Workaholics go to meetings
Chapter 1: Entrance (part 2)
I jumped right into work like a seasoned professional. Accounts receivable, accounts payable, QuickBooks, taxes. The only thing that really qualified me for the job was a nine-month stint doing bookkeeping for a small Long Island company. My Poly-Sci undergrad degree was of no help here, and even though I’ve taken several business classes, I knew nothing about running a company. But I HAVE been employed in a 
number of different settings ever since my sophomore year in high school, and felt comfortable handling bosses, owners, coworkers. But all those were small family businesses, all lacking the PC world of larger, “more professional” offices. These places also lacked the kind of office politics so many of us hate, yet are used to in the demeaning and impersonal corporate world.
There is a lot one can learn for an ethics or business course, but nothing could ever prepare you to be thrust into a social setting of brainwashed kids fueled by hopes and dreams, and the load of shit-sugar coating dumped on them by whoever they interviewed with. Yes, they were kids. The oldest was just about 23, as they were all recruited straight out of college and molded into an “ideal” employee. This made perfect sense after all, it’s much easier to start with a blank slate than to try to re-program a person’s mind. And it all came from the top. From both of them. And they were good. Very good.
The face of general politeness around the office hid beneath it not a trace of sincerity. The half-smiles, the eye nods, the group lunches, they were all present. But this was all bullshit. I didn’t buy it for a second. Well may be a second. I could soon sense the ever so quiet hint of racism in the air. Unspoken. Everyone around seemed to walk in a cloud of stale negativity. Silent. But I could see it on their faces. I could hear it in the way they whispered. I could tell by their footsteps as they left the office.
Yet, calm. I was used to hearing arguments, jokes, general chatter, but here…nothing. Not even a raised voice broke the funeral proceeding to what has become their lives. Surrounded by empty ambitions and false promises, these people were trained to behave like cattle. There was no arguing, no fighting or joking, just typing. Typing. You can close your eyes and hear boredom, yet if you looked they all seemed busy. Engaged. A heard of 20, well trained. Trained. The word has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Training dogs, cats, tigers, dolphins…why should people be any different? After all, the training tool is the same – everyone gets a treat for doing something right. Everyone likes to be rewarded. But how far was I willing to take it? How much was I willing to sacrifice? Or would I push forward a major attitude shift? How much ruckus could I cause, being one of the oldest, most experienced; a local… They would soon find out. All of them.
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