KYNK

Ball & Chain

Judging from my day job, nobody would likely have ever guessed the sorts of 'activities' I willingly engaged in within the bounds of my free time. Every morning I entered my office donning a pressed suit, perfectly arranged tie, with not a hair out of place (as per my employer's preferences).

At precisely 05:45 I was crawling out of bed to drag myself into the shower, and by 06:00 I was out for my morning run. By 06:30, it was a second shower, the whole morning spiel - and then a very reluctantly prepared meal before I had to dress for the day.

    Yeah. I know what you're thinking. I sound like one perfectly boring, perfectly average twenty-something with more or less zero edge. Well, it came with the job. When you were working for Elliott Grimme of Grimme Enterprises (you know the one - the tall, drop-dead-gorgeous SOB with a penchant for all things class), there was little way to avoid it. Every employee, including myself, was expected to be of utmost quality, both in our work ethic and apparently, our sense of style. Something about 'impressions are everything', or some shit. I'd honestly stopped listening halfway through the initial presentation because I'd heard this all before.

    Be innovative.

    Be exceptional.

    Be. . .

    And blondie lost me. The angry flock of birds crowing beyond the floor-to-ceiling panes to her rear were far more entertaining. I couldn't tell you how many songs I'd recalled to memory during the entire ordeal just to keep myself awake, either. Plain and simple - I hated meetings. I hated discussing them, I hated scheduling them, and I most certainly hated attending them. This one was no different.

    As you've probably guessed, this wasn't my first day. No, this was more like my third-and-a-quarter-century-of-suffering day. I'd already been through sixty thousand hours of about the most painfully un-stimulating job training sessions since probably ever.

    Whomever was responsible for the travesty that was their HR management was going to receive a strongly worded letter from yours truly. Luckily, I'd recently familiarised myself with the proper format required of the company for all official correspondence. I'd send them a lovely little "fuck you very much" with a cover letter addressed "to the sadistic tyrant of HR".

    It was obvious that none of them necessarily enjoyed doing what they did, but company policy was company policy, I supposed. Even if it was an exceptionally unimpressive one.

    Now with all the bitching I more or less had been doing, my lack of intrinsic motivation must have been all too evident, but my responsibilities were not something I took as lightly. I was responsible for acting as the secretary beneath the chief secretary. She was a woman of about what I guessed to be thirty-six - detached - and had a serious obsession with doves. Since the first day we had become acquainted, I had steadily taken notice of this fact, be it a brooch, a barrette, or the graphic that had been brushed onto her favourite mug.

    Whatever, everyone had something, I supposed. Who was I to judge? In comparison, I was the last person to be passing judgment on the interests of others.

    When I'd greeted my small office - a branch that stemmed from the office of the chief secretary - I was only mildly disappointed by the simplistic state of it. At the very least it was a clean, organised space, albeit intensely minimalist. Then again, it was perfect. It would be easy to keep the place clean, and so long as I kept everything well organised, the lack of ample storage space could be overcome.

    I seated myself quickly, whipped out my Mac, and powered it up with a long sigh. Apparently, my first assignment was to re-organised the financial reports to be later delivered to my employer at a rendezvous that evening. I had about three hours until that deadline after wasting more or less an entire day in a chair that had become intimate with the planes of my body in ways I didn't care to recollect.