Mr Musday shook his head. “Everyone else got here on time. You’re letting the team down.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Good to hear.” Mr Musday gave him a plastic smile. “I know we can depend on you.” Roen preened and grinned as Musday walked away. When someone asked Roen what he did, he’d explain that he typed incoherent commands that performed virtual tasks to create intangible objects. At the very end of the day, Roen wasn’t sure what he did or why he did it – just that every two weeks, he received a paycheck for the hours of his life wasted, building these imaginary things on some server located somewhere. Hours later, after almost everyone had left, Roen struggled to finish his work.
Mr Musday walked by with his briefcase just as the sun was setting. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, sir. I’m almost done with our builds. Another hour and they should be ready. I can get started on the backups tomorrow.”
“Good, good. We need the backups by tonight though. Make sure they’re working before you leave. You’ll also need to be at the status meeting tomorrow at 7.30am. Will that be a problem?”
“Of course not. I’d be happy to.” Inside, Roen cursed his ill fortune. Work would ruin the rest of his weekend. Roen wilted under his manager’s expectant gaze and nodded. He stared as Mr Musday chatted with the few remaining coworkers still milling about, walked into the elevator, and left – probably to enjoy the rest of his weekend while his minions slaved away.
“I hate this job. One of these days, I’m just going to quit. I can’t believe Musday asked me to come in again on a Sunday! Sunday’s for God and football,” Roen muttered out loud. He opened his drawer and ripped open a new bag of chips.
“So?” said Peter, who sat in the cubicle across the aisle.
“It’s ridiculous. They don’t care about our personal lives.”
Peter turned from his monitor and looked at Roen. “Do you care about your personal life?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why didn’t you tell Musday you’re busy?” Peter asked.
“I can’t do that. I’ll get a bad review.”
“But you just said you hate this job and want to quit.”
Roen paused. Peter reminded him of a plaid-wearing Dalai Lama with his rail-thin frame and shaved head. The man looked much older than his forty years. The wisdom he often spouted made painful sense to Roen.
Roen said, “I can’t just quit. I have rent, and a cat to support.”
“There’s your answer, then.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Roen said, pouting.
“You’re not being paid to like your work.”
Roen leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “You know, I wasn’t always meant to be an engineer. I was pretty good at debating. I bet I could have been a lawyer.”
“It’s not too late,” Peter said. “Go back to school.”
“Well, I’m already too busy with this stinking job. I don’t have time.”
Peter stopped typing and turned to Roen. “You’re still young. Study for the LSAT. Go back to school.”
“I can’t. I have rent and a cat…”
“I know about the cat, Roen. So are you going to do anything about it besides complain?”
Roen sighed. He said, “No, I guess not. Drag my butt into work tomorrow. You have any candy, Pete?”
Peter stood up and walked over to Roen’s desk, poured a few M &Ms onto the desk, and petted the large glass figurine of a Japanese lucky cat on Roen’s desk. Peter said, “Listen, man, figure out what you want to do and do it, or we’re going to have this same conversation when you’re fifty and I’m retiring. You’ll never be happy if you don’t have a passion for what you do.” He went back to his desk, and the two sat in silence.
Finally, Roen asked, “Do you have a passion for what you do, Pete?”
Peter gave his wise old man chuckle, causing Roen to visualize the Dalai Lama sitting in a cubicle, being an office monkey. “Honestly, does anyone dream they’ll be doing what we do for a living?”
“Then why do you do it?”
Peter turned to him and smiled. “Because I have a wife and two little kids to support, and they’re my passion.”
Roen hated that pragmatic response, and hated himself even more for not having a similar excuse. He didn’t even have a dream; he just existed. Depressed, he looked back at his monitor and slogged away at his work.
It was well past 10pm by the time Roen left the office. Heels dragging, he trudged out of the building and made the lonely walk to the parking garage. The clouds were out in full force tonight, common at this time of year, and a stiff breeze came in from the lake. Roen picked up the pace a bit as he walked the six long blocks to his car. He had the option of parking closer at the Grant Park garage, but parking there cost thirty bucks. That’s like two pizzas, so he was resigned to making the long trek to the further away but cheaper garage. He continued south on Wabash and crossed the street, hearing the rumbling of the train as it passed nearby.
Roen’s highly attuned sense of self-preservation began to let him know it was unhappy. Something didn’t feel right and he fidgeted as his eyes darted up and down the street. It was deserted except for a homeless guy crossing the intersection towards his side. There was no one walking behind Roen either. This part of the Loop was poorly lit and was a bit rougher than the business district just a few blocks north.
Then the homeless guy changed directions and moved onto an intercept course. Roen sighed. He had learned to always keep a few dollar bills on hand to give to beggars. It was the easiest way to get rid of them. Roen handed a buck over before the homeless guy even said a word. “Here you go,” Roen said hastily, and tried to pass him.
“Thanks, boss,” the homeless guy replied, shifting to his left to block Roen’s path. “Look man, I’m hungry. Dollar ain’t gonna buy much. Let me get a few more for a meal.” He stepped in really close. Roen could smell faint traces of liquor and the stale aroma of unwashed clothing.
“Sorry,” Roen mumbled and tried to pass him again. Again, the homeless guy blocked his path, more insistently this time. “Hey, back off,” Roen stuttered, trying to keep the homeless guy at arm’s length.
The homeless guy pushed him hard, causing Roen to stumble a few steps. “Why you gotta push me? I’m just asking for a couple bucks to eat.”
Not one for confrontation, Roen turned into a side alley and immediately regretted his decision. Alleys were where bad things happened and he just did the exact thing the Idiot’s Survival Guide to the City would tell him not to do. It was a dead end. He turned around and faced the homeless guy, slowly retreating. “All right, how much you need for a meal?”
The homeless guy grinned. “Price just went up, boss. You gone hurt my feelings.” Then he became a mugger as he pulled out a knife. “It’s going to cost you your cash, your train pass, that bag you carrying, oh hell, everything you got.”
Roen fought the rising panic climbing up his throat as he stumbled backwards. How did he get himself into these situations? He thought, Damn you, Musday!
“Look,” he stammered, barely getting the words out, “let’s talk this over. I can give you my money, but this is my work bag. I need the stuff in it. I’ll get in trouble.”
“You don’t think you’re in trouble now? This ain’t no negotiation, asshole.”
Tell him that he can have the money, but you are keeping your bag.
Roen looked confused. “What did you say?”
“What’s wrong with you, boss? God, you dumb. Give me your stuff or I stick you.”
Roen retreated until his back bumped against a garbage dumpster. He began to hyperventilate.
What kind of a mugger uses a knife? It is almost insulting. Listen carefully, there are some wine bottles at your feet. Pick them up.