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Writer
Join Date: Feb 2006
Gender: Female
Posts: 38
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Office Waltz
Tap. Tap. Click click. Vroom zoom. These are office noises. One should be surprised that offices have noises, but they do, and usually is consists of the rhythm of fingers spontaneously punching letters on the key board or ten key pad, the tapping of pencils and manicured fingernails on cubicle desks; the low raspy voice of one of the advisers on the phone, the occasional, casual chatter of the staff working the window, and the persistent shrill of the phone halted only by an operator picking it up and saying politely, "Financial Services, how may I help you?" Often the soft humming of the printer went off, and, because it would overheat and jam, a high-pitched beeping would enter the office waltz.
It had only been a year since Jazmin Guerra had begun working in this office, and already she abhorred it. She worked as an assistant to one of the grant advisers, in a room so isolated from the rest of the busy-body staff. The staff, themselves, were separated only by thin cubicle walls, which didn't even make it to the ceiling. No one was so isolated as Jazmin. Moreover, she was tasked by reviewing a long list of client files, and the routine duty became to easy that she would go on, social by social, identity by identity, accurately updating and drawing into her thoughts at the same time. Over and over: screen 116, screen 118, to screen 207, and so on and so forth... This allowed her to think of things that only really depressed her. The situation wasn't any better when she actually absorbed the information because, albeit she celebrated those files of less deserving people, a person much more elevated in accomplishment than she would often burst her smug bubble an descend her falling straight into a bout of disappointment.
It always happened at the slightest discouragement, but when such files came up it sent her so far down she would swim in a pool of utter self-disgust for days, maybe a week, and at its worse weeks upon weeks of regret and fatigue. She blamed her emotions on herself, knowing how competitive she was and that the high standards she held over herself were hazardous; they skipped along holding hands, taunting her constantly. They would whistled: You're pathetic, absolutely pitiful -- destined to fail. You'll always be second at everything, you talentless twit, positively every effort you ever make will fail. Someone will always be more loved; someone will always get more recognition; someone will always be better than you; someone..."
They probably deserve it, too, she would add on.
She didn't know why she was like this, but she knew she was. Thought, thought, thought, she would blame, They are my enemies. I am my own worst enemy. And it was true, for she thought always about the obscure, abstract, unanswerable, non-empirical; bad memories, good ones, artists, music, old movies-- thousands of thoughts.
Today was one of the worse days, because her duty involved a long list of awardees, which dejected her greatly as all of them were much more qualified than herself. Her supervisor was not in due to an emergency (she was often absent since she is an older woman and often crossing desperate health problems), thus her little room was more isolated than ever, giving her extra leeway to think. She had hoped Jeff would make a short, pointless visit as usual. He was, it seemed, the only co-worker who acknowledged her existence as more than just a labor unit, but as a human as well (whatever it means to be human, that is). To no avail: waiting eagerly was only a senseless process of having hopes crushed. She tried to focus, then, on the office waltz.
It reminded her of a percussion show, only ten times quieter and less flashy. Flick, t-t-tap, "How may I help you?" Ting, vroom-zoom, "Did you get those files?" Hmmm, clickity-clack, "Have you-" 1-2-3. 1-2-3.
Her grandfather would call this method meditation, but her brother would decry it as an activity "that leave your mind vacant for the takeover of satanic demons." She wasn't close to her family, nor was she religious, so it didn't much matter. She had nothing for comfort except few distractions such as these.
Finally, something of interest came up in a name that flashed across her monitor. Anita Astaire, probably the loveliest name that she came across thus far. It had an alliterative tongue play to it, Anita Astaire. She enjoyed the name so much it gave her an incredible urge to utter it. She glanced out the door to check if anyone was nearby, but it seemed all was in their place as usual.
"Anita Astaire," the words tumbled playfully off her tongue. It reminded her of the scrawny, talented and charming Fred Astaire with his crooked smile. She imagined him, in black and white, tap dancing loudly in the room above Ginger Rogers, singing smoothly. The scene changed: he and Rogers are dancing, her with that seemingly hairy dress and he, although without his top hat, sporting the traditional tails, sweeping her across the floor. She spins around in those shoes that looks impossible to even walk in, much less dance in.
Whenever she watches a musical and after goes to a public place, she imagines the people bursting into song and dance. There were no previous rehearsals, but it was a perfectly choreographed number among perfect strangers, as if they were simply programmed, like ants instinctively know their duty and she knew her screens. As usual, she imagined this in the office, wondering who would be Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Edward Everett Horton, and Erik Rhodes. When it pieced together, she felt like laughing aloud, but though it may be unprofessional. The urge was so intense, though, that she let out a few low giggles.
Just as she did this, a tech named Mark was walking by. She saw his dark clothes and his short figure pause at her door through her peripheral vision, and knew that under his graying brows his eyes were narrowed on her monitor to check that she wasn't dawdling on the Internet. She looked up at him, her face had gone blank, while he stared back for a moment. He had a pile of folders in his hands and his wrinkled face was plastered in frightening calm.
"...Are you okay?" he asked. Her face flushed. The staff had become accustomed to her bland, emotionless expression as she stared into the monitor; she realized that they probably never saw her smiling. Yet, he asks if she was well or not. Perhaps they were so used to it they though any pull of the corners of her lips was a prophecy of an oncoming psychotic nervous breakdown.
"Yeah...fine," she feebly replied. He glanced back at her monitor again and walked away.
Awkward, she thought, Why is it that people find it odd when someone is happy? Maybe he was jealous. Maybe he was really just like me and jealous that I had a happy moment for once -- a giggle moment. Are we not allowed to be happy?
She focused again on the monitor, switching quickly through screens and imagining herself dancing. She was wearing the light-colored high heels, the bristled gown. Fred Astaire, singing and swaying, was leading her in their own personal dance.
She was Jazmin Rogers, dancing to an Office Waltz.
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"The trick is living without an answer. I think."
-Thumbsucker (2005)
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