"1: Death by Heavy-Duty Cleaner"


Every job is riddled with different kinds of thinkers. Every job, no matter how menial or complicated, has the typical cheerful coworker. He or she comes in smiling every day, no matter how they may feel behind that ear-to-ear grin.

In your case, my friend, the cheerful one is that lady who sits at the sewing machine in the back of your department, having what she calls 'thought-provoking' conversations about hair care with anyone who happens to pass by. Take care that you aren't drawn into one of her detailed rants about her so-called allergies.

'Happy Monday!'� she'll say, energized by last week's company meeting concerning the new 'Spring into Summer With a Smile!' promotion.

You roll your eyes and remember a conversation that you had with your brother a few days prior. He was sitting in the passenger seat of your car, stinking of liquor and cigarettes.

'The world is full of corporate cults,'� he told you. 'They feign interest in your life, but they don't care. You're subhuman. You're another cog in the machine.'�

This place is as close to a corporate cult as you can get in a small town. In a business that works for corporations, your employers must act as corporate as possible. Were it not for the fact that you're hidden in a dusty backroom with no windows and thick, cement walls, you'd be wearing a suit, too.



You do your work without question, only to be criticized by the boss, who doesn't think you're moving fast enough as he hovers over your shoulder and asks things like,

'What's that you're working on? How'd you get it to look like that? I think this technique of yours is wasting time, don't you?'�

At lunch, you sit down in the break room. You consume an unsatisfying cheese sandwich as you listen to the ding of the microwave and the sounds of people injecting money into the soda machine.

An old woman sits across from you, at the next table. A tall man with salt and pepper hair and a glass eye joins her. His face contorts as he looks at the Sports section of the local newspaper.

'Oh,'� the woman says, 'How'd the Eagles do?'�

'Not so good,'� the man grunts. He extracts a pastry from its plastic wrapper.

'Debbie's husband bought one of those high definition TV's; I don't care for that, but then, they have the money, so I guess it's all right.'� She chews on a piece of ham. 'I don't watch much television, just the sports and the classic movies.'�

'Me, too. I don't usually go anywhere above channel sixty.'� The man's glass eye rolls to and fro.

No one notices as you walk over to the cabinet on the far side of the room, where the cleaning supplies are kept. You pick a bottle of bright green liquid and uncap it.

'I was vacuuming yesterday and I tell ya, the screen filled with static. I still don't understand that stuff. Good thing, though. They had on some trashy show. I don't know how people can watch that stuff. Rots the brain.'�

You have a brain? You think to yourself.

'Oh, yeah,'� the man said. 'Better to have an interesting conversation.'�

About what, football and the joys of eating until you're three hundred pounds?

You shake your head and stare into the bottle. Someone pushes past you to the microwaves, but they're so set on heating their quick n' easy meal that they don't even notice the bottle in your hands.

You take a swig. The contents of the bottle consume your insides. Later on, someone trips over your foot on the way to the snack machine. Before they call 911, they get a pack of Doritos.



"2: Perishing by Table Saw"



Kids, don't try this at home.

Wait until you're older. Then try it at work.



You trudge up the steps after lunch, only to realize that your stomach is hurting and you don't know why.

Perhaps, you think, if I get violently ill for some reason, they'll let me go home.

You begin to think up possible ways of making yourself sick, but you're not willing to try any of them. Your boss cuts in front of you as you're making your way to the time clock. You can see reflections of the fluorescent lights on his nearly hairless head.

When you get back to your workstation, you're met with things you don't understand, phrases that you'll have to ask so-and-so about after they get back from their lunch break. You go to another one of your coworkers and ask if there's anything you can do for them until one o' clock.

The pretty young girl looks through a stack of papers on her table.

'I've got some boards you can cut,'� she said.

'Sounds good.'� You don't really mean it, but you need to say something other than, 'I hate this fucking place!' though you're almost certain that the girl beside you would understand your plight. Every once in a while, you catch her muttering curses under her breath. She's liable to burst soon enough.

'Here you go,'� she says, handing you the specs. Five six-inch wide boards at forty-two inches long. You get to work. In the background, you hear conversation as you measure out the pieces of wood.

