I have the headache from hell. Straight from hell. Like, right out of Satan’s ass.
Not the cool kind of headache, either. Like the I-was-in-a-fight-and-won kind of headache. Nope. No Fight Club rites of passage for me. No insane acts of heroism masking a carnal desire to feel alive. No "you should see the other guy" tales. No wins.
Only losses.
My boss, Deena, is saying something. She sounds like a Charlie Brown teacher. Wah-wa-waaah. Hazy. Far away. Even though she's standing in front of me. Right in front of me. As in, I can see her pores and the lipstick on her teeth in front of me.
She's trying to look demure as she lectures me. Something about getting something filed. Or is it filled? Or is it…?
Man, what the fuck?
The truth is, I couldn’t care less what she’s going on about. All I can concentrate on are my sweaty palms, dry mouth, and pounding headache.
If this was Fight Club, I'd be the narrator: stuck in a boring-ass office of paper-pushing drones, being lectured by a frumpy-ass supervisor I don't like.
I can't even begin to focus on her words, let alone their meaning. It feels like I'm not really here. Like I'm watching her lecture my empty body from across the room. The Fight Club narrator said something about a situation like this... "When you have insomnia, everything is an out-of-body experience. Nothing is real. Everything is far away. Just a copy, of a copy, of a copy..."
I might be paraphrasing, but mad respect to the author. That shit is Hashtag Truth.
Not that I'm sleep deprived. Not really. I'm suffering from deprivation of another kind. And this one-way tête-à-tête with my boss is only making the itch worse.
I'm not here. I'm a copy. She's a copy. This is a copy of a copy of a conversation we have almost every day.
Ah, shit. Now she’s looking at me like she expects me to say something. Did she just ask me a question? Or…maybe she’s just making sure I’m paying attention. Which I’m not.
I go with something affirmative yet ambiguous: “Yep, got it.”
I do my best to smile. I bet it looks fake. Or goofy. Or both.
She gives me an odd look, but nods.
Deena is a copy. A copy of a copy of a Pinterest post from a Good Housekeeping magazine article on sensible yet savvy office fashion. Except she doesn't fit into her knock-off designer pencil skirt. She didn't see the pin about work attire fitting properly.
"Just get it done," she says, and walks away, apparently satisfied with our chat.
Solid supervision. Stellar. Top marks.
But, hey, crisis averted. Cool.
Now...what the hell did she tell me to do?
My hands start shaking. Damn jitters. I press my palms together. They’re clammy. My headache is worse than it was five minutes ago. Shit. How am I supposed to get through this day?
I rub my eyes, thoroughly pissed off at myself for not replenishing my stash. What had I been thinking? I’d known I was out. I'd known the proverbial cupboard was bare. One quick stop on my way home from work last night and this whole screwed up situation could have been avoided. I wouldn’t be at my desk, going through withdrawals, unable to focus or concentrate, feeling like I’m going to throw up or pass out.
I run my hands over my face, squeezing my eyes shut and wishing to be somewhere else. I open my eyes. Nope. Still in my cubicle. Computer monitor in front of me, In/Out box to my left, desk phone to my right. If this was The Matrix, Morpheus would be calling me on that phone in the next few seconds. He'd call me Neo.
Ah-ha!
That's what this copy is! This copy of a copy of a workplace. It's the Matrix. It's not real. It's my own personal hell, on a continuous loop. It's my plugged-in body, being used as an energy source by the machines.
I wonder if the machines have a Fight Club? If they did, the first rule would be: You do not talk about the Matrix.
Holy shit!!
I broke the first rule, and now I'm being punished!
I'm being punished with these sweaty palms, and this headache, and these jitters because I know the truth: this is not the real world. The Matrix is real, and this is the Matrix, and the real world isn't real, it's an illusion created for the Matrix to keep us subservient, and I'm not supposed to know that the real world isn't real it's the Matrix which is real while I'm not but the giant machines are and this office is not and everything I can see hear taste smell and experience is a copy of a copy of a copy!
Nah.
That can't be right.
I'd make a shitty Neo. I'm Neo's less awesome sidekick. I'm Neo's bumbling friend who gets killed off two minutes after encountering Agents. I'm Neo's gofer when he needs a doughnut and an orange juice break.
I am Neo's awkward stand-in.
And I'm still in my cubicle with jitters and a headache and no clue what I'm supposed to be doing for Deena.
I look up, surveying the not-real-world copy of the office for inspiration. Or a distraction from my...symptoms.
I see one by the copier. A distraction. Helena. Office Hottie. The Matrix got her right. My God, she has a nice ass. Hot. Round. Fills out her pants. She always wears her pants a little too tight. I always make sure I sit behind her. I’d grab her ass if she’d let me. For sure. I want to. But not as bad as I want something else right now.
I am Neo's chronically diminished libido.
I rub my eyes again. Yeah…I can’t stand this anymore.
“Hey, Helena,” I call.
She turns around, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. She says something about me not looking too good, but I don’t catch all of it. My head hurts too much. And she’s too hot. I want to have sex with her. Like, bad. Maybe after I get my problem taken care of. She doesn't look like a copy. Does she find me attractive? Probably not. I’ve heard she’s easy, though. So, maybe—man, who cares? I’ve got bigger issues.
“Um, I need some water. And to make a phone call,” I tell Helena. I’m unable to make eye contact with her. I can feel that my eyes are dried out and bloodshot. “If Deena asks, I’ll be back in a few. Cool?"
“Yeah, cool…”
"Thanks! I owe you one!"
Without further ceremony, I run to the water cooler, dialing my buddy’s number as I go.
He picks up on the second ring. "Talk to me."
“Hey, man,” I say in a hushed voice. “I’m hurting bad. Can you help me out?”
I fill a paper cup with water and down it in one gulp.
“What’cha need?” my buddy asks.
“Just the regular stuff,” I say. “The plainest, cheapest you can bring me. I have cash on me. I’m at work, so…can you meet me out back?”
“Yeah, I’m actually in the area,” my buddy says. I guess he can hear the urgency in my voice. “Gimme ten minutes. I’ll be there.”
I end the call and swig down two more cups of water.
I make my way to the rear exit and wait outside with my back against the wall of the building. I can’t stop my foot from tapping.
I can’t stand these jitters.
I’m never gonna let myself run out again. I swear. Never. ‘Cause this sucks.
There's a Fight Club sesh happening inside my head right now. "Sane Me" versus "Insane Me".
The second rule of Machine Fight Club is: You Do Not Talk About The Matrix.
At that moment, my buddy pulls up next to me in his old Mustang.
I am Neo's palpable relief.
The driver's window rolls down.
“Thanks, man,” I say, reaching out my hand.
My buddy shakes his head. “I know you when you get like this. Money first.”
I take a ten dollar bill out of my pocket and hand it to him.
He stares at me like I’m crazy. “Hey, man, that ain't what it cost—-”
“I know,” I say. “Keep the change. It’s a thank you for being so fast.”
He shrugs. “Cool. Here.”
He hands me a large Starbucks coffee.
“Regular house blend with some cream and sugar.”
I take a sip. Then another. And another. I can feel my headache start to evaporate away. My jitters are already subsiding.
I am Neo's happy place.
“Thanks, man,” I say. “You are literally my savior.”
With a wave, I walk back into the building, making a mental note to buy some Folgers on my way home.
Gotta replenish the stash.
*
