I actually wrote this during a lunch break, so it’s pretty rough, but the main idea is pretty clear, and I’m posting it in celebration of officially quitting this job yesterday.
Lunch break. Your manager tells you that when she comes to break you.
It’s never really actually at lunch time. It’s the time in your work day when you have worked five hours so your manager smiles at you with big teeth and hollow eyes that don’t crinkle around the edges and says, “Why don’t you take your lunch break?” She actually means, why don’t you leave our establishment for thirty minutes because government policy tells me I have to tell you that.
So. Have a good lunch break. Even though it’s 7:34 P.M. They tell you to have a good lunch break, they really don’t want to know what you do on your lunch break.
Wait, when you’re on break, you’re a person and I am an employee. How does our relationship work now? Yes, have a good 7:34 P.M lunch break because our relationship has changed and I’m not comfortable with that anymore.
So what do you do on your lunch break? You stare at the ground, a real person, waiting for those 30 legal minutes to pass so you can go be an employee again.
There’s a bee on the ground as you stare, fuzzy, inching.
In one grand moment of decision it plunged its stinger into what it wanted and damned the consequences and now it’s inching fuzzy, with veined paper wings that no longer fly.
It’s dying. It stumbles over a broken twig, six stubby legs reeling, tiny, fuzzy, in air, but the wings do nothing. Soft wings that carried it above the ground. Fight, little bee. You stare as the legs grow slower. It’s dying. It was worth it. You look at your watch. Twenty-nine legal minutes have passed. As you get up to go back to being an employee, the bee makes no sound when it squishes, fuzzy, under the sole of your shoe.