Link to part 1
Dialing up a tea timer to keep track of his allowed time remaining in the bathroom, Paul pushed through the ultra-wide entrance and had the place to himself. Of course he did, he was out of sync with the whole floor. Stepping up to the urinal he maneuvered his trex in front of him so it would be hidden, just in case anyone bounded through the door. There was, however, a problem.
Link to part 1
Paul was putting in multiple “Requests for Break-time” e-forms as fast as he could hit the submit button. No responses from his super, but no indicator on the messenger profile that he was away, either. And no easy way out of his cube, not now. When he had met with Noel, the chair responded to his trex file and indexed it with the time he was supposed to be at work. This would only happen again when it was time to quit his shift. Until then, getting out of your seat was a matter for your supervisor to consider.
Paul blinked again. Geoff cocked his head to one side. A moment peeled itself like onion skin and passed.
“I think you’re going to have to work through lunch today, Paul.”
Zip. Zap. Zorbit. Neurons were in spasm directly behind Paul’s right eye. He started walking towards Floor 23’s portal. “I’m sorry Geoff,” he started to say as fast as he could, “But I really need to get to my desk. I’ve been late a lot recently, you know…”
The trouble being, of course, that Paul’s day was far from optimum. His trex was purring along fine now. His left palm was sweating from holding an object in a place where objects were forbidden.
“Yes, well, ‘Hi’ is about all I’ve got for you right now, Geoff. Sorry.”
“Twenty-three skidoo to you too, muthahubba,” Paul muttered to the omni-pleasant voice that emanated from the tube’s bullet casing. One person, one route, one mission, get the fleshy bits from point A, the Reception atrium, to point B, whatever floor you worked on, you little plebian, you. As fate would have it, Paul worked on floor twenty-three. He did not have to tell the tubevator this, of course, it compared and contrasted his trex’s serial number with Paul’s registered assignment space. It was just, for the past two months, the damned thing kept saying “twenty-three skidoo” to him every time he was a minute or two late. It was a weird joke, he was sure, a prank pulled by some maintenance drone bored out of his nut, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what, exactly, it meant.
The Triple M, ohhhhh the Triple M. What to farking do about the Triple M, that pain in the ass Manic Monday Mayhem he had signed himself up for supposedly voluntarily but it was on no uncertain terms from the Credit of Self department that his ego presence just wasn’t where it needed to be, he wasn’t focusing enough on his inner character and he needed to get it out there for the masses to see just like everyone else did as a matter of course.