Things took a bad turn around the microwave. Nobody wanted to wait, the line snaked around the linoleum covered tables, the coffee cart, the ratty, brown, Naugahyde recliner where Bob, the janitor snored in peaceful, dreamy oblivion. Nerves were stretched tight and tempers flared, you could smell the rage.
“Or a few more?” Someone replied.
“It’s goddamned ridiculous.” Geoff, from personnel said, his voice choked with emotion. “This is the new exploitation, we’re being taken advantage of. We have to wait here until we’re late from lunch, take the points, and then we’re hanging over the edge, looking straight at being written up, suspended, terminated, tossed out on our asses. Then they bring in new people, and pay them less, and the profits go up, the fat-cats get fatter, the shareholders are happy and we’re standing in line waiting for unemployment, or worse yet, tending the drive through at Diablo Tacos, or cleaning the parking lot at Super Savers. We should walk out, start a protest. Picket the place. Block the driveways, doorways and sidewalks. Get the press, and the national labor relations board, we should get that lawyer, that guy who’s always on television talking about working conditions, what the hell is that guy’s name?” His voice raised gradually, but perceptibly as he spoke.
“His name is Jacob Williamson. The lawyer’s name is Williamson. I saw his commercial last night during America Can Sing. He said ‘if you can’t get a fair shake call Jake.’ He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and had a sledge hammer over his shoulder, and a toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth. You know, he looked really big, but I have a friend who works at the television station and he said he’s really short, and kind of chubby, and his hair is thinning, and he has six toes on his right foot.” Bonnie, from building services said, holding a bright red box, with the words “Diet Pasta Alfredo, with basil and oregano, loaded with flavor, not calories. She was tall, and shapely, and dreamed of a career as a performer. Her smile was flawless, and her skin was perfect, she had the looks to be a celebrity, but she couldn’t sing, or dance and they had asked her not to come back to the local community theater for auditions, because she was so attractive it was a distraction. Somehow, she made being attractive a handicap.
“That’s the guy, that’s the one I was talking about. We should call him.” Geoff said. He was shaking with uncontrollable fury. He was sweating and his thin, pale, left arm rose slowly and he made a fist to show his defiance. His right hand was locked firm around a microwaveable bowl holding the remnants of last nights green bean, hamburger, potato casserole.
An electric buzz ran through the line, the air was thick with revolution. Murmurs of defiant retribution darkened the conversations.
“I can grab some empty boxes for the picket signs. I work in shipping.”
“There are a ton of markers in the art department, I’ll grab some.”
“We need a slogan, more than one. It’s gotta be something good. We can’t go out there demanding longer lunch times. Nobody’s gonna care about that.” Bob, the janitor was up, standing on a table. He hadn’t made a sound, rose like a wraith, from the comfort of his lunch time nap, to a table in the middle of the room. An air of authority rose from his olive green pants and shirt, he had the appearance of royalty, his graying hair wrapped around his head like a crown. his voice was deep and powerful. Nobody had noticed the bright shine on his black work shoes, even the Velcro straps were polished to a mirror finish.
“How about something like ‘we demand equity.’ Or ‘no more unfair time practices.” A voice rang from somewhere toward the front of the line.
“Or, ‘we’ve waited long enough.’” Someone hollered.
“How about, ‘stop stinking up the kitchen with your vile leftover perch?’” Came another voice.
“It’s not perch, it’s salmon. Dumbass.”
“It stinks. And stop burning the microwave popcorn! How hard is it to take it out when it’s done?”
Noise swelled and vibrated across the assembly.
“That vanilla hazelnut coffee makes me wretch, it smells like an Oompa Loompa threw up.”
“I hate it when somebody leaves a few seconds on the microwave and I have to push the clear button.
Insults started to fly. Low blood sugar mixed with the broken promise of revolution and retribution into a thick, terrible broth of unfulfilled violence.
A bowl of leftover beef stew was dumped over a head, it splashed onto a plate of macaroni and cheese, the broth sat there, forming a puddle of unhappy, brown liquid on the bright yellow orange coated curls. It looked so sad the person holding it just walked over and threw it in the trash can. Dropping onto the floor, his back against the wall right next to the trash can he sat and wept, his head in his hands. He had made the dish himself, with three different hand grated cheeses, organic, hand made macaroni, and a touch of smoked paprika. It was ruined, even the plate, a brand new re-usable bamboo plate from Macy’s was ruined. He looked at his co-workers and realized they were all crazy.
The bell rang, two slices of pizza warmed and ready were taken out, the aroma floated gently across the room, the line moved forward one step, and a hot dog took its place on the stained, glass turnstile, 45 seconds was pressed and the conversation turned to the bowling party next weekend. Bob had returned, unnoticed to his recliner and was sleeping soundly, a small bit of drool running down his chin. An air of calm pressed on the conversation and sound was subdued, and a the light took on a gentle glow.
Until somebody looked at their watch.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: Shutterstock
