Microstory 2004: Colorado

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For most of their lives, my grandparents weren’t able to go on vacations. My grandpa was so poor, if he ever had a day when he wasn’t working, he was trying to do other things for work. He would paint a neighbor’s fence, or help out at the local gas station. Anything he could find to save money, he was doing it. This continued for many years, even after grandpa got a better job in Wyoming. They occasionally went to places nearby, but nothing that anyone would call a family vacation. In 1981, which was five years after the new job, grandpa was experiencing something that my dad calls burnout. That means his job was really hard, and he wasn’t taking care of his mental health. He had recently gotten an even better promotion, and he was working all the time. His wife made him take some time off so they could go on a real vacation. They chose Denver, Colorado. They chose it because it was in a different state, but also not too far away, so they were able to drive to it in a day. My papa was about to become an eight-year-old, and it was the summertime. He had a lot of memories of this period in his life, but he couldn’t remember much about this trip. He knew that he was at some kind of sports game, and also that they went hiking. He thinks they probably spent one of the days shopping too. What my grandma said is that my papa’s father loved this trip, and it changed how he saw the world. They would start going on more trips from now on, which is what helped my papa to end up going to all fifty states in the United States.

Microstory 1994: First Class Attitude

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Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image AI software

Stewardess: Welcome to AirChapp. Do you need help finding your seat?

Reese: I’m fine, thanks.

Stewardess: Very good, sir. Here’s your complimentary amenity kit, and a hot towel.

Reese: Uh, okay, thank you. *steps down the aisle* Hisham?

SI Eliot: Agent Parsons, I did not expect us to be on the same flight. I assumed you would be flying out in the morning.

Reese: It’s Director Parsons now. Whaaaaat are you doing here? Please don’t tell me that you were sent as some kind of babysitter.

SI Eliot: It’s not like that...

Reese: Oh, good.

SI Eliot: I don’t think.

Reese: What?

SI Eliot: Here, sit down. You’re blocking the aisle.

Reese: Of course. Sorry, madam.

SI Eliot: *speaking quieter* I have a meeting with the National Commander.

Reese: What time is your meeting?

SI Eliot: 17:00, right before dinner.

Reese: That’s..what time my meeting with him is.

SI Eliot: Uhuh.

Reese: Oh my God, you are my babysitter.

SI Eliot: I really don’t think it’s like that. You outrank me now. Congratulations on that, by the way. I never told you before. Director of your own department. Wow. And to think, if I had just run my own investigation without reading you into anything, we still would have found our man, and you would still be sitting in a windowless office on the edge of the bad part of town.

Reese: I didn’t use my office much. I did most of my work in my car. It has six windows.

SI Eliot: Of course it does.

Reese: A more expensive car would only have four, or maybe eight, so...

SI Eliot: That’s why you’re making the big bucks; because you passed kindergarten.

Reese: Look. You’ve already met Commander Virtue before, so instead of being bitter about my promotion over you, I think we would all be better off if you were on my side. Undermining me isn’t going to protect the country, and it’s not going to impress NatCo.

SI Eliot: You don’t know that. You don’t know him. You literally just said that.

Reese: Hisham, please...

SI Eliot: *taking a breath* You’re right. I am bitter. I never had any sights on a directorship, but I did have aspirations. But then you came in, and completely jumped the line, and it’s hard not to see you as a rival.

Reese: I get it, it sucks. You work with Director Washington more than anyone; you should probably be her deputy by now. So let’s talk about how we can make that happen.

First Class Passenger: Excuse me. I believe that’s my seat.

Reese: Right, sorry. *to SI Eliot* Let’s carpool to the Palace and talk more, okay?

SI Eliot: We’ll see, Director Parsons. Love the tie, by the way

Microstory 1989: Senior Moment

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Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image AI software

IC Commissioner: Investigator Blass. Welcome to my office. Have a seat.

Blass: Thank you for having me. I have always respected and admired your work.

IC Commissioner: Yes, yes, very good, thank you. I called you in today to fill you in on what’s been going on with our investigation into the...traitors and spies that you discovered in our midst regarding these um, O—Ocho, uhh...

