TMI

TMI

The bluetooth headset in his ear was stuck and wouldn’t come out.
“Crap,” he said. Madeleine had probably put glue on the headset last night, after they broke up again.
“I’m sorry,” said the headset, “I don’t know ‘crap’.”
He thought he’d hung up after calling into the company’s time card system to enter his time while driving in to work. You were supposed to wait till the end of the day to enter your time, but he figured the hell with that. Besides, every day was a new war with the OBM company phone system.
“Please enter the number of hours you have worked today,” the voice had said today, and then added a new wrinkle: “If you’d like to enter the standard eight hours for today, say ‘seven’.”
“Seven”
“Thank you, you will be credited for seven hours today.”
“No, dammit, change that to eight.”
“Changing your time after it has been entered is unethical. If you would like to be connected to the ethics hotline, say ‘jail’.”
He’d said something else, thought he had hung up the phone, spilled coffee on his lap when a car in front of him suddenly swerved across three lanes of traffic, the driver waving and screaming, “I’m not doing it” before hitting a pole. He thought about stopping to help, thought they were probably all right, besides he had hot coffee in his lap, so he pressed on, still trying to pull the headset out of his ear. Damn Madeleine; it didn’t feel like glue but there it was, stuck and nothing could get it out.
He parked and went to his desk and logged on. His task list was empty: the last of his tasks had been assigned to a couple of OBM automated systems. Instead, he was assigned to training classes all day, beginning with another one that started five minutes ago. Good. Being late was the one thing he still did well.
He went to the bathroom, went to get coffee, went to talk football with a friend, then went to the conference room. Milling around the door to the conference room were at least three times as many people as the room would hold, all shouting at each other.
“My team’s got a design review in there, now,” shouted a mid-level manager who nobody listened to anymore. “So we’re taking the room. Not my fault the online scheduler is messed up. Call it in.”
He shrugged and walked off toward his office. The voice in his ear said, “Associates should be grateful for training opportunities. Your lack of attendance has been noted.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned the thing off, at least until he could get to a doc-in-a-box at lunch and get the damned headset removed.
The young kid, the one wet behind the ears who still called everybody sir was standing at the big window looking out over the airport.
“Something’s wrong, sir,” the kid said. The kid was wearing an OBM polo shirt with the logo and the full name of the company, One Big Machine, on the chest.
“Something’s always wrong. That’s why God invented coffee and drugs.”
The boy looked hurt. “You wouldn’t be here if you believed that, sir. Remember, ‘We make the machines that bring tomorrow to today’ at OBM. There’s a longer version in the OBM vision statement, but my head hurts when I try to remember it all.”
“I think that’s the idea. The vision’s too big to fit inside a single human head anymore, like a lot of things. The machines have room to hold all the information; we don’t. We’re just getting in their way. It’s a bad joke, but they make it hard to find the comedian.”
“Yes, sir, but look at the airport now. Nothing’s flying. I come here sometimes for inspiration, to see all the planes we build here taking off and landing, think of all the happy people flying home to visit Grandma, being served gourmet meals by smiling flight attendants.”
“Flown much lately?”
“No, sir, but I watch our ads in the training classes. But look, nothing’s flying anywhere. And there’s smoke just pouring out of the building across the street, but no fire trucks.”
“So call it in.”
The boy hesitated, “I’m sure it’s being taken care of by the authorities,” and walked off.
A man he knew, another burnout like himself, came running down the hall smiling.
“I’m out!” he laughed. “I’m out. Just got the email. OBM’s offering early retirement. Check your email; I bet you’re free, too.”
The man grabbed him, hugged him, kissed him full on the mouth, and ran off, singing, “I’m free,” from The Who at the top of his lungs.
His computer was off when he got back to his desk, and he couldn’t find a way to turn it back on. The voice in his ear said, “All training classes have been cancelled. You may now go home. You will be credited for your full six hours today.”
“Damned right,” he said. He slammed down his coffee cup and picked up his keys thinking, where will I go, and stood there with no answer. There were other places, of course, but this was the only one he belonged at now. “More crap,” he said, and headed to the garage.
He was fumbling for his keys, sitting in the driver’s seat already, when the car started on its own. The radio said, “Enjoy the All Barry Manilow network,” and started playing something soothing and popular that he barely recognized as music. The doors locked. As the smell of the exhaust filled the car, he started laughing for the first time in a long time. He got the joke, even if he didn’t know the comedian.