I woke up in the morning to the sound of my alarm. I could see the world outside was waking up and getting brighter with every minute. The first thing I felt was the wine smell on my morning breath and in my mouth, and it felt disgusting. The second thing I felt was the major headache. I always hated the mornings after drinking and the headaches, and the breath smells, and the puffed-up face, and paranoia and everything else that came with it. I rolled in bed for a couple of minutes and then decided I need to get my shit together and get ready for work. I went to the bathroom, pissed. I was disgusted with my breath, so I decided to brush my teeth to get the wine smell out of my mouth. As I brushed my teeth, I looked in the mirror at my face, which was all swollen and puffy. I wondered if it will go away in the next two hours to look fresh for work.
I took a shower and started to dress up. I got my white shirt and my dress pants from my bag and put them on the bed. I found an ironing board in the small pantry along with an iron. I started to iron my shirt and pants, making sure that all looked nice and well pressed. I was hoping I could hide my hangover and headache with the sharp outfit. I needed to be at work by 9 am. It was almost seven now. I felt hungry and thought about where I should get my breakfast. I saw the restaurant downstairs, maybe I’ll go down there. I’ve searched for an Uber car to see the approximate time to the office. It was about 30 minutes in the morning traffic. I thought I had just enough time to get my breakfast. The headache became worse, and I took out a Motrin pill and swallowed it with some spring water. I’ve got my laptop bag with my stuff in there and was ready to leave. Spraying myself with some fancy perfumes, I looked at myself in the mirror and left the room. I took an elevator downstairs and walked towards the restaurant.
The restaurant was pretty busy this early morning. As I came closer to the front desk, the waiter greeted me and asked me to hold on a minute. Then a minute after, another waiter showed up and guided me to my table.
“Would you like something to drink, sir?”
“I’ll have coffee and orange juice, please,” I said with my deep hangover voice. I felt ashamed of it, but I needed to get straight before the job. I felt like my face was twice as big, and my eyes were getting a bit watery. The waiter has left the menu on the table and went to get my coffee with orange juice. I’ve got a small table near the window, and I was watching people walking by on the street, occasionally picking inside to see what this place was about. Some of them got in and ordered their breakfast. I felt a bit better when the coffee arrived. I was still drunk, but I was slowly recovering.
“What would you like to order for your breakfast, sir?” The waitress asked me. I ordered an omelet with potatoes. Then I was just sitting there and waiting for my order, watching people walking on the street.
It was very unusual for me to stay in another city for a couple of days, away from my wife and family, eating at some hotel’s restaurant before commuting to work with an Uber or taxi. I always ate at home, and I used my own car to get around back in Philadelphia. But it also felt great at the same time. I was just like all those busy people making it in New York who made New York alive. I could be somebody who has a fancy job with a fancy title; I could be a successful businessman to everyone around me. I felt somehow important for a minute. I felt like it is just cool to live this pretended life a few days before I go back to reality, back to my real world at home. While I am here, traveling and spending the Company’s money on myself, I will enjoy it as much as I can. My breakfast arrived. It was a large plate with an omelet and potatoes and toast. I ate it all passionately.
“Excuse me, can I get my bill, please?” I asked the waitress after I was done with my breakfast.
“Sure, one moment, sir.” She said and went to grab my bill.
I paid, left some tips, and left the restaurant. On the street, I pulled out my phone and looked for an available Uber car. The car was seven minutes away. I booked it and pulled out a cigarillo, started smoking while waiting for it to arrive. It was just another cloudy and muddy summer morning in New York City. I felt a little better after last night’s drinking, but I could still feel my brains vibrating inside my head and alcohol breath coming through the coffee and tobacco smell.
The next moment, I was in the backseat of an Uber car driving through the busy streets of New York. I liked to watch people from the vehicle. There were a bunch of different kinds of people out there. They all were busy getting somewhere this morning the same as I was. I watched many good-looking girls and women walking on the streets through the Uber car window. I felt what it would be like to live here every day and walk these streets every day or take these cabs every day to work or to go out. How do all those people live here? What does it take to live in the largest city in America? How will the city change me after I move in here?
There was some heavy traffic on West Street, and I checked my watch to see if I have enough time to get to work. I did. I’ve decided to listen to some music while we are getting there. As we were driving through all this morning mess and the sky outside was still grey and dull, I played the “Hell or Highwater” album by David Duchovny, which was the perfect soundtrack to this New York commute. David Duchovny was a proud New Yorker and sang about love and the city in his sad, thoughtful, and melancholy songs. Everything made more sense now; everything sounded good to me at once.
I arrived at the office building, thanked the driver, and walked out. There were a bunch of people early in the morning at the building’s lobby. Walking in, I scanned my badge and took an elevator to the eleventh floor. Everyone on my team was in the office by the time of my arrival. I walked in and greeted everyone. For whatever reason, I feel like I have become drunker than I’ve been before. It could’ve been the elevator. I wondered if anybody was able to see that I was hungover. Maybe they’ll think that I didn’t get enough sleep, or perhaps they’ll feel that I am just tired, or perhaps nobody gives a fuck? I got to my desk, logged in to my computer and phone, and started to check my emails and to-do list for the day. I didn’t have much to do after all. I was hoping maybe today we as a team will get together and will get some teamwork done. On the other hand, I didn’t really want to talk to anyone or see anyone up close. Maybe after work, we all will get out for a happy hour or something like that. I was going to get my own happy hour anyway.
I felt that I needed more coffee and went to the pantry room to grab some. Coffee always smelled great to me. Even in this shitty machine, coffee wasn’t as good, but it smelled nice, and it was sobering me up pretty well. I was nervous and paranoid. I knew I needed to show my best side, but instead, I showed up with a hangover, like an irresponsible asshole. I looked at other people in the office. They were all sober. They were going through their day, business as usual, talking to one another, smiling, talking on the phone, working on their computers, and so on. I felt ashamed. I felt like shit. I didn’t even want to talk to anyone. Shit, three weeks into the new job, the first time in the office, working face-to-face with my manager and my new team, and I am already showing my weaknesses and embarrassing myself like that.
I went through my emails, I’ve checked my calendar, no meetings were scheduled. I’ve got nothing to do for the day. I’ve opened the software tool I was learning to use, checked it out, messed around with it, clicked some buttons, and closed it. I went through all my folders on the drive and checked what’s in there, trying to memorize where everything was located. There wasn’t much in there, but I had to do something to kill time. I had to pretend like I am busy with something, whatever that something was. I went to the bathroom and took a piss.
Came back and went through my folders again. I knew there was a reason why the other guy and I were invited to come down to New York to work for a couple of days, but the reason wasn’t still quite apparent why I was there. I have been waiting the whole day to be called up, collaborate, do something, and nothing happened. The other guy was busy helping with building the dashboards, reports, or whatever. He didn’t seem like he was drinking anything but water last night. I’ve got nothing to do instead. The new girl who just got hired got some catching up to do; she was busy as well. We were just launching our new service tool, which from the technical standpoint should be my responsibility, but there was not much to it. I’ve got everything down and was waiting for the next steps. I looked at my watch and wished it was 5 o’clock already.
At noon, I raised my head up from the cube to check my surroundings, and there was nobody around. Where did they all go, I wondered. Maybe they went out to grab lunch together? I didn’t know, but I was hungry, and I logged out of my computer and went out. The cafeteria was on the fifteenth floor. I took an elevator up. The food selection was not much, and the food itself looked horrible, the typical office shit-food. I didn’t have much choice but to eat whatever was available. I was a stranger in this strange town, and it was all just some minor temporary inconveniences. I’ve got a bottle of water, a sandwich with a side salad, and checked out. I paid $12 for this little crappy meal. I couldn’t find an empty table, so I went back to the office. I decided I’ll eat by my desk. I was starving. That crappy sandwich tasted just perfect. A few minutes after, my team returned, and they saw me eating at my desk.
“Hey, are you already having your lunch?” Somebody asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I am hungry. Where did you guys go?”
“We were meeting. We’ll be getting something to eat now.”
“Ok, got you.” Said I, feeling stupid.
They all went out to the lunchroom, and I was in the room alone, again. Finished my sandwich with salad and returned to work on nothing again. Why in the hell I wasn’t meeting with them?
Not much happened in the afternoon either. At some point, my manager stopped by my desk and asked me a quick question regarding the data file format, and that was that. Nothing else that I was needed for the day. I thought, shit, they pay me money for my work, on an hourly basis, pretty good money indeed, and they are compensating my trip to New York, and here I am sitting around doing nothing for two days with no need for my services whatsoever. I felt a bit estranged and isolated then. It was just how it was. It was just like real life; nobody cares about you until someone does.
I tend to take things personally all the time, and I tend to overthink everything all the time. The thing about these large companies is that everything is built on a bureaucracy, one giant great bureaucracy machine. Everybody has their own job description, responsibilities, place on the corporate ladder, and their boss to report to, and so on. You are not expected to overproduce; you cannot go beyond anything on your job description. And when you are a contractor, like I was, don’t expect to be deeply involved in anything. They will tell just that much, and they will show you just this much, and you will do just this much, and nothing more. They are all super concerned about who reports to who, who should be doing what, and all those security and risk mitigations. You got to know the game and have to play the game right, and then you will be part of the team and be part of this big corporate machine. It took me some time to figure out how it all works, but it all made sense in the end. I was no longer frustrated, and I’ve just played the game with a smile on my face and a paycheck direct-deposited into my bank account.
I was drinking a lot of coffee and eating fucking menthol candies all the time, trying to kill the alcohol smell on my breath and just to sober up, and to my luck, I had almost no interactions for the whole day. One of the worst side effects that you can feel when you are hungover is being paranoid. I do feel like that a lot. I freak out when I am hungover, and the public is sober, and I feel like a douchebag, and I am just trying to hide, escape, and leave the planet Earth until I sober up again or after I get a good night of sleep. I couldn’t sleep well after the last evening of beer and wine drinking, so I was tired all day today. I sat by my desk and hoped that the five o’clock cannot come soon enough. I felt the immediate need to go back to my room. I need to have a good dinner and a fresh-cold beer or two, just enough to settle all my hungover worries down, and then I need a solid good night’s sleep which will cure all my problems and worries along with my stupid paranoia.
Five o’clock was on the clock, and I looked around the office. I could see my teammates busy behind their own desks working on something. I didn’t have anything to work on, so I just sat there like I did the entire day and waited some more. I thought I’ll give it a few more minutes, and then if nobody moves from their seats, I will just get up and say goodbye and leave the hell out. …Five-ten, five-fifteen, five-twenty… I looked around, and everyone was still working like it was one o’clock in the afternoon. I couldn’t handle this shit any longer. I started to pack up, logged out of my computer, and made some moves around. I got up and said out loud, “Have a good night guys, I will see you all tomorrow!” They responded accordingly, and I proudly, with immense relief, left the office.
I took the elevator down to the lobby, walked outside, and started to look for an Uber. Booked my Uber ride, which was supposed to arrive in 5 minutes. Good, I thought, soon enough, I will be “home.” My Uber came, I got in, said ‘Hi, how are you?” to the driver, and we took off. We drove back to my hotel, and the traffic was crazy as it should’ve been during any rush hour. I saw many cars, taxis stuck in traffic, and people packed, walking by on the streets, trying to get someplace. It all felt overwhelming, but I knew that this is how the end of the workday looked like in New York. It was just like Philly or just like any other large city with just tons more in volume. I was watching all these people and their busy lives passing by as I was driving by. In about 25 minutes, we were near the hotel. I told the guy to stop anywhere near he could as he did. I said, “Thank you, and Goodnight,” and left the car. I felt exhausted. Last night’s drinking was still on my guilty conscience. I knew that I would not be able to party too much this evening, but I was getting more and more hungry, and I needed a good night’s sleep.
