George liked his job. He felt awful for liking his job. He didn’t love his job; he didn’t spring out of bed each morning and revel in every minute he spent at work. No one does that. But it was an undeniable fact that he was satisfied, if not outright happy, with his job. He had always thought you weren’t supposed to like your job; yet, no matter how long he considered the matter, he always came to the same conclusion, and it always gave him great pain. His pain and discomfort were entirely sincere. And it wasn’t just his job that he liked. George was quite happy with his house and his car and his coffee machine that made coffee every morning which he drank with cheap creamer and two teaspoons of sugar before going to work. His whole life, in fact, was very much to his liking. There was nothing special about George’s life, nothing idyllic or sheltered. Like all of us he had good days and bad days, struggles and triumphs to break the monotony. He especially liked the weekends, but even the way he came home at the end of the day, all tired, to a more or less tidy house and would watch some bad TV for a bit before making dinner was quite nice. George had become very good at enjoying his simple life. Small pleasures. The comforts of home. All that. And now that enjoyment made him feel awful.
This morning, when he had awoken to the beep-beep-beep- of his alarm clock, there had been a strange, but distinct, guilt-like sensation creeping up the back of his neck. Only later, on a lunch break that was already twelve minutes too long, was George coming to terms with the fact that he felt awful for liking his job. The creeping sensation on his neck had settled in his stomach. He half wished he hated his job so that the hints of nausea would go away. He realized that wasn’t going to happen. So instead he began wishing the nausea would overwhelm and incapacitate him. Since that too seemed unlikely, and he was now already sixteen minutes late, George headed back.
Without really thinking about it George got back to work. He desperately tried to write off the queasiness in his stomach as merely a minor symptom of a midlife crisis which a sensible man, such as himself, would easily be able to ride out with, at most, an exciting weekend adventure. He knew all about midlife crises because his friend Michael had had one only a few months ago. After watching some documentary on TV about starving children in Africa Michael had started having doubts about the value of his job and his life. He had run off to Florida for the weekend and came back cheerier than ever. But George was fairly certain that you weren’t supposed to still like your job during a midlife crisis which made this something else entirely; and despite George’s best efforts, the tumult in his stomach was leaking into his arms and legs and he soon found himself staring at his own hands in bewilderment. It continued to spread throughout his body like a slow paralysis. George tried to run, but needless to say he didn’t get very far.
It took a few moments for his co-workers to realize that something was wrong. Eventually the shaking and sweating and just standing there tipped them off. They were very nice about it. They sat him down and had him drink a glass of water. The boss came by to see what all the commotion was about. George tried to explain but all that came out were a few senseless mutterings. There really wasn’t much anyone could do. The boss soon accepted that George wasn’t going to be doing anymore work today, so he sent him home with a shrug and a pat on the back.
George was annoyed that he had been sent home. He knew he ought to make the most of this extra free time, but instead he sat at home thinking of everything he could be doing. Surprisingly soon, however, it was about the time George normally came home from work. So, he went about doing what he normally did when he came home from work and was in bed by eleven o’clock.
When he showed up at work the next morning he was told to report to the company psychiatrist. His boss had apparently set up the appointment yesterday, right after he’d sent George home. George didn’t like the idea of needing an evaluation. He would have much rather just gotten on with his day, but he realized he didn’t have much of a choice. It took him a while to find the psychiatrist’s office.
His appointment wasn’t for another ten minutes, so he sat in the hall and waited. In that time he came to accept that perhaps it was all for the best, and that if the shrink could make the awful disgust he felt about his job go away then he would actually be quite grateful. Until today George hadn’t even known there was a company psychiatrist. He couldn’t remember anyone ever being sent there before. He wondered what the fellow did all day. Presumably there was someone in there right now. An intense curiosity urged him to peek into the keyhole and eavesdrop and only an even intenser fear of getting caught restrained him. George simply couldn’t fathom what sort of issues would arise at a company such as this that would require psychiatric care, especially since he was not at all convinced that he had a proper reason for being there himself. Most likely his boss had shipped him down here just to get him out of his hair for the day and avoid taking responsibility for the incident
yesterday. George had taken to calling it the incident
because he didn’t have any other word for it.
SHRINK
Mr. Winston? Come on in.
Mr. Winston enters from stage right. The shrink
returns to his chair which is just to the left of
center stage. Across from the chair is a
not-so-fancy couch. There is nothing else on
stage.
Please sit.
The shrink gestures to the couch and George
nervously sits down.
