Will I ever be able to find those glass doors and get back out of here?”

Finally, we arrive at one of the anti-chambers, a sterile room of approximately 150 square feet, remarkably just big enough to accommodate the six of us, a table, our seats, and a side table on which is provided an urn of what is supposed to be coffee, but I will find tastes like bog water.

I am at Orientation.

I am handed a thick manual, given papers to sign. In some firms you are given various cognitive and personality tests designed to determine your learning style and degree of operational skill but which you will begin to suspect are actually administered to ascertain your level of resistance to mental programming.

Miss HR takes us through the manual in painstaking detail, augmenting her elucidation with a PowerPoint presentation on an LCD screen. She is staunchly professional and poised–impressive, in fact. She explains the corporate vision and values and goals, which include ideas like “Increasing your personal workforce productivity while effectively and efficiently delivering value-added services to our clients to support our mandate of global growth and to drive performance.”

Oh.

I look around at the other inductees to see if this makes sense to them. I’m not sure because they nod.

Eight hours later, after a half hour lunch of stale sandwiches delivered to the anti-chamber (because they wouldn’t want us to leave) during which everyone provides a cursory speech about their education or experience and their expectations, we are led back to the glass doors.

As I pass out of the doors, I note a significantly different emotional feel than I had at 8:00 a.m., which, I determine, bears an abject similarity to being set free from a cage. There is a numbing tinnitus in my ears from the day’s lecture. My legs are stiff, my back hurts from sitting still for eight hours, and my bladder aches because I was actually afraid to ask Miss HR for permission to use the bathroom more than twice.

As I approach my car, my mood begins to elevate. Fresh air. Sunshine. As I feel increasingly good, I begin to wonder if I am experiencing some form of bipolarity — if mental illness is a side effect of corporate life.

I will learn that it is. It is dangerous, can be chronic…even fatal. It is called corporate zombism.

The Financial Analyst

I arrive at work at precisely 7:45 a.m. I like to get an early start. I like the same parking space. I like to walk briskly into the building before most people have arrived so that I can set myself up for my day without distraction; it can get awfully noisy during the din of the workday.

I reach my cubicle on the second floor after stopping at the cafeteria for my coffee—typically a medium French Roast with half & half and one Splenda. But they are out of half & half this morning, so I have to use whole milk, setting the tenor for a horribly off-kilter day. Additionally, it appears that the cleaning people have moved my garbage pail several inches to the right of where it usually stands. The inconsistencies of the day are already giving me heart palpitations. I move the garbage pail back to its appropriate spot, hang up my coat, and turn on my computer. IT has chosen to distribute a new virus protection program over the weekend which tells me that it will take ten minutes to install and then, as if this isn’t injury enough, I will have to restart my computer.

I bang my fists against my desk.

“Good morning John. How was your weekend?” my neighbor asks as he, too, gingerly approaches his cubicle.

“Good morning Rick; it was fine. How was yours?” I ask.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

We have the same conversation every Monday morning. We do not ask each other details. I do not, in fact, have details to provide. All I remember about my weekend is doing a lot of errands and housecleaning so that I could get back to The Office on Monday. By 7:45 a.m. Because I always have lots of work to do, and I must pay special attention to detail as a Financial Analyst.

Miss HR

I am under enormous strain today because of the Orientation. During peak hiring times they can happen as often as every Monday, which is a real killjoy to my other pursuits. But Orientations are of paramount importance, the most important aspect of my position. We can’t afford to have new hires running amok in the institution and causing chaos. So on Orientation Mondays, I have to arrive as early as 7:00 a.m. so that I can get some of my own work done before I meet with the inductees at 8:00 a.m.

Times of heavy layoffs can be just as bad. At those times we do mass exodus workshops to explain the packages to the droids, tell them about their stupid Cobra options, blah blah blah. Those can go either way. Sometimes the older droids who have been here a really long time get almost excited by the idea of retirement. But most of the time they cry. They don’t know what they will do with themselves without work. “I won’t have a purpose!” they’ll screech. It would be sad except that I don’t care. And the young ones, they always cry, because most of the time they’re half broke, living from paycheck to paycheck and they’ve just taken on some huge loan for a car they can’t afford and so they break down. It’s always the same.

My job is secure is because I am extraordinarily good at it. And not only do I have extra income from my other pursuits, I have a rich boyfriend. He is a hedge funder, and they make obscene amounts of money. We have a wonderful relationship because he is ugly. Which makes him the only faithful guy in an industry steeped in lust and infidelity. Sometimes I feel sorry for him but it passes.

My stomach is rumbling, “When did I eat last?” I wonder and remember something about a cube of cheese yesterday. I decide to head to the cafeteria before the insipid inductees arrive, but I am stopped by an equally insipid woman who asks to speak to me.

“Hello, Miss Barry, I was wondering if I can talk to you about something?” asks the insipid woman.

“Why certainly. Won’t you have a seat?” I pride myself on my professionalism. My concern for the employees here at The Office is an obvious testament to my integrity as a highly skilled HR professional.

The insipid woman wants some forms for eldercare insurance. I am so thankful my job is mostly about forms, because if I really had to talk to these people about something important I would vomit. If I had any food in my stomach, that is.

The Vice President

“Mary, I’d like my messages, please.” This is how I greet my assistant. I see no need to inquire about her weekend, as she is my employee, not my friend. “Then please bring me the sales forecasts for the month. And my coffee.”

“Right away Mr. Kane,” says Mary. Mary is very efficient.

I open my e-mail: 227 messages. I will forward them to Mary. I review my tasks in Outlook for the day and forward half of those to Mary. She brings me my messages, and I have 14 calls to make by noon. And before I can even begin my work my wife calls. She does this virtually every morning, because virtually every morning, something “urgent” is happening at home with the children. She doesn’t understand that I have a sales forecast to review, 227 e-mails, and 14 calls to make.

I return her call to find out that our clothes dryer had caught fire. Since the fire is out, I see no reason for alarm and tell her to call a repairman. I have the sales forecast to review.