I did my usual routine at the hotel room, took a shower, finished another glass of red wine from the night before, brushed my teeth, dressed up casually, put on some perfumes, got my cards and money, and left the room. I was out on Park street again, walking toward Times Square looking for a place to get my dinner and a beer. I didn’t put too much effort into it. I didn’t feel like spending too much time and effort looking for a place. I was annoyingly tired, and I needed something that was nearby. I thought about Hard Rock Café for no particular reason, and it was just straight ahead of my direction. So, I’ve decided to go back there. I walked in and took a seat by the bar. The bartender showed up with a greeting as a menu.
I’ve ordered a Stella right away and then an entry. I think I got ribs with fries and something else. There were a few other people at the bar and many people sitting at the restaurant tables. Being there for the second time in two days felt like I was a regular customer. I felt like I was local too. I didn’t pay too much attention to other people anymore. All I could think of was the food and beer and getting some sleep. The rest of the world didn’t matter anymore. I had another day at work tomorrow, and I would leave home right after. I just couldn’t wait to get the hell out of New York and go back home to my wife, back to my boring family life in Philly. I was still fucking confused why in the hell I was here for all three days. The two days at the office already passed uneventfully. I was sure I could make the same progress and even more at my original location and don’t have to spend so much stupid money on restaurants, hotels, cabs, and drinks. I’ve got just one more day to go, and for this reason, I feel like it is almost over. I’ll be home soon.
I ate my ribs and fries, and it felt good. The second beer felt much better than the first. I felt much better after all. The TV at Hard Rock was showing the same lame old-school videos. I still couldn’t figure out why rap and pop videos were showing in the Hard Rock Café. I guess they wanted to please everybody, not just the rock crowd. At the same time, I think rock people like myself were confused by these videos and wondering why in the fuck are they playing this garbage? Shouldn’t it be just rock and metal videos instead?
After I was done eating and drinking my second beer, I checked and left the place. Nothing was exciting and worth staying another minute. I was back at Times Square again, drowning in the ocean of crowds of these random people walking back and forth. I pulled out a cigarillo and started to smoke. I thought that it tasted great right after the food and beer. I didn’t care if you could smoke on the street and all that second-hand smoking stuff, but I did it anyway. I guess I just didn’t care. There was enough air pollution in New York without my smoking, so I wondered that nobody will ever pay any attention to this. It took me about ten minutes to get back to my hotel. I didn’t want to walk the streets anymore, I didn’t want to do bar hopping anymore, I didn’t want to do anything anymore. I thought it is not only about eight o’clock with change, and I can get to bed early and get some very much-needed good night’s sleep.
At the Edison hotel entrance, I was finishing my cigarillo, and I noticed the bar right next door to the hotel called “The Rum House.” I see some people walking in and out of there. I blew my smoke up in the New York’s evening air and went into the hotel’s entrance. As I walked inside, I was thinking about that bar. I made a right turn in the lobby’s hall towards the elevators, and I’ve noticed that there was an entrance to that “Rum” bar from the inside of the hotel. I battled myself for a few seconds and then decided to walk in. I thought the hell with it, I’ll have one more drink and then go back to my room. The good thing is that I didn’t have much to walk as it was right there in the hotel lobby.
I opened the door to the bar and, as always, was greeted by a security guy. Interesting enough, there was always a security guy in every bar in New York that I’ve been to. I showed him my ID and looked around. This place was small yet cozy, very much in the classic Colombian style with lots of traditional wooden furniture pieces and dark red color fabrics covering the walls and tables. There was one seat at the bar available, and I took it. There was a piano to my right, and a lady was playing and singing some jazz tunes. I felt at home immediately. This was so much better and worth spending my time and money than Hard Rock Café. There were many people inside as every table was taken, so I didn’t feel too bad about my far-corner place at the bar. The barman greeted me and showed me the menu. I looked at the menu and saw a wide selection of rum, tequila, whiskeys, and mixed drinks, especially many daiquiris types. There was one that caught my attention right away “Hemingway Daiquiri” or “Papa Double.” I’ve decided to try that.