Blass: You can just call them aliens, sir.

IC Commissioner: Aliens, right. Obviously I don’t know much about them, but I’ve been briefed; emphasis on the brief. It would seem that we’re in the middle of a secret cold civil war. Can you believe it? We have departments undermining other departments, elected officials making hush-hush deals. The corruption is rampant, and I’m about to get fired because I’m not doing my job.

Blass: I don’t agree with that, sir.

IC Commissioner: Well, I think I do. I let it go this far somehow without realizing it, and the only way the Internal Compliance Commission survives to fight another day may be for me to step down. But that’s neither here nor there. I think it’s somewhere in the middle. Anyway, ‘nough jokes. You have continued to work with DExA, correct?

Blass: Yes, I’m still stationed there, even though everyone knows that I’m an internal investigator. Don’t worry, they’ve been very nice and accepting.

IC Commissioner: Good. I hope you understand, we couldn’t have you involved in the interviews we did with this Sergeant Sachs asshole, because of your slight conflict of interest. Such is the price of being embedded. Now normally, you would not be entitled to further details—you still aren’t—but I, and the rest of the team involved, feel that someone on that side of things ought to know what’s going on.

Blass: Okay.

IC Commissioner: Sachs does not consider himself to be a traitor. In fact, he keeps calling the interviewers traitors instead. We have finally figured out who he has been taking his orders from, and it could spell doom for our country.

Blass: I don’t know that I should hear this; it sounds far above my paygrade.

IC Commissioner: Not anymore. *hands him a document* You’ve been promoted. Congratulations Senior Internal Investigator Blass.

Blass: Oh. Thank you, sir. This is so unexpected. *pauses* In that case, who is it?

IC Commissioner: It’s Congressman Colonel Piers Jamison.

Blass: Holy Crap. The man prides himself in rooting out corruption.

IC Commissioner: I know.

Blass: He came up through the ICC.

IC Commissioner: I know.

Blass: No matter what, the ICC loses. We look bad whether we go after him or not.

IC Commissioner: That’s right.

Blass:*face sinks* That’s why I’m being promoted.

IC Commissioner: You’re being promoted because you’re smart enough to know why you’re being promoted; because only a Senior Investigator can go overt. Congratulations again, you’re our new spokesman. Your first press conference is tomorrow morning.

Microstory 1880: Promovere

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I don’t wanna talk about my work. People are always asking me about it, like isn’t that so sad? I can’t go to a party, or the bar, without having to discuss it. Like, it’s the first thing they ask. I just think that’s so sad. It’s my 25th anniversary there. Same place, different jobs, but it’s just nothing. Really, I’m not going to talk about it. And you know, my boss is such an asshole. He’s always giving me these looks, like, I know what you’re thinking, buddy. He’s one of those guys who thinks the world of himself, and everyone wants to be like him. That smug look on his face when something right happens, and he gets the chance to take credit for it, whether he had anything to do with it, or not. Oh, I just want to rip it off his face. But I’m not going to talk about work. That’s a promise I’m making to myself. My job does not define me. My final thoughts can’t be of the 45 hours a week I spend in hell. Man, 25 years. That’s not how long I was in the workforce, just here, which only makes it all the more depressing. They gave me a certificate, isn’t that nice? My boss handed it to me so delicately, like I was to cherish it. Others proudly pin theirs to their cubicles. They legitimately seem to love what they do. I don’t want to die, but at least I won’t ever have to come back here. No, this isn’t about work. This is about my whole life, and that is only a small part. Is it small, though? I mean, at the bare minimum, it represents a quarter of my time, and that’s not counting all the time I spent stressing about it. I remember the day I was promoted to exempt status. This is it, I thought to myself. I’ve made it. Sure, more promotions would be great, but a salary is a benchmark of success that they can never take away. Nope, stop. Stop that.