I’m Dr. Samsa. Your supervisor asked that I have a chat
with you. Do you know why?
George shakes his head.
GEORGE
He sent me home yesterday because of an "incident".
(You could hear the quotation marks in
George’s voice.)
DR. SAMSA
Do you want to talk about it?
GEORGE
Not really. I don’t have much to say about it.
DR. SAMSA
I see.
An awkward silence begins to seeps into the room
but the Dr. speaks before it takes hold.
Look. This is going to sound horribly clichéd but
you’re here because in your current state you’re no use
to the company and it’s my job to patch you up and get
you back into the swing of things as best I can, which
is really in your interest as much as it is mine so how
about you just tell me what’s up so we can both get on
with our jobs.
GEORGE
That was horribly clichéd.
The nervous tension thaws slightly.
George did his best to describe what was going on. He probably sounded like a babbling idiot. How are you supposed to explain to someone that you like your job but you suddenly feel terrible for liking your job even though there is no apparent reason you ought not to like your job and even less reason you ought to feel bad for liking your job, at least no legitimate reason that you can think of. It’s not saving starving children in Africa but what job is? And that’s not the point. Dr. Samsa nodded politely enough and took notes here and there, or at least went through the motions of taking notes, George half suspected he was just doodling or making a shopping list but that’s just because he felt bitter about having to be there talking to a shrink.
Dr. Samsa hadn’t the foggiest clue what was wrong with George. He didn’t seem to care much. He seemed more interested in finding ways for George to get on with life. That’s just how shrinks are.
DR. SAMSA
How about we try a little exercise? I usually do this
with CEOs and such but I think it just might help you.
GEORGE
Ok.
DR. SAMSA
I’m going to ask you a question and you’re going to
answer back to me with: "Very well, thank you."
alright?
GEORGE
Yeah, sure.
DR. SAMSA
How do you sleep at night?
GEORGE
Very well, thank you.
DR. SAMSA
How do you sleep at night?
GEORGE
Very well! Thank you.
DR. SAMSA
HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT?
GEORGE
VERY WELL, THANK YOU!
DR. SAMSA
Feel better?
GEORGE
Yeah, a little, thank you.
DR. SAMSA
Wonderful. I’m afraid that’s all we have time for right
now. I think we should see you again in about a week to
see how things are going. I’ll have another chat with
your supervisor about what to do with you in mean time.
For now just take it easy and try to find something to
take your mind off it all. Ok?
GEORGE
Right. Thank you. See you next week then.
George hesitantly exits stage right. Dr. Samsa
remains in his chair and makes a few more notes
for his file. Quick fade to black.
George wasn’t at all sure that he would bother showing up next week. He was even less sure about what he would do now. He didn’t understand how this had become such a big deal. This kind of situation was new to him. Filling out his taxes was always a bit complicated but he had always managed to work through it, step by step. George didn’t know what the steps were here. Maybe the shrink was right. Maybe it was best not to think about it too much and escape into some distraction. George knew it wasn’t a permanent solution but there was no harm in taking his mind off it for a while, and it wasn’t as though any good would come from thinking in circles. The shrink might have more for him next week.
They used to hang out at each other’s apartments but since neither of them cleaned much and their fridges were rarely well stocked they had taken to meeting up at Café Disaffecto – partly because of the name and mostly because of its convenient location. Josef was late. Usually George didn’t mind but today everything ticked him off. They had known each other since kindergarten, and while they had never been especially close, their long history sufficed as a substitute. George had a latte and Josef had some sort of frap. The conversation drifted for a while before it came around to the serious
topic of George’s strange predicament. Once again George, exasperatedly, tried to explain. But it came out in fragments and cryptic phrases.
- Wait, you like your job?
Yeah, you don’t?
Josef had never reflected on this question. He had always assumed that he, and everyone else – except for some mysterious lucky few – more or less despised their jobs. But he quietly realized that he too was actually quite content with his life.
- When did you start liking your job?
I don’t know. Maybe I always did?
George doubted that was true but he didn’t have a better answer.
Remember right after we graduated college and we were going to go on that camping trip only we didn’t because something came up? I hate how we were promised so much. Told we could be anything we wanted. Encouraged to dream. Sent off to college to find ourselves. Taught all sorts of things, shown the world, and then ... it was like we were back where we started.
- What’s your point?
I’m not sure; I’m just trying to figure out when I started liking my job.
Do you think I’m a freak for liking my job?