“What would you like to drink, sir?” The bartender asked me. He was a tall black guy sharply dressed, very professional looking. He seemed like he knew his shit; one could tell.
“I’ll have a “Hemingway Daiquiri,” please,” said I.
“Ok, anything else?”
“Not at the moment, thanks,” I said, and he went about making my drink while I was checking the bar and everybody who was inside. The musicians just stopped playing. I think they were just finishing their set and were about to take a break. The lady at the piano sang very well, and the guy with a sax did a good job too.
I was getting my very first daiquiri, just like Papa drank them back in Key West at Sloppy Joe’s. It tasted great. There is nothing wrong with feeling great on yet another fucking boring weekday or evening, having a great fucking drink at the tremendous fucking bar in the classic Cuban style with some great fucking live jazz music. I felt terrific for the first time during that day. I made the right choice stopping by this place, I thought. All-day since I woke up, I felt like shit with my hangover and headache and the long-ass rainy day and the dull day at work and that paranoia feeling just wanting to hide in my room, in my bed so nobody can see how fucking miserable I am.
This was my last evening in one of the world’s greatest cities with one of the most excellent drinks I ever had, dedicated to the best fucking writer ever lived. I wasn’t sure if that was the drink or just the whole set that really uplifted my spirits and made me feel so much better. I thought about Hemingway for a moment and how I felt when I first read “A farewell to arms.” I do believe it is his best work personally. It kept me well engaged and entertained all the way up until the ending, and then during the last few pages, it really fucking hit me hard. I was done on my ass, shocked and fascinated by his writing and mastery of his storytelling, composition, and the simple and yet beautiful language he used. I never had such an intense experience with a book before. I remember it was late evening, I was to go to work, and I decided to finish these last few pages in the “A farewell to arms.” And after I finished reading, I felt that I will not be able to sleep that night. I was so fucking pumped and emotional I couldn’t find a place for me to sit down and relax. My head was full of thoughts and images, and fascination. I’ve learned and understood right there and then why Hemingway was such a great fucking writer.
There were many real emotions and personal experiences behind the simplicity of the style and plain language and simple dialogues, and it didn’t even seem like a big deal until it did, and then you were hooked. I wish I could write like Hemingway, or even if I could write just twenty percent just like him would be a victory for me. I always lacked the discipline to force myself to sit down and write anything. I am full of ideas, and the stories come to me and go as I am forgetting most of them over time. I feel like yes, that’s a good story to tell, I should write it down, and then there is no time. There is always no time for writing unless you really want to ignore the other part of your life for a moment. Unless you stop to care for a moment about everything else that worries you every day, like jobs, bills, politics, family, wife, etc.
Sitting in my hotel room drunk and writing something for a long time felt good. I felt like Bukowski, drunk and happy and excited to write when I am all alone in a small tiny room, in a strange city working on my craft, shitting out words hoping to get published someday. It would be great. I could get a few poems submitted here and there while trying to figure out what kind of writing I wanted to do. Poetry was my primary style starting out, heavily influenced by Bukowski. A bit later, I started to write short stories, and I felt like I enjoy writing short stories much better. I even started on a novel but dropped it a few times; it is still in the making, never-ending work in progress. Maybe one day it will see the daylight.
I’ve discovered and read “The sun also rises” and “A farewell to arms” last year as it became my introduction and a lifelong admiration for Hemingway’s writing. I bought the whole collection of Hemingway’s books at the small local book store down at Jim Thorpe, PA. I loved that store, especially since it’s been renovated. I bought a bunch of books there. I never read Hemingway before but wanted to discover and really understand why he was such a great and influential writer. It didn’t take me too long. “The sun also rises” was a book right up my alley. It took me a few pages to get into the then-new to me Hemingway’s style, and then it was all an adorable and smooth read. I liked the subject matter as well. Some guys go on vacation, fishing, drinking all the time, and traveling, and nothing seems to bother them; the lost generation. This is everyone’s life, especially when you are younger. I think that everyone is a lost generation, especially during your younger years until one matures in their mind reaching a certain age or going through specific life experiences that will change you as a human being.
