December 21st | 2012 | America
Mark:
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"I warn you man, don't make me do it."
I, Mark Wallburg, 27, Wall Street, tread lightly behind a man standing poised with a blade. Crossing him, I sigh heavily, I'm relieved that I’ve successfully evaded that volatile guy. Turning, I lean in to enter into the ongoing crowd, when suddenly, a black something whooshes past in front of me.
"Cut! It's a wrap,” yells a loud booming voice overhead. Dumbfounded and flabbergasted, I stare on wide eyed as a camera wheezes past me on a dolly. Crew bustling, staff hurrying, and set wrapping all around me. I just watch on like an idiot as a costume department staff pushes past me and hurries up to the man with the knife. Reaching him, the staff starts to take off his accessories, chatting with him throughout the process.
I tug on the collar of my raven black jacket, trying to hide the spreading blush of embarrassment—but I can't hide the red that paints my ear tips. I turn and disappear into the neverstoping wave of crowds.
Mixed among the ongoing crowd like a 'needle in a haystack' I feel more invisible than ever. I like the feeling of being a tiny nut in the makeup of the whole system—it makes me feel less lonely.
The constant pushing, pulling, shoving and yelling of 'watch where you're going!' no longer irritates my ears, it has become like white noise to me. A sound to be ignored, but not dismissed completely.
The busy morning streets of Wall Street had always reminded me of an ant trail. A trail of mindless workers that would stop for nothing, and no one. It would just bypass any obstacles it came across, even if said obstacle was a rotting dead body.
As my office building rushes into view I step off of the crowd express. Standing on the open mouth of an alley overlooking my office, I pause briefly to stare at it, to contemplate, and to take a deep breath before I begin my exhausting day. My office, the semi-rundown building I see before me, is drenched in the blue dew of a shivering December morning, setting the somber mood of the building. Moss patches grow from molding spots on the building; moss patches that my boss made us try to clean. Moss patches that we failed to clean – surprise surprise – I mean, that idiot ordered a bunch of software engineers to clear out moss patches, this was bound to happen.
Me; I am – ahem, sorry – was an immensely talented software engineer, the top student in my ‘IVY league’ uni. I'd supposedly been so good that I had been scouted by the top tech companies before I even graduated. And seeing as I hailed from a perpetually financially struggling household I hadn't hesitated in the slightest before taking up the highest paying offer there was, and how good that offer was, truly. But also, alas. Alas, that I had been gullible enough to get roped up in a monetary scandal headed by my seniors and ex-colleagues. A lousy money scandal that was easily caught by my company accountants. And once caught, the higher ups at SicroMoft, my company – the biggest tech giant in the world – had sacked me. I still remember all those cold, accusatory eyes very vividly; they still invade my dreams, a hellish repeat of all those insulting spits. I still scorn myself for sacrificing my high earning future there, just for a quick buck.
I had lived like a homeless wanderer then. Wandering around from job postings to job postings, but my excommunicado status from SicroMoft had blacklisted me from the entirety of the corporate world. And it was precisely when I was getting extremely desperate to find another job – before my severance pay ran out – that I happened to stumble across this one shabby little office, with an equally shabby little poster plastered outside its door.
‘Looking for software engineers. Will hire anyone. No CV needed.’
Read the poster. Reaching out to pull off the poster I'd fallen into the blinding lights through the suddenly opened door. I yelled with pain. Rubbing my possibly concussed head I looked up to find myself in a small studio apartment – heads poking out from behind tiny desks to inspect me. I look up to see a spectacled guy standing in front of me, offering me a helping hand, a comforting smile plastered on his face. "Are you here for the interview?” He asks. I take his hand, and he pulls me up.
“You're rather light,” he mutters – audibly – to himself. “I'm Winston,” he says, “come this way.” And with that he ushers me inside.
My interview had taken place that very day. I was sat across from a grubby, balding man and his oddly sultry wife. A little taken aback at finally getting the chance to sit down for an actual interview I had blurted out to them about my last job, to impress them, and to my surprise, impress it did. They were made soo jolly by my former intern posting at SicroMoft, that the grubby owner and his sultry wife had hired me on the spot, promising me a high starting pay, and more. Promises that I would later find out to remain just that, empty promises.
But I had been a bit happier here, because unlike in SicroMoft, the other two employees here – Winston (whom I formerly met at the door) and Melissa – treated me with civility and respect. We became fast friends. They gave me a voice to speak with, and heard all my suggestions with an open ear. The bald headed grubber, on the other hand, always acted with arrogance—to hide his shaming ignorance I presume. I never understood his logic though, he had hired me specifically for my expertise in the field, so why wouldn't he pay heed to the advice he paid for?
