Business as Usual
Just that Friday feeling, you know?
My job is to look busy.
It's a good job. Not the greatest, sure, but what job is? Work is work. And besides—it's the best I can do right now, anyway.
I have a desk, and a computer, and a separate email account for professional affairs. Every day, I wake up in the morning, take a shower, have some breakfast, and head into the office for work. And every evening, I shut down my computer and walk back to the kitchen to make dinner. Then, by the time I'm done eating, it's usually time to go to bed, so I can wake up in time the next morning for work.
Every day.
Every evening.
Perfectly normal.
Like everyone else.
So what is my job, then, exactly?
I told you already. I'm a businesswoman. I do business.
I'm good at it, too—I always have been good at things like this. Thinking on my feet, staying adaptable, always willing to fill in whatever role needs to be filled—or whatever everyone else doesn't want to do, anyway.
I'm a good worker. I know how to work with a team. I even like most of my coworkers.
And if it wasn't for the fact that all our desks and chairs are bolted to the floor, I'd have quit years ago.
Because my job isn't about being busy, or getting things done. That's just what I'm supposed to look like I'm doing. My job is to look busy, and to be busy looking busy, so that we can get the funding we need to keep doing it.
We're a nonprofit, after all.
My boss is the director, a middle-aged man named Richard. He's got a full head of brown hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. He's not especially tall or especially handsome, but he's got the sort of presence about him that makes him feel larger than life.
I can't remember the last time I actually saw him. He's usually too busy working in his office, or attending meetings with our various donors and clients. Sometimes, though, he'll come out of his office and walk around the floor, looking at all of us as we pretend to be busy.
He does this when someone new arrives. When they start their first day. So they can get the full experience of our little world.
There's only three rules, you see. Three rules for our whole entire company.
First: Everyone has to wear a suit and tie.
Second: Everyone has to keep their computer screens turned so that anyone who walks by can see them.
Third: Everyone has to be busy, and look like they're busy.
It's that simple.
It's all just that simple.
But there's a fourth rule, too. One that everyone knows, though you won't find it in any of the footnotes and fine print and appendices in any version of the employee handbook anywhere.
It's just the way the game has always been played.
That fourth rule is: You don't leave.
No one leaves. Once you start, you're here for life.
What happens if you try? Well, nothing bad happens, of course. It's not like they can really lock us inside, or anything like that. But as soon as you start pointing it out, people start to look at you differently. They'll start to wonder why it matters.
"Are you thinking about leaving us?" they'll say. "Who’s going to replace you?"
And before long, they'll start wondering if maybe they shouldn't be thinking about leaving, either. Maybe they don't really have to stay, either, they'll think. And pretty soon, that's all anyone will be talking about—leaving, and not leaving, and the importance of staying.
The thing is, none of us really wants to leave. We just want to make it look like we might be considering it.
Because the truth is, no one really wants to be the first one to go. If they're the first, they'll be remembered for leaving, and no one wants that.
No one wants to be seen as the quitter, or the traitor.
And so, we all stay.
Because we don't have a choice.
Because the only other option is to go.
And no one wants to be the first.
I've been working here for six years now. I've been busy, and looked busy, and pretended to consider leaving for a long, long time. And every day, I still come back.
I'll probably be here for the rest of my life.
And that's fine. That's okay.
It's just my job. It's just the way it is.
It's a good job, really. It's better than nothing. And besides—
It sure as hell beats the bread line. ⁂