Thomas World (8 page)

William's teeth are brownish and pointy like a dog's. And judging by the look in his eyes, I think he knows I have absolutely nothing ready.

You have probably already figured out I'm on thin ice with William. I haven't exactly been on the ball as of late. But it's difficult to impress a man so blindly earnest that he'll do whatever is asked of him, whether it makes sense or not. He'll stay at work hours after everyone has gone home, hoping his own boss will believe he's burning the midnight oil, when really William spends hours in his office playing Hearts and Minesweeper on his computer. And when I get ready to leave—on time—he'll come over and ask passive/aggressive questions about my work and my priorities and my career goals. You get the feeling he was a nerd in high school, and now he thinks he's having the last laugh at everyone as he claws his way into middle management. And here I am, having forgotten to begin a basic (but important) project that he instructed me last week, very clearly, to make my number one priority.

What I wouldn't give to stand up and point my index finger at him and yell:

“Why don't you stick your Google report up your ass, you pedantic ladder climber?”

But last year I earned $65,536 sitting here in my cube, staring at these spreadsheets, generating these reports. If I quit before I can earn a living writing films, I would have to find another regular job anyway. And let's be honest: Williams are everywhere. You can even find them in Hollywood, except there they are called studio executives.

So I can't quit. Not yet.

Regarding the Google report, I say, “I'm not quite ready with any talking points. Can I get you something tomorrow?”

William smiles thinly.

“Tomorrow should be fine,” he says, and vanishes as quickly as he appeared.

After a time I look back down at my computer. I've got a new email, but it's not from Dick but rather a woman named Rhonda. Rhonda is the coordinator for our online catalog. She wants me to bring statistics from another search engine ad campaign to our meeting at one o'clock.

Shit. I forgot I had a meeting at one o'clock. The day's work continues to build, minutes stretching into potential hours, even days. It seems like I will never get out in front of it, that I will never be caught up enough to actually enjoy anything, like my life, and I wonder if the powers that be set it up this way on purpose. Just like the debt I owe—thirty years to pay off my giant mortgage, credit card debt with low payments and high interest designed to keep me paying forever. Maybe this is why I feel like I'm being chased all the time, like I can never rest, because even though I'm stuck in middle-class hell, I'm always one paycheck away from epic collapse. And I can't imagine a way out of it, not ever.

I look down and see the email from Dick has finally arrived, There is a link, as promised, which I click on. The page that pops up is white, and at the top, the words
Ant Farm 2.0
shimmer in large, silver letters. Below the name is a photo of a miniature Mayan temple with ants crawling on it, and beside that photo there is a quote that says
Play God.

Farther down the page there are two more sections. One is a list of blog entries in reverse chronological order with names like
Player Feedback — Chapter 31
and
Player Feedback — Chapter 30
and so on. Thirty-one chapters of player feedback means a lot of people are playing this game.

The other section says:
Download Ant Farm here — Large file size, high speed Internet required!!

And beneath the text is a graphic, a round, nebulous, object drawn to look like a sphere. It appears to be rotating, like a planet on its axis.

By now you may have guessed, but I'm going to say it anyway.

The sphere is blue. It looks exactly like the orb I saw in church yesterday.

I'm not kidding.

For a moment I can't do anything but stare at it. Paranoia creeps down my spine and shrivels my balls.

With a shaking hand I direct the mouse pointer toward the orb, and the arrow dances a jerky dance across the screen.

The orb is the link to download the file.

I want to click the link, but I don't, not yet.

Because surely you can agree this graphic is proof that what I saw yesterday really happened. Maybe no one else in the church saw the blue orb, but I sure as hell did, and now here it is on the web site Dick sent me. It can't be an accident. It looks exactly the same.

Something important is happening. Something so important that I am apparently being fed clues and hints. The guy in the bathroom started it, and now Dick, who went into a trance and told me a secret about numbers, about pi, has pointed me toward a computer program that uses a blue orb on its web site.

I have good reason to be freaked out, right?

For a moment I just sit there, staring at the computer monitor, my hands still shaking. The cooling fan in my computer hums. My hard disk whirs. Conversations from other cubicles float toward me, a few words here, a chuckle there. Footfalls and swooshing pants as someone walks by in the hallway behind me.

The synthetic smell of microwave popcorn.

The surreal and contrived florescent light.

And in my head, distantly, maybe I'm imagining her or maybe she's real…a woman reciting numbers.

4…1…9…7…1…
pause…
6…9…3…9…9…
pause…
3…7…5…1…0.

Slowly, carefully, I stand up and peek over the wall of my cubicle. Everywhere I look, 360 degrees, I see the grid outlines of other cubicles. Seven or eight rows over, someone else is also standing up, looking right at me.

She quickly sits down, and I quickly sit down.

Someone is watching me. I can feel it. But who are they? Where are they?

My skin is gooseflesh, so prickled with energy I may as well be plugged into an electrical outlet. Is anyone else besides me being watched? They must be. Certainly I can't be so special that I'm the only one who has ever been chosen. I mean that's the sort of thing a paranoid schizophrenic believes, right? That the world somehow revolves around him?

But this is different. This is really happening to me. I have proof.

In front of me, the blue orb hovers on the screen.

I'm about to click on it when I hear hushed footsteps, and then once again William's face peeks around the corner of my cubicle. The rest of him is still on the other side of the wall, which makes it seem as if his head has somehow become disembodied.

“Thomas,” he says. “Could you join me for a quick meeting in my office?”

“Sure. Right now?”

“Yes, now would be great.”

William's face disappears and the sound of his footsteps quickly recedes. Obviously he isn't too pleased with my procrastination on the Google project, and I can already tell I'm going to hear another speech about how my mind hasn't been in the game lately. But I don't have time for this now.