But, I didn't let this discourage me; ‘cause at the end of the day, this firm had given me the chance to shine, and shine I did. With my sweat, blood and tears – and my two wonderful colleagues – I had grown what was initially only a three-employee office into a fifty person, multistorey company.
The work environment, however, had remained as shabby as its owner's heart. Still, it was not all bad for me. My pay, even though nowhere near that of what SicroMoft could offer, had still risen consistently through the years. And something else that had also consistently risen through the years was the value of my advice. The grubby, prideful owner had given my advice no heed at first, however his wife had, and now that my advice had been bringing in the big bucks for the firm, even that arrogant owner gave precedence to what I had to say.
With my mood a little better now, I push myself off of the alleyway wall and head to my office, expecting to see the cheery faces of my team, which is composed of my two lovely colleagues, a plethora of second generation employees that I hand picked myself, and a number of talented interns.
"Wait, Sir Wallburg, could you please sign right here," asks a tall, darkly scowling guard, shoving a clipboard into my face. He's the new security guard our grubby boss hired, which was kind of odd actually, seeing as he never ‘demeaned’ himself to partake in the hiring process of the ‘lowlifes’, as he called them.
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“Where is Oldman Pat," I ask, "out for some coffee or something?” I peek around the muscled giant, looking for Oldman Pat – the first employee I ever hired for this company. And someone who, throughout the years, became like a psuedo father figure to me.
"No, Sir Wallburg, Oldman Pat was fired today, just a few minutes ago actually,” he says, his face stoic. I scowl at this, which he notices, I think, and says, with a slow smile creasing the tips of his mouth, “The company is downsizing you see." He motions a 'snip' with his fingers, adding to the weight of his next words, “to cut costs.”
The dark looming form of the security guard, suddenly became a lot more scarier, and the black clipboard along with its unsheathed dangling pen now looked more like an executioner's block to me. But before I can even stop myself, I feel my meek instincts taking over. I suddenly find myself jutting my hand forwards in utter compliance, but thankfully my harshly learned past experiences stop me from any unsolicited signings.
“What would I be signing for, exactly?” I ask. Scrunching up his eyebrows momentarily, the dark looming guard sighs, his dreadlocks bouncing around behind his shaking head.
Muttering a ‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit’ the guard shrugs to himself, as if this were a repulsive, but necessary task—like having to take out the trash. Inhaling deeply, the looming security guard fluffs up his already fluffed up physique, similar to how an animal would do to appear more menacing. After fluffing up adequately, he begins, careful to keep his tone as nonchalant as possible, “Sir, these are your resignation papers.”
“Heh?” I just stare at him, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights. Whereas he stares back at me, completely expressionless. I must've heard wrong.
“Registration papers? What would I be registering for?” I laugh nervously, but seeing no change in the stoic expression plastered across the security guard’s face my unconvincing laughter whizzles out.
“No, Sir Wallburg, these are your resignation papers,” he says again.
“R-resign? Me? But I'm Mark Wallburg: the man who single-handedly turned this shabby shed into a multi-storey company. You can’t fire me,” I say, whispering to myself I add, “Who are you to fire me?”
His expressionless face breaks into one of anger at this one. The guard raises his voice, “It’s the CEO’s order, THE CEO! Are you not an employee, Mr. Wallburg? And is he not your employer?” He raises his hand in the air. “Your employer has fired you, Mark, not I. What part of that did you not understand? You dumbass,” he says, shouting; his raised hand clenching into a fist.
All my cowardice fizzes out of me in a burst of pure hot rage, my eyes hardening to a pointed gaze. Putting pressure on my toes I rise from the pavement below, leveling my eyes with the tall guard. And for the first time in my life, I yell back, “F*ck off, ‘guard’, I shall not sign – nor leave – until and unless I am fired by the CEO himself-”
“What the hell is it with this ruckus so early in the morning?” Ah, a voice I'd never thought I'd be happy to hear. It's the CEO. I tiptoe further to see a short, white portly man, garbed in a mismatched collection of the top trendy CEO clothewear descend down the stairs, coming to a halt at the entrance of the building. He stands behind the security guard, face-to-face with me.
My mood lights up, never before was I this happy to see my grubby Boss’ sordid face. Thinking to myself that, ‘this’ll show him who’s the superior one here’, I begin, “Good morning, Bos-”
“Oh, it’s you,” says Mr. Grubby. I nod enthusiastically at this, happy with the recognition, even if that recognition came with a spit full of spite. “You haven’t been kicked out yet? Conny, why the hell haven’t you kicked him out yet?”
The fuck?
Gnashing his teeth, the guard mumbles his reply through his strained grin, “Sir, the prick refuses to sign unless it’s you who fires him.”
