6.h.
“Why don’t we
post a man at each intersection and maintain line-of-sight contact,” Commander
Credit said. His suggestion was met with
a lukewarm response. Nobody thought
separation of any kind would prove beneficial, especially now that they’d
confirmed Corporate Man’s suspicions.
The corridors
were shifting.
“We’ve got to
do something,” Commander Credit continued.
“These hallways aren’t fixed and this constant rearrangement will keep
us running around forever. We know there
are people here, but we only catch glimpses of them disappearing around
corners. And except for that psuedo-gym
we haven’t seen any other rooms or offices.”
“Well what’s
that?” Franklin Buck said, pointing to a door just inside a hallway behind
Commander Credit. A hallway which may,
or may not, have been there moments before.
On the door, in big black blocky letters, was one word.
OFFICE.
There was a
moment of silent thought in which the members of the Union
glanced around at each other with puzzled but scrutinizing looks. Almost in unison, they approached the
door. A murmur of office noises,
including human voices, hummed on the other side.
“We’re not
really dressed for this,” said Senior Executive.
“I don’t
care,” said Fair Wage. “My thighs are
starting to bruise.”
He opened the
“office” door and went inside.
A network of
short cubicles spread out before him. At
first the general murmur maintained its constant, efficient hum. Then a few employees milling around the
coffee maker or walking toward the copy machine, caught a glimpse of the old
man called Fair Wage. The murmur
softened and then it rose again as the word spread. Those still in their cubicles popped up like
prairie dogs to see what all the commotion was about.
After a few
moments, there was silence.
“What should
we do?” whispered Supply.
Corporate man
shrugged. “Act natural.”
“Yeah. No problem for Fair Wage,” said Business
Woman.
“Excuse me,” a
man said as he submissively charged toward them. He wore a light-blue sweater-vest over a
white shirt, grey chords, and shiny black shoes. “Who are you? Are you new hires? We don’t have any positions open at present. Were you sent by upper management? What are
you wearing? Sorry. Amendment.
Why aren’t you wearing business casual?”
Corporate Man
stepped forward and placed his arm over the nervous man’s shoulder. This had an effect on the nervous man much
like a shark fin cresting the water near a reluctant skinny dipper.
“What’s your
name son?” Corporate Man said in a soothing tone. This tone made the nervous man’s ass
clench. The use of the word “son” made
him prickle with fear-sweat.
“Kevin,” he
squeaked.
“Kevin,”
Corporate Man said, even and monotone.
“Didn’t you get the e-mail?”
Kevin
straightened up. He was comfortable with
e-mails. Memos of any sort really.
“Have they
added some sort of theme-day to the dress code?” he asked, secretly hoping it
might be true.
“Yeah,” said
Business Woman. “Underpants Tuesday.”
“Really? But today’s not Tuesday. Is it?” said Kevin.
“Would we be
in our underpants if it wasn’t?” asked Senior Executive.
Kevin made a
gasping, squawking, squeaky sound and then ran toward his desk.
