a twentieth story...'vinopolis'

It was Friday lunchtime, and it was hot and muggy in the office.  The building had long since stopped being serviced, and the air conditioning blew dust everywhere.  Michael was desperate to get out and get on with his evening plans.  But the emails kept pinging into his inbox.  If he was alone on his floor, as he sometimes was, he would have kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, put his feet up on the plywood desk and unplugged his telephone.  He was not alone.  The only mercy was the absence of his boss who bought the likelihood of the unenviable task of filing documents the company no longer had any real interest in, but were required to keep under law.

He scratched his head, scratched under his eyes, behind his ears. He picked small residues of dirt from his finger nails.  He tugged at his chin.  Another email alert came in.  He switched back to the email screen and read the ‘urgent request’ before him.  Today, there seemed something offensive and wholly irritating about the red exclamation marks accompanying these messages.  ‘Go away’, he said under his breath.  

Even the boundless prairies of the internet could not contain his anguish and boredom that seemed to stretch across the whole afternoon.  The remaining hours in the working day fell about him like a great tarpaulin, the onerous weight of which he simply could not throw off or escape from.  A vaguely defined sense of duty, and a fear of guilt at not being a useful employee kept him at his desk in spite of his inertia.

The telephone rang.  The display screen showed 155 - a general call to which the whole office was privy to answer.  He looked up in hope someone would pick up their telephone before he felt compelled to.  Three, four, five seconds passed.  His hand hovered over the receiver.  Six, seven seconds.  He picked it up. ‘Hello’, he began, but the line was dead.  Someone downstairs had taken it.  With a feeling of impotence he put the receiver down.  His shoulders were aching, and he noticed more flecks of white dandruff.  With a sticky hand he brushed them away before rubbing his face to relieve some of the wearisome tension.

When he was in this kind of mood Michael felt a strong desire to flee the city, and recreate paradise lost on a hill in a forest, yet he was smart enough to realise even the simple life could become tiresome.  How had civilisation developed to fill his existence with so many trials? And were boredom and fatigue simply the result of the loss of childike wonder, as well as the unavoidable consequence of adulthood? 

Another email came in.  Sara had cancelled their date at Vinopolis.