I am thirty, and I have not matured yet. I am still a lost young boy in this crazy fucking world battling this crazy little thing called life, trying to figure it out, and trying to make it through. I felt some close spiritual connection to the main character in that story, and I loved the way the story went about without much of the picks and valleys and a crazy ending. It just simply captured life experience and adventure like a picture or a video would. “The farewell to arms,” on the other hand, was a breakthrough for me that had the most impact on me as a reader. After finishing that last sentence of the book, I felt like, “What the fuck, Hemingway?!” And at the same time, I admired him as a writer and storyteller and became a true fan. Now sitting in this bar thinking about all those things, I felt inspired. I’ve ordered another “Papa Double,” and it felt better than the first one, and I felt better as a person overall.
It was about nine-thirty when I looked at my watch. I knew that those fucking drinks are super expensive, at seventeen dollars apiece, and I should be wrapping up my tap. I gotta get out of there and go upstairs to my room to get some rest. I thought maybe I could get some writing done while I’m here and nobody bothers me. And so, I did. I asked to get my bill, charged my card, and thanked the bartender. He was a great bartender. Many of these guys behind the bar counter are fucking amateurs, but this one knew his craft, the craft of a bartender. You could feel it watching him making a drink, handling the glasses, bottles, the shaker, and you could feel the top class drinking his drinks. You could actually feel the good amount of alcohol in the fucking thing. Most of the time, mixed drinks at bars are just a waste of money. They have a bunch of a fucking colorful chemicals and some fruits in there and lots of ice but no or very little alcohol. Here I thought for the seventeen bucks, at least you are getting your booze intake as you should. I left him some tips and left the bar. It was a great bar. I loved it. I thought the next time I’m in town, I will definitely stop by this place again.
I went out through the main entrance right out onto the street, pulled out another cigarillo, and lit it. It felt great. I felt great. I smoked there alone on the sidewalk, watching some people walking by and listening to all the noise coming from Times Square. There always are a lot of people anytime doing nothing but getting that place crowded. I needed to be alone. I loved being alone. I finished my smoke and went up into my room. The laptop was there on the table along with a half bottle of wine, and I left it alone as I’ve decided I am going to write something tonight.
I typed and drank a bit more. Writing came a little better than the night before. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t so drunk this time. I’ve got a few pagers and decided to wrap it all up. Eleven o’clock came around, and It was time to pack my shit up and get ready to check out early in the morning. Tonight is my last night in New York, and before the day ends tomorrow, I will be back home. I felt like smoking again before bed and took one out, leaving the room.
Outside there was the same New York I left a couple of hours ago. Nothing changed much since. I’ve heard these noises still coming out of Times Square, and I’ve decided to take a little walk down there and see what’s going on. One thing that surprised me a lot was that I wasn’t being excited to be here anymore. All the hype has winded down, and now I just feel lonely and tired and homesick. There were many people on the Square, and there was some sort of dance competition going on. I stayed there on the side, quietly smoking and wondering what all these people were doing out here. Why aren’t they home by now, and what in the fuck is there so interesting watching a few street guys showing some wild street dances.
The city that never sleeps. Even when most of the people are asleep, there is still life going on out there. There is money to be made and money to lose, new opportunities on the horizon, and the beginnings of new troubles. New York was making money out of every single soul in there at any single second. Even if you were homeless and have no cash, New York already got you. I wasn’t really excited to go to work one more time in the morning, but I kind of wanted that moment to come and go as fast as possible. I was getting tired of all this traveling and drinking, and eating at different places and watching all these weird, strange people who, no matter how many, were still not making any sense to me. I wanted to be back home in my bed with my wife, enjoying the simple things, enjoying my simple life. I finished smoking and slowly went back to my room. I took a shower and went to bed. I switched off the lights, thinking about home while falling asleep.
