Johnson at home
Johnson parked his car in his alotted space and got out, straining to keep it from dinging the car next to his. He shut the door, locked it, and sighed.Another day, another reason to consider calling in sick.
He stood next to his car, lost in thought, trying to relax. Every day he had to spend a little time after being herded through hoops and chutes at work just getting his brain back into its regular state.
A squirrel chattered at him from a branch over head.
"Chk! Chk-chkchk-chk-chk!" said the squirrel.
"Hello, squirrel," said Johnson.
He went upstairs, unlocked his door, and went inside. He flopped down at his computer chair and turned on some music. It further helped him relax, and recall that he was one of God's own artists.
He scanned the job boards. He figured he was about an ass hair from the bread lines if he didn't start getting to work on time, and stop acting like such a god damned fool.
Since neither of those were going to happen, he scanned the job boards.
Another one of God's own artists had recorded himself putting together a number of songs in a new way, and Johnson now was treated to that recording. The drums drummed. He felt better. Thank God for DJ's.
He saw an ad for a security guard. He imagined a small bluish TV image depicting a deserted hallway, now a featureless expanse of lobby, now rows of deserted cubicles. It finally began flipping through the unpopulated floors of a parking deck, the last of which showing for an instant a uniformed Johnson lying on the concrete of the top deck, staring at the stars.
He read on.
The articles all seemed like the rankest of propaganda. "Are you a self-starting, results-driven, go getter?!" one screamed him.
Johnson nodded dumbly. "Uh huh!" he blurted.
"Do you want to earn competitive wages of almost TEN DOLLARS AN HOUR?!"
"Yes! Yes! God, Yes!" Johnson slapped himself in the face, getting pumped up. "I love it! I want to exercise my management potential! I want to earn competitive wages!"
"APPLY NOW" the ad screamed.
"FUB HUB BUB HUB, SWEET JESUS YES!" Johnson screamed back, pