I hate this clock. It reminds me of the worst years of my life. When I was a
child, my foster parents would time everything I did. Homework, chores,
umm...well, I guess there isn’t a third thing on that list, because those
were the only things I did. I suppose showering isn’t a chore, but that was
timed as well. They said they were getting me ready for the real world.
Apparently, in their jobs, every task they completed was measured and
recorded, and that was how they got paid. I asked them a few times, did they
get paid more for more complicated tasks, but they said no. The rate didn’t
change at all. The point was to keep track of when they were working, and
when they weren’t, such as when they were walking to the location of the
next task, or using the restroom. They were expected to be at work for ten
hours a day, but they only get paid for their recorded time. They were so
proud of themselves. Other workers recorded an average of eight and a half
hours of actual work, which meant an hour for lunch, and another half hour
for the in between times. My foster parents, however, averaged nine hours
and forty-five minutes. They said they organized tasks so that it was easier
to switch from one to the other, they literally ran when they had to, and
they...well, let’s just say they weren’t too careful when it came to their
bathroom breaks. They sometimes saw that as an opportunity, because even
though janitorial services weren’t technically in either of their job
descriptions, they could still get paid for cleaning the facilities. The
word diaper was thrown around once or twice too. They actually acted like I
should aspire to be as hard-working as them one day. I never bought into it.
I don’t worship the clock.
My parents are dead now. They left this world with nothing, and not just to
spite me. They worked so hard in their jobs that the company didn’t want to
promote them, and they didn’t want to be promoted either. A promotion would
mean a salary, and more freedom than they could have handled. They hated
their bosses, who didn’t work hard enough, and focused too much on their
personal lives. My parents didn’t have lives of their own. They were too
exhausted when they got home that they ate their dinner, read something
boring, then went to bed. After I came into their lives, they had to squeeze
in a lot of strict overbearing criticism, so they couldn’t read as much
anymore. When they were too old to work, since they didn’t have any hobbies,
they had absolutely nothing to do. You can ask the professionals what killed
them, and they’ll give you a scientific answer, but I contend that they died
from the realization that their lives were always pointless. The company
where they worked for forty-five years closed shortly before the deaths,
because they too were old-fashioned, and ultimately meaningless in a world
that moved on without them. So here I am with virtually nothing. My parents
were in so much debt that the bank had to repossess nearly everything they
owned. Fortunately, it seems to have covered it, so I won’t have to make up
the difference. They even managed to leave me with one thing: this damn
clock. It represents the futility in work for work’s sake. It spins around
in circles, and never goes anywhere. Yeah, I hate this clock, but I also
need it. For as much as it pains me to see every day, it’s also a consistent
reminder of what I don’t want to be, and how I don’t want to raise my own
baby boy, who’s scheduled to make his debut in three months. It shows me
that time only means anything when we use it to enjoy doing the things we
love, with the people we love.
