Microstory 2178: Taboo For People to Share

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I’ve been working on the job descriptions for my team today, so we can find the right people to apply for them. Human resources will handle the actual search for me, and once a candidate fits their criteria, they’ll pass them on to my desk so I can see if they fit my criteria. I honestly don’t know how it’s going to go, or how many applications I’ll get. When I’ve applied to jobs, it’s been a really frustrating experience. They make you fill out the same information in multiple places, they ask dumb questions that have nothing to do with the position, and worst of all, they don’t get back to you. I actually spoke with someone in HR, and they assured me that they have an auto-rejection subroutine in their system. Everyone who isn’t going to get the job will receive an automatic reply through email about it. It’s the absolute least you can do, right? It’s so easy. I did get a quick update from my alternate self on the other Earth, and right now, he has a job where he processes hundreds of emails per day. So even if a company receives thousands of applications, it should not be that hard to sort them, and shoot off a quick canned response. That’s assuming you don’t make it easy on yourself by sending a single email per day, and blind carbon copy everyone who needs it. And that’s assuming you don’t use more sophisticated methods, like email client scripts, or in our case, a candidate management system with robust automated features. Again, it’s really not that hard. Sorry, it’s just been really annoying in the past, so now that I’m on this side of it, I want to make sure I don’t treat people the way that I’ve been treated. I’ll promise you this too, if your application goes far enough in the process that I’m seeing it, and I choose to not offer you the job, I will take the time to write up a tailored email to you. It won’t be poetry, but it will be sincere, and most importantly, it will exist!

I received some other news today, in the form of my official salary in this new position. My superiors made whispers with the number, but nothing was concrete until now. I know that I’m not supposed to tell you what it is, but truthfully, I think that’s bullshit. That’s not the way it should be done, it’s just the way that it is. No matter what world you’re in, if your society uses a capitalistic system, it’s taboo for people to share their wage information. But that convention is not to protect the people. It’s to protect the corporations. So I’m just gonna come out and say it. I’m now making roughly $108,000 per year. That’s right, I’m at six figures. There’s never been a job quite like this in the country, but they found some close ones. Consultants of this nature usually make just under 100K, but since I’ll be directly responsible for a dozen and a half people, that bumps me up pretty high. I think it’s important for you to know this, because you’re paying for it. My salary comes out of your tax dollars, and I think that it’s only fair that we be transparent about what we’re doing with that money. Don’t worry, I spoke with the legal department to make sure that I’m not violating any sort of non-disclosure agreement. I firmly believe that we need to all be more honest about these things. It empowers workers to advocate for themselves, and to make sure that everyone is earning fair pay for their hard work. Most people aren’t in the industry that I am, but I guess I’m hoping this encourages others to be more open, to help not only themselves, but those who are in less fortunate positions. I hope it doesn’t backfire on me, and just make you angry to see that number, but I don’t think it will. I have faith in you.

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 1741: The Clock

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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.