I woke up around six am the next day, packed my bag with all my belongings, and went to a front desk down in the lobby. After the check-out, I’ve decided to visit the same hotel’s restaurant for breakfast as yesterday. I walked in and was greeted by a waiter, then they set me up with a table somewhere in the middle of the restaurant. There were, as usual, plenty of people out there for breakfast. I’ve got the menu ordered with some sort of omelet, orange juice, and black coffee. After I finished my breakfast, I paid my bill and left the restaurant. I didn’t feel as bad and drunk as I did feel yesterday, and that fact alone made me feel great about myself. As I went out to the West forty-seventh, a concierge helped people get a cab.
“Good morning there. Do you need a cab, sir?” He asked me.
“Yes, I do.”
“Ok, wait here sir, I will get a car for you.”
“Thanks,” I said and decided there is no time for smoking, plus it was raining again this morning.
The yellow cab arrived in a couple of minutes, and I was in it driving for my last day at work in New York City. It was raining. Sometimes I liked when it rained. Sometimes the rain was so annoying that I couldn’t stand it. That day was the most annoying rain ever. I put my earbuds in and played some music by David Duchovny. For some reason, his music made this rainy New York scene more attractive and even pleasant to watch. I was sitting back in the car, watching life outside. There were a lot of people out there trying to get somewhere in this rain. I felt terrible for them, and at the same time, I felt better about myself. We’ve passed some streets, and buildings, and other cars on the road. The traffic wasn’t as bad, just about average for New York’s morning commute. I was always fascinated by how big and strong and wide this city was and how small and insignificant I felt in it. Even all those tons of people on the streets seemed to be also insignificant. The city was more powerful and much more extensive and strange at the same time.
“Good morning, guys!” I said when I walked into the office, placing my bags on my cube’s floor.
“Good morning John, how are you?” my boss asked.
“I am good, thanks. How about you?”
“I am well too, busy, you know?”
“I hear ya.”
And that was pretty much the only conversation I had in the office for the entire day. I didn’t care anymore if we would be getting together for lunch or some sort of team meeting, team discussions, Q&A, or whatever. It didn’t matter to me anymore. I was finally learning something about working for a large corporation and where I stood in the whole thing. I was a contractor, the lowest of the breed, there were specific responsibilities that I had to fulfill, and that was what the job required of me; the rest was not my bullshit. As long as the paycheck arrives every Friday in my bank account, I shouldn’t care about anything else. And I didn’t.
People should never take their jobs too close to their heart or their head or too personal because sooner or later you will be fired, sooner or later you will be no longer needed, sooner or later you will be fed up with your job and would want better conditions, better pay, better benefits or something else. The thing is that we all are voluntary slaves, and we choose to work here or there or choose not to. Especially the office jobs. Most of “nine-to-fives” are the same fucking jobs. There are the same generic people in every office, with their dull conversations, with the same lunch bags with smelly left-overs, with the same problems that never go away, with the same stupid looks on their faces, with the same shitty coffee in their mugs, with the same delusional thinking that they are the most essential workers in the Company and that the Company will not survive a day without them. The reality is that it will. And, in fact, it will do even better when you are not around anymore.
There are no non-disposable people for office jobs or any kinds of jobs. There always will be somebody else to take over your job and do it better. There will be automation, or outsourced labor, or some other dude or gal who is as desperate and miserable as you are and need this kind of employment. The truth is that everything in your life is a journey, and you should take it that way. It should be ending sooner or later; you should be moving on and moving forward at all times if you want to stay afloat. Never take any job seriously and too close to your heart so it wouldn’t be as painful to leave the place or be fired. I made that mistake multiple times in the past. There will always be somebody else to replace you.
On the other hand, there will always be another fucking office job for you somewhere in the world. I feel a bit sad about all these older people who have spent their entire lives in the offices, and they are nowhere near the upper management level. They are getting older, getting out of share, getting sicker, getting more and more frustrated, and becoming dependent on their fucking job, thinking God forbid if I get fired, it will be the end of the world. And for many of them, getting fired means that it will be harder, if not possible, to find a new job that will pay the same and have the same benefits, and will be this close to their homes, etc. Some feel like this current office job is the last resort, and there will be a death in the afternoon, and there will be darkness in the future.
