I pull myself out of my dreams (in which I was trying to complete all those things I hadn’t gotten to the day before) and into another sleep-deprivation hangover. The sun is bleary and I’m getting started late.
Juice in a bottle and packaged ‘pastries’ while I steer my car through a dusty March morning. It’s a short drive, which leaves me still drinking and eating when I get to the office.
The new office. The new job. You walk in and start noticing the differences. The clock is closing in on 8 am and here, I’d be noticed if I didn’t beat the clock, a downside, but it keeps me honest.
Pass one office. Dark, it’s occupant out of town.
The second, also dark, and I give myself a weary pat on the back for not being the last guy in.
The third, the boss is bent behind his desk and pulling on wires and doesn’t notice I’m a good employee today.
My desk. Barren, from most people’s point of view. Just how I like it. I don’t like being greeted with last week’s leftovers.
Time to get to it.
Here, in a place where you can count the individual worker bees on one hand with room left over to hitch a ride, everything counts, and I’m not useful yet. I’m not generating income. I’m a drain - every paycheck with my name on it counts as a loss so far. It used to be the other way around - I generated Black Ink and no one gave a damn - you could be a complete failure or the great white hope and no one would ever know either way.
I sit at my desk, pecking away, trying to eat an elephant of information one bite at a time, and wait for people to come see what I’m up to: how much have I learned? what can I do? when will I start pulling weight?
I don’t have to wait long.
And that’s all right. We all generate our own paycheck. I have to perform. People actually care if I do. They want me to be the success they hope they hired.
People ask me if I’m happy. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, since I’m not sure it matters. I’m busy, I’m working, and I have something to prove.
There are worse things than that.