'I saw this documentary on TV last night,'� an older woman says. You begin to wonder if the people you work with do anything other than watch television. 'They were talking about the human body.'� The woman frowns, her brow furrowing. 'It's amazing how the brain works. To think, a muscle that can do all of that.'�

You feel as though your skin is crawling. You grimace. You clench your fingers into tight fists. You can't take it anymore'the stupidity, the bland tasks, the persecution, the lack of understanding'

You turn on the saw. You lean forward. Blood splatters against the walls as you chop off your own head. No one notices the carnage until the pool of bodily fluids begins to stain their sixty-dollar sneakers and mock-Gucci handbags.



"3: Extermination by Needles"



You know you think about it. We know you think about it. You see that extension cord hanging in the office, and you wonder what would happen if you tied yourself to it and jumped off a chair.

Hey, you wouldn't have to do the paperwork anymore.

We know this is morbid. We know you're disgusted. But at least we're being honest.



'You know what?'� The woman leaned forward, smiling widely.

'What?'� Everyone looked at her.

'I bought a toaster oven.'�

'Oh.'�

'It's great! It has an oven setting and you can toast things. It's got a timer, too.'�

'Ha, have you tried to cook a chicken in it yet?'�

'Oh, it can do that!'�

'It can?'�

'Yeah!'�

You're setting up a new job'draperies. You're pinning the laid-out fabric, rolling your eyes. Your throat starts to hurt. That, coupled with your aching stomach, gives you another excuse to leave'but you don't.

'Who cares,'� you mutter.

'What was that?'�

You look up. Your boss is standing there.

'I said'� not fair,'� you fumble.

'What's not fair?'� he asks, stuffing his fat hands into the pockets of his dress pants.

'Uh, how long this job is taking and how little it's worth.'�

'Oh.'�

He walks away and you breathe a sigh of relief. After pricking yourself with a few pins, you decide to end it. You stab them into your eyes, and then feel around for a pair of scissors. You put them through your ribcage.



4: Outburst



Everyone gathers around for a department meeting. Production is down and the boss is irritable. So are you'you have a stomachache, a sore throat and a newly developing sinus headache, just behind your eyes.

You're listening to the boss rant about getting more work done, doing it faster and upping production by saving as much time as possible. Then he looks at you.

He says, 'This includes you, ______.'�

You gape. What did he just say? Did he just insult you? Did he just imply that you aren't a hard worker, and that you stand around wasting company time when you should be working?

'What did you just say?'� you ask. He looks back at you, large eyes bulging under old-fashioned glasses.

'I said; this includes you. Now'�'�

'Uh-uh,'� you say, shaking your head. Everyone is staring at you. 'What the hell are you implying?'� You've never heard yourself talk like this before. You take it out on yourself, you endure misery, but you never take back what's yours. You'd never tried it'until now. The boss doesn't know what to say. He stares, appearing confused. 'Are you implying that I don't work hard enough?'� you growl.

'Maybe.'�

Your face gets red. Your eyes hurt. Your stomach is turning. Your throat is getting hoarse.

'You're a goddamned asshole!'� you shriek. Your coworkers gasp. Up until now, you've pretended to be conservative. 'You don't give a damn about anyone! All you want is money, money, money! I don't need this. I quit!'�



When you get home, you cry. You collapse on your bed and wonder how you're going to pay rent, car insurance and grocery bills. You wonder how you're going to find another job, one that you can stand. You've never been so depressed before. You're only twenty years old. This is the first time that you've wanted to die.

You know that the feeling isn't rational. We know that it doesn't make any sense. But you feel rejected, as though no one out there even cares whether you live in a cardboard box or your own apartment. You spend the rest of the day sleeping and writing. You can't live without your simple pleasures. You wonder how your ex-coworkers are getting on.



Back at work, they've forgotten that you left. They're talking about toaster ovens, stray cats, Starbucks, crafts and the latest fashions. You've slipped between the cracks. You've lost your income. Back in the world of the corporate cult, those people have forgotten who you are, because they never really knew.

You're, 'the girl who went over the edge and walked out.' They think you're violent. They're surprised that you didn't bring in a gun. Hell, so are you.

Somehow, you'll survive.

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