I know that I wouldn’t be here forever, but for now, I am here, and I have to make the most out of it. It means getting some experience, learning something new, building some new work relationships, getting a few critical bullet points for my resume by doing the best I can while I am around.
You should remember that you are here at your current office job, primarily for the paycheck. Don’t buy into that bullshit they tell you about you are part of the family and that you are as important as all of them and that you are required. You have to take responsibility, always be mindful about your employment, represent your Company in your personal life, and what your social media and keep it clean and all that stuff. This is what corporate slavery actually is. This is the moment when you are selling your soul to the corporate devil. This is when you become part of the machine. And you will do it; you need money, those bills have to get paid, those credit cards, loans, car leases require a monthly payment. I’ve learned it the hard way; the more of the stupid debt I had, the more frustrated and nervous I’ve become with all of my jobs. At times I couldn’t think straight because of anxiety and stress. This shit will kill you as a human being and as an employee. That’s why I say nobody should be taking their job too close to their hearts and minds.
This last day at New York’s office was effortless and went by pretty fast. As soon as my morning began, there was lunchtime. I went over for lunch, grabbed some trash-food from the cafeteria, and ate it by myself. Then I checked my train schedule, and I needed to figure out when to leave to get home early. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I just wanted to go home. I was missing my wife, my home, I was missing Philly. The best option would be to leave the office around 4:30 pm, get a cab to the train station, and then have 20 minutes to take the next train to Trenton, where my car was waiting for me at the train station’s 24-hour parking lot.
“John, when is your train?” My boss asked. “You can leave earlier if you need to catch your train.”
“It seems like the best time for me to leave will be 4:30, so I can get to the train station and catch a 5 0’clock train.” Said I.
“Ok, sounds good.” Said, my boss.
The day ended quickly. I packed my shit and said to everyone:
“Ok, have a good night everyone, I will be heading out; I need to catch my train.”
“Have a good night, John, save travels.”
“It was nice meeting you.”
“Thank you, You as well.”
“Ok, take care, guys. We’ll talk tomorrow,” said I, leaving the fucking place.
“Talk to you tomorrow.” Said my boss as I left the room.
I got the cab outside and told the driver to the train station. The traffic was still there, but it was a kind of pleasure to stay there. I was done with my workday, I had no idea, and it would be a while before I had to see my manager and the new girl who eventually became my supervisor. Life was good no matter how many managers you had as long as you kept your soul and sanity. I was at the train station faster than I assumed. There was still time to smoke another cigarillo before going back and wait for the proper gate to open for my Trenton Transit train. As I smoked outside the station’s entrance, I was looking at the people walking around. I don’t know why but I’ve always liked to watch random people going about their business. How they looked, how they walked, how they dressed, and what else they did while they were walking around. I also wondered what kind of life they must live, what they will do next, what kind of problems they have, and how they are making it here in New York City?
The train that arrived at the gate was announced on the schedule screen, and the whole crowd just fucking ran towards their respective gates. I have never seen anything like that before. These people were like trying to escape this fucking town the earlier better. I took a seat on my train next to the window, took out a book, and started reading. The time flew by fast, along with the pages I’ve read and before I’ve realized I was there. The magic of the excellent book always fascinated me. You never felt the time flying by when you read something outstanding. Trenton welcomed me with another train station and a bunch of hustling people. I rushed to the parking lot. I just couldn’t wait to get home quicker. My car was still there and all in one piece, making me feel a bit more relaxed. I’ve put my luggage in a trunk and started the car. As my car was warming up, I dialed my wife.
“Hi honey, I am back. Just got to Trenton, actually sitting in my car already. I will be home in about 30 minutes. Are you alright?”
“Hi, I’ve missed you! Yes, I am alright. I am making dinner for you, so come home quick. Love you!”
“Will do. Thanks, I love you as well. Missed you a lot!”
“Come home now.”
“Ok, I am coming home, babe. Will see ya soon,” said I, driving off the parking lot.