My 9-5 grind in the Nether-realm.
By David Cocco (Writer)
I don't know how long I've been staring at the screen. The office strobe lights makes it impossible to get this work done. When I was first placed here I made a complaint about it to HR, just to see what I was dealing with. I was made to fill out a formal complaint spelling out my issues in detail, filled out in triplicate. After waiting for my union delegate to get out of his bi-weekly fire-branding I was told that I was at fault. As such I would be demoted to an interpreter on Level 2. After my daily check-in email about company goals, that is where I head. I finally write my email and hop to it.
"Today I will do my best to accomplish my job without getting set on fire."
Picture day at the office
Level 2 is where the lustful are deposited for their penance. The story, up above at least, was that the lustful were blown about by harsh winds without the hope of rest, much as their passions blew them hither, thither, and yon in their corporeal form. After a few recent focus groups, it was discovered that the punishment was a bit too heavy on symbolism. Some adjustments were made. From that point on, anyone born after the dot-com revolution received a new punishment. They were made to read their private internet search history (as well as any and all sexts) to the person in their lives who would be most devastated. Seven out of ten times, it was Grandma.
As an interpreter, it is my job to describe (in graphic detail) any and all sex acts to the confused or blind Grandmothers who come through our doors.
The grannies are almost always visiting from the nice place. They come in wearing really nice smelling linen with this surreal light around their heads. It's a lot to take in. Because they don't belong down here, nothing we do can really affect them. Even in the case of blindness, it dissipates as soon as they leave. Consequently, they have goldfish memory for anything I describe to them. This means that Mrs. Crandall had to listen to me explain a Strawberry Shortcake all twelve times it came up over her grandson's confession, but each time she looked just as shocked and disgusted. This is her grandson's punishment. Mine is that I have to repeat the same information over and over again, a holdover from my days in the restaurant biz, when I cringed at the thought of repeating the list of salad dressings one more time. I've been impressed with the big man's attention to detail. He's really figured out the whole "existentially obnoxious" component of this place.
I can see from the clock I should be getting out in about half an hour. I breath a sigh of relief as I begin spontaneously combusting. I burn for 5 days. I am aware the whole time that this will make it onto my performance review.
DAVID COCCO lives south of Boston with his fiance and cat. His writing has appeared in YNE Magazine. CoccoBeware
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