crack that whip

Yesterday, after our bosses had left early to go to a friend’s wedding in LA, everyone in the office congregated at the front desk to chat a little, or to lay their heads down on the high counter. It was the fifth day of a twelve-day workweek—for at least on guy, the “shipping department” as we sometimes referred to him, it had been a month-long workweek. No wait, he took Labor Day off. I know, because the rest of us worked that day.

Anyway, we’re all standing around exhausted and feeling more than a little abused. Inevitably, a discussion starts about the workplace. No one comes right out and says it, but we’re all thinking the same thing—sweatshop. Right here, in this cheerful office complex. Outside: grass and trees and bunnies that hop around the bushes at dusk. Inside: a small legion of minions who toil away for a company that doesn’t pay them enough for the amount of work they do. Right under everyone’s nose. I briefly wonder what the interior designers next door would do if we suddenly threw ourselves against the windows screaming “Help, help! Save us! We are overworked and underpaid but too tired to revolt!”. A senior staff member sees the dejected look on everyone’s face and attempts to cheer us up.

“Well, you know they’re trying to think of ways to make our office more fun, right? Maybe some group outings like a baseball game and bowling or something.” Bleary eyes slowly turn to stare at her. No one comments. No one complains. No one can find words to express their loathing for the situation.

Except me.

“I know a great way we could make this office more fun,” I say with enthusiasm. “Not working on weekends!”

Everyone bursts into uproarious laughter. And then we realize how sad that is. We bow our heads quietly and head back to work.