No one will probably ever see this except, perhaps, for my equally encumbered roommate. He works with me in the same office, located on prestigious Bleecker Street in prestigious New York City in the prestigious Lower East Side. The building is actually one of the most beautiful that I've seen here; it's a pearly off-white, and elaborately carved with flowers and angels in a rather art nouveau-type style. Unfortunately, this is about the only enjoyable thing about our job, and it's hardly enjoyable from inside our tiny cubicles. We spend our days wired to a computer, doomed to endlessly type smarmy customer service emails to the great unwashed of cyberspace. This is what it's like to work in the Online Division of Estee Lauder (and Companies) Customer Service. Every time an order is received damaged or without an ordered item, every time some old bat's favorite coral lipstick is discontinued, every time a bloody free sample isn't received, they come swarming to their dusty keyboards, plunking away on the keys, their fingers like chickens after so much caterpillar. As if that doesn't sound like enough excitement, poor David and I are also subject to a creature so vile, so stupid, so offensively incompetent that she can only be referred to as: Retard-O-Boss. Alright, alright - she can be referred to by a number of other, easily more accurate terms, but we'll stick with Retard-O-Boss for its simplicity and humor and, of course, its overall truth.
There is a favorite childhood story of mine called The Phantom Tollbooth, and in it are creatures called the Demons, who live in the Mountains of Ignorance. One of these Demons is called the Terrible Trivium, and it is this Demon that I am most reminded of when I think of our dear Retard-O-Boss. As you may be able to guess by its name, the Terrible Trivium was a wretched Demon whose sole purpose was to distract you from getting on with anything important by heaping a mountain of useless, trivial tasks upon you until you were stuck forever filling a well with an eye-dropper, or moving a mountain from one place to another with only a pair of tweezers. (Sound familiar, David?)
I suppose the job isn't all bad, what with being able to sit on our bums all day and earning twenty bucks an hour for it. Meaningless, true, but the American ideal of doing as little as possible for as much as possible has infected my brain with its lazy allure and its bedroom eyes.