“Don’t say fire, you dumbass." The portly man slaps the hard muscled back of the looming guard. "I’ll have to give him severance if I fire him,” rubbing at his burning palm, he continues, "If he doesn’t sign, just bleed out his fingerprint and kick him out!” shouting this, he leaves, muttering a string of curses behind him.
This shit was all planned?
“With pleasure.” Smirks the security guard, now brandishing a pocket knife that he just swiped out of his pocket.
Fearing grievous hurt with the end of a cold rusty pocket knife, I concede my signature. It's not worth it.
"Ah, Mr. Wallburg, how are you doing this fine wintery morning?" Asks the cheery girl with the round doe eyes, Melissa. Her peach cheeks a little squished with the snug muffler wrapped around her neck.
"Morning Mark." Greets Winston, a characteristic smile plastered on his face. The two very people that I wanted to see the most, but now that I had seen their face, wanted to not see the most.
I felt embarrassed, profoundly saddened, and dreadfully disappointed.
I had grown too close to them. They were like the rear two wheels in my three wheeler corporate car, and just like the three wheeler, we were going to be extinct as of today. My shoulders sag, and my face drops down further, etching into a frown so deep that it almost felt permanent. Unable to bear to look at them any longer, I turn and start treading down the lonely roads that lead to the back ends of this vile city.
"Where is he going? Winston, stop him." Melissa yelps behind me, and a melancholy smile momentarily replaces my sadness, but it's a sad smile. A last smile at the antics of the girl I once loved.
"Melissa, wait,” says Winston behind me. I hear hard assurance in his voice as he says, “I think there has been some misunderstanding. We need to see Mr. Grubby, I think we can salvage this if we're not too late.” I hope I had that level of confidence in me. Peeking back I catch a glimpse of them rushing inside the building. I hope they have a long prosperous career there without me. With me gone, I hope Mr. Grubby gives Winston and Melissa a promotion.
“Don’t you even dare look back now, you mutt!” the guard shouts at the slouching back of a trailing defeated man – Me.
‘Darling, try to Imagine optimism when pessimism is near, and you will find yourself seeing the good hidden within the bad,’ I remember my mother saying that once.
Yes! I must embrace the good in this. I'm Mark Walkburg, my face is known, my feats are legendary to say the least. My achievements alone would have the recruiters camping at my doorstep, right?
No, it wouldn't – and I knew that too. My progress, however astounding, was not extraordinary enough to negate my excommunicado status from one of the, if not the biggest of the firms of the world. And the jobs that remained open to me were in places similar to this. And that was a no go, because then, I'd only be like a fish that was saved from a polluted pond only to be dropped into another.
Dejected, defeated, disconcerted, disheartened, distressed, discombobulated, and greatest of all, depressed.
I trail along in the cold empty street, my shivering legs shaking with weakness. I walk like that for who knows how long. Eventually, I find myself in an open spaced roundabout. Spotting a bench I trudge towards it, but just as I am about to reach it my legs buckle from under me, leaving me incapacitated on the cold asphalt sidewalk. A few trailing people scurry around me, avoiding me like the plague, neither sparing me a glance of pity, nor a hand of aid.
But beat down however much I was, the tenacity that's etched deep within me keeps me crawling towards that bench. I use my hands to drag along my limp body behind me. The cold makes my aching soul’s pain more vivd, more prominent.
The desperately tragic sight goes on for a couple more minutes before I successfully push myself up on the bench. Resting my aching back against the hard-wood backrest, I look up at the sky, my sight brushing past the giant clock standing in the center of the roundabout.
The heck, it’s only 10:00 in the morning?
ELECTRICAL CHARGES IN THE AIR.
Tring, Tring.
“Mum,” I sniff, finally someone I can cry to. “I-”
“Son,” interrupts a low quivering voice, I know that voice.
“Huh? U-uncle Fer, what is it? Why are you calling me from mom’s phone . . . WHAT?”
The phone drops from my hand, deftly bounces upon the hardwood bench, and lands upon the brick pavement—the call now accidentally blasting on speaker mode.
“Your mom, son, it's about your mom. Sh-she’s in a coma. She fell down the stairs this morning. Hello, can you hear me? Son-”
Call disconnected, no network.
Head spinning, heart aching, brain throbbing, I slump further on the bench, now fully splayed across it. Unable to do anything else, I cry. My silent mourning wails dissipate in the cold chilly air of an unlucky December morning. I feel silent hot tears run down my face. Snot bubbling, I am a distorted, crying mess.
To hell with this world.
ELECTRICAL CHARGES IN THE AIR.
“Sir, you cannot sleep here.” Nudges a patrolman.
“Let the world die.”
VTOOM.
The sky shimmers with a dark purple-pink vibrance of a football field sized portal, its spinning edges crackling with dark purple-pink electricity. And splurging from that wide gaping hole in the sky was a stream of seemingly tiny red creatures.
"What the fuck."