I grab my notepad, which I always bring to meetings with William, regardless if they are five-minute “huddles” or twenty-minute “brainstorm sessions” or hour-long “staph meetings.” My teammates and I spell it
staph
instead of
staff
because long, pointless meetings make us feel feverish and lethargic, like a staph infection might.

Anyway, the notepad is usually there to record whatever random ideas William stumbled across after watching a webinar or reading an industry blog or reviewing his old MBA textbooks. Today, though, he's probably going to assign some new targets to my project plans, to make sure I stay on task and get my work done on time. But I can't believe the timing of this. I need to be sitting in front of my computer. I need to be downloading that
Ant Farm
program and trying to decode Dick's strange message.

I have to admit, though, that William's concerns are well-founded. My productivity has been shit lately. I can't remember the last time I spent all day working on anything. As I trudge down the cubicle hallway toward William's office, I rack my brain to remember what projects I was working on last week, when I was ignoring the Google report. But I can't think of anything. All I can think about is that damned blue orb.

I don't realize until I reach his office that the door is closed. William never closes his door when he's just invited you in for a meeting. This is highly improper.

I'm not sure what do, so I knock.

“Yes, Thomas,” William says. “Please come in.”

I open the door and find my boss sitting behind his desk, looking even paler than he usually does, his face slack and uncertain and frightened. The next thing I notice is Brin Finneley, our company's senior legal counsel, sitting in a chair across the desk from William. Seeing Brin in here causes my heart rate to immediately double. It causes my hands to shake. You don't want to see Finneley, not ever, unless maybe you bump into him in the cafeteria. And even then, while he's spooning pasta salad into a Styrofoam container, and you're standing next to him, waiting for your chicken sandwich to be ready, you half-expect Finneley to look up at you and yell “BOO!” Because Finneley is the company's Grim Reaper. He sits in on all dismissals to ensure fired employees know their rights, and to protect managers like William from saying something that could lead to a lawsuit.

“Have a seat,” William whispers, and gestures to the other chair.

There is a brief but terrible moment where I'm afraid my eyes are going to well up, or that I might lose my temper and say something cutting to William about how awful his people skills are. Instead, my mind simply blanks out. In place of the usual thoughts and images that take place in there, I just hear static.

“Bzzzzz,” William says. “Bz bzzz bz bzz bzz bzzz bzzzz bzz bz bzzz bzzz bzz bz bzzzzzz.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “What did you say?”

“I said today will be your last day of employment here. Thomas, are you feeling okay?”

I've worked in this office for twelve years. It's the only company I've ever known. I've always dreamed of the day I'd sell a screenplay and be able to quit, yes, but I haven't actually sold a screenplay yet and I can't afford to quit. What the hell is Gloria going to say when I break the news to her? I haven't even told her about what's going wrong with my head. How the hell am I going to bring this up?

“Thomas?”

“Are you sure?” is all I can think of to say.

“Yes,” says William. “Thomas, your performance over the past several months has been far below standard. I have repeatedly asked you to step it up or at the very least complete the projects assigned to you. And during this time you have demonstrated almost zero ability to complete any task on time, or at a minimum level of quality.”

“I know my attention has waned lately,” I tell him. “But it's one of those temporary things. I've worked here a long time. Sometimes the monotony gets to me, but I'm going to do better, William. I promise. Give me another chance.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that. The economy has hit this company hard, and we're looking for areas to cut costs. One way to do that is to eliminate dead weight. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but that's what you've become in recent months, Thomas. Dead weight.”

“That isn't fair,” I say. “I usually do a pretty good—”

“Tell me the status of your five primary projects. Generally. Not including the Google report we discussed this morning.”

“I'm looking through the search terms. I was doing that this morning when you stopped by my desk.”

“You were doing that before you switched over to Facebook?”

“Right. I was only on Facebook for a few moments learning how their ads work.”

“Okay, so on the search terms, where are you? What's the project status?”

I open my mouth to answer, and that's when I remember I have no idea. This morning I told you I was reviewing the terms to figure out which ones were underutilized in our online marketing. But I have no clue what I was actually doing. I was just sitting there waiting for Dick to send me the
Ant Farm
email.

Beyond that, I can't remember any of my other projects. Not their statuses, not their names, not even the concepts behind them. Nothing.

What on earth is wrong with me?

“Thomas, sometimes I wonder if you do anything at all in that cube of yours. I checked your Internet usage and you don't appear to be wasting time on web sites. So what do you do? Just stare at the wall and daydream all day?”

“William,” Brin Finneley says. “Let's stick with the facts. Perhaps it's time to talk about the severance package.”

“Okay,” says William. “Certainly. Thomas, your severance package is generous. You'll receive one week of pay for every three years worked. That adds up to a month's pay.”

“That's not generous,” I say. “That's company policy.”

“Oh, it's generous,” William tells me. “Some companies offer far less.”

“Yes,” says the Brin Reaper. “Quite generous.”

“And,” William adds, “you'll have the opportunity to retain health benefits through the Cobra system.”

“I think that's the law, right?”

“Also quite generous,” says the Brin Reaper.

“I don't believe this. I've worked here for twelve years. Don't you give out warnings? Like a probationary period or something?”

“Anyone who has ever built an empire sat where you are now,” William offers.

“One month?” I say. “I'll never find a job in one month. Not in this economy.”

“Maybe you can use the time off to write a new screenplay,” he answers.

I just sit there, staring at him, dumbfounded. All my thankless whining seems pretty stupid right about now, doesn't it?

“Sure,” I say. “That's what I'll do.”

“You're welcome to go back to your desk and gather your personal effects,” Brin says. “Someone from the mail room will bring you a few boxes. William will remain with you until you have finished, and then he will escort you from the building. Your building access has been terminated, so from this point forward you won't be allowed back inside.