Josef wanted to say yes but he knew the answer was no.
I know my job isn’t perfect and some over idealistic elitist prick would have a field day with it. It’s like when my niece gets on my case about all the crappy tv shows I watch. She doesn’t get it. I know they’re crappy. I’m ok with that. You don’t need mind blowing avant-garde brilliance all the time. She’ll understand when she grows up. There’s nothing wrong with watching mindless TV once in a while, so long as you enjoy it as mindless TV and aren’t tricked into thinking it’s something more the way some people.
- Give your niece a break. You were like her too once, maybe not that bad, but you know. Things change. Even goth kids eventually figure out that clothes come in more than one color and buy new wardrobes. I’ve actually always wondered what happens to them. In high school they’re all over the place and then bam they’re gone. Do you think they keep one all black totally goth with studs and everything outfit in the back of the closet?
Maybe, but I’d be too afraid of my kids finding it.
Josef laughed. George had lost interest in the conversation. He wasn’t sure whether talking to Josef was supposed to help him understand what was going or take his mind off it. Neither was working. The conversation drifted a while longer but George found it increasingly difficult to pay attention. Josef kept talking, and George knew he was just trying to be nice, but the strange sensation had turned to bile and was racing through his blood, slowly overwhelming his sense. Suddenly it collected in his stomach and George was overcome by the more acrid attributes of vomit. Later George would learn that what he had experienced could be described as a mild panic attack. Josef stared blankly and had a vague feeling that there was something he ought to be doing to help but he was frankly too frightened to do anything at all. George instinctively rushed to the bathroom and hovered over the toilet as if he was about to throw up, but nothing came. He spent those agonizing minutes glancing around the foreign bathroom with its Employees must wash their hands before resuming work
sign above the sink and bottle of disinfectant in the corner.
Eventually he was able to breath again. It didn’t so much subside as retreat like the tide, leaving the sand still wet and with the next wave forming on the horizon. With a tinge of embarrassment, George noted that he was drenched in sweat. He tried to gather himself together before he headed back out but there really isn’t that much you can do.
He slid into his seat quietly. Josef wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to say anything or acknowledge anything or just wait. He finally managed, You ok?
. George nodded because there was nothing else he could say.
George woke with a start, as if from a nightmare, but it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t like last night. He was calm now. The back of his throat was still dry and pasty. He called in sick. He breathed in and out. He felt the anxiety at the far edges of his senses , but it stayed there for now. He lay in bed till eleven, and then puttered around the house till two before noticing how late it was and how little he had actually done all day. At three o’clock the doorbell rang. George wasn’t expecting anyone. In fact, normally he would be at work at this hour. He peeked through the peep hole and saw a man, younger than himself, in a dark suit and fashionable, but subdued, tie holding a small box, and fidgeting ever so slightly. Definitely not the mail man, probably a door-to-door salesman. George opened the door ready to tell the man he wasn’t interested in whatever it was he was selling.
- Mr. Winston?
Yes.
- I’m from the company. We regret to inform you that you’re employment has been terminated.
We?
- My partner is in the car.
A shiny black sedan, exactly the kind would expect, was parked on the curb.
Why? It can’t be because I called in sick today.
- I honestly don’t know sir. They don’t tell us.
George stared at him intently in an attempt to decipher whether he was being told the truth, but he was unable to make out whether the man was lying or just as clueless as he was. The protracted staring made the fellow on his doorstep very uncomfortable, which both pleased George and simultaneously greatly annoyed him. It didn’t help that the fellow looked like he was fresh out of college. George felt that if they were going to fire him he deserved a little more respect than that. He realized that this was a very pathetic thought to be having at this moment, but it was easier than thinking about the fact that he no longer had a job.
- Here are your personal affects.
By now the fellow looked positively afraid that he would be asked another question. George took the proffered box – which was lighter than he expected – and, while he was trying to decide whether to open it right then and there or wait till he was alone, the man turned and hurried back to the waiting car. George stood at the open door a moment longer and watched the car as it made a slow U-turn and head back up the street. Because he didn’t know what to do next George opened the box. It contained the sundry knick-knacks he had kept at his desk, none of which he particularly cared for and all of which seemed especially out of place thrown together in a cardboard box.
George managed to avoid thinking directly about the fact that he was now unemployed for a good few hours. Then he cried. He had sincerely liked his job.
Acknowledgement: I unconsciously swiped the How do you sleep at night?
bit from Z. Guan’s Brilliant
de Vries 2008