Happy Hour
It was not our typical, crappy, day at the office—anything, but theusual, really. Today was our last day. The company had been bought outmonths ago and last week we all got the final shift in the wind. Almost ayear was spent with employee morale flushing down the pipes, productionlevels decreasing with our sanity, and the five of our little cliqueconstantly being berated on our ‘lack’ of complying with company policies.
There were a couple times when we thought we would be canned, but—somewhatunfortunately—instead, we were reprimanded for our ‘bad behavior’ and‘misconduct’. By that, what I mean is that we were making the best of ourdays and positions in such a dark time. Staring at a computer screen, allday long, gets tiring and the all encompassing gloom of layoff doom aboutthe crowd, and throughout the building, creates such depression in onesminds that we could not bear to stand for it. And we didn’t. We could refused tolet it get us down, but in our frugal attempts to be optimistic, we were onlyshattered by the “Uppers.” Sounds ironic, huh?
Our little corner of the cubical universe was a bit louder, anddefinitely more obnoxious, than the rest. We would laugh, and bicker, andcackle at—and with—each other in order to maintain whatever sanity wecould grasp in our tedious routine. This, however, creates an improper workatmosphere. Apparently. It’d just be best if we sat, quietly, conductingour monkey routine in a unified and conforming manner. At least this iswhat the Notxies want. In reality, it was all personality politics.Expectations of a certain manner of conditional personalities, to be likedby the Notxies (yeah, Hitler had his favorites too). Those were the only ones whowould abstain from punishment and harassment from the ‘official’, non-cubiecrones.
We were also the ones to be out of our seats at right at 5h, butapparently, this is unethical in some form and fashion. Picking at strawswas the name of the layoff game at this point, but there was really noreason to be bullying the only people who actually knew, how to laugh andsmile in the darkest of economic times. Our company is not the only oneexperiencing changes and layoffs. The entire country is high demand forjobs, with none being supplied. It is way beyond my logic that peoplewould want to bring others down for having, in the least attempting, anoptimistic demeanor. So really? I mean REALLY?! What the fuck is ourinitiative anyways?
The answer? There really isn’t one. We were just the black sheep ofthe group, because we refused to let rules and regulations bring us downany further than we had to be. So that day, that final day, we went to grabdrinks at a bar down the road. Happy Hour at its best, to reminisce on thegood times we created for ourselves at H—. This was our timeto be at our highest volume of laughter, obnoxiousness and optimism. Withno one to stop us, no one to sneer, no one to look down on us for being whowe are.
“We’re free!” The throng of us chided as we strut out of thebuilding for the last time, ever.
“Where are these drinks, now?” Being too blind-sighted by the factthat this was it, we had not actually decided where to go for said HappyHour. To be honest? I was craving margaritas. However, I had no care in theworld where we went, so long as I had some hard liquor and decentfood.
“How about Chilis? It’s close enough for all of us and I’m cravingquesadillas,” H— chimed in response.
“I don’t give a shit! So long as I get the hell out of here and havesome cognac.”
“You and your hard alcohol, you’re poor husband will be picking youup by the time we’re done. I’ll stick to my beer and consciousness.” Ah,the constant hilarious bickering of T— and M—, always pricelessconversations.
“Well, I’m down for Chilis, I could use a margarita, and we’ll haveto all do at least one round of shots, that includes you N—.”
“Maybe one, JJ, but nothing too crazy.” “Chocolate Cake shot, it’ll be great. I promise.” With a smile, Iturned my back to them, and glaring at the building I spent a good portion oftime in this past year or so; I spit at it, then screamed as loud as Icould:
“GOOD FUCKING RIDDANCE!” (to be continued…)
1 comment:
I suffer from working in the cube farms. It's tough, but over the last few years I have been happy to see that things are becoming more relaxed. Of course, it won't ever be like club med, but it's improving. Much better than asking "Do you want fries with that?"
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