Stop talking about your meaningless job. Everything’s meaningless, though. Your life, that was meaningless too, though maybe a little less meaningless, because at least you had the chance to help people. Did you help anyone, though? When you really get down to it, were you a generous and good person, or was that just always something you aspired to be, but you were too busy with your terrible job that you hated? I said, stop talking about your job! Hobbies. Surely you had hobbies. Knitting? Why is knitting the first hobby you think of when you think of hobbies? How is that the default? Because I’m a woman? Because I’m older now? I’m not an old woman. Plenty of younger women like to do arts and crafts, don’t be an ageist. A what? An ageist; you know what that word means, because you’re talking to yourself. I guess that’s true, I guess I just normally hear it in the form of ageism, or maybe age discrimination. Whatever. Yeah, whatever to you too...me. Wow, you really light up a room with your attitude, don’t you? Oh, ha-ha-ha. They say, it’s not the fire that kills you, it’s the smoke, but it’s the pointlessness of it all. I didn’t do anything with my life. I could have taken control, but I just kept tripping down the steps. Most people go up the stairs of life, but I went right down, and not to say I was never privileged. I recognize my privilege, I really just mean it always felt more like falling, because I didn’t control it. That’s what a promotion is, isn’t it? You don’t apply for it, it’s given to you. Sure, you probably did something to earn it, but you couldn’t take it. You can go get a new job, but you can’t be the agent of a promotion, unless you’re promoting someone else. But does that feel any better, giving other people promotions? I think not. And look at you now, you’re stuck in the break room with everybody else, and you’re gonna die with everybody else, except that it’ll happen to you first.

Microstory 1795: Drudgery Clock

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It wasn’t really until the day I graduated from college that I realized I had no direction in life. I had this liberal arts degree that didn’t lend itself to a particular career, and while everyone said it opened doors for me, I didn’t believe them, and I would find out later that I was right to have my doubts. I spent years, unemployed off and on, only able to find temporary work, and just hoping someone would ask me to stick around. I became so disillusioned by the whole thing that I gave up trying to be what people told me I should. I began to be more honest in interviews, and for the most part, that didn’t work out. People don’t like honesty. They want you to pretend to be perfect so they can justify hiring you, and then when you make a mistake, they have a justification for getting pissed at you for being dishonest. Completely contradictory is the resting state of middle management, and I will die on that hill, if need be. Ha-ha. I never stopped trying. I kept applying until I told one interviewer that the reason I never last long in any position is because no one has given me a real chance. That seemed to speak to him, so he accepted me for a fulltime, permanent job. I was elated and relieved. There is no such thing as a hundred percent job security, but I felt safer than ever, and that was enough to keep me from stressing out over it so much. The months ticked by, and before I knew it, I had been there for two years, which was longer than I had ever been at one place before. It felt like a huge win, but it was also incredibly depressing. I started to realize that I didn’t like being the veteran. I didn’t like it when someone who had been there for one year told the person who had been there for a week that I was the one to help them. It made me feel weird. That’s when I got a promotion that moved me to a new facility.

Ah, it was like getting a fresh start. I was the new guy again. Sure, I was still working for the same company, but it was different enough to reset my internal drudgery clock. But then two years rolled around, and I got that feeling again. People came, and they went, and it always felt like they were moving on to better things while I just stayed here as a nobody. I saw one of them again once. He had the misfortune of delivering me a sandwich, which actually proved that he didn’t move onto something better, but at least he got out. At least he reset his drudgery clock. I needed that, and I needed to feel good about myself. I quit my job. It was the first time I had ever done that, and it felt amazing. I was the one in charge of my own fate; not someone else. That was incredible. Now I just needed to find something else. It was a little frustrating, going back to the beginning of the search, but it wasn’t too hard, and my drudgery clock was at zero. It stayed there for two more years, which was clearly my limit. I was smarter this time, and applied to something new before I quit the current job. So I just kept doing this a few times, staying in one place for two years, and then getting something else. It didn’t have to be better, it just had to be new. Over time, this technique became harder to sustain. As my résumé grew, I found the interviewers to be less enchanted with me. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I hold down a job? I couldn’t rightly tell them the truth, or it would make things worse. I couldn’t warn them that I didn’t care about their organization, and that I didn’t have any ambitions. So I didn’t. I went back to lying. It didn’t matter. I didn’t look very good on paper, and before I knew it, I retired after thirty years in the same crappy job. That delivery guy I met years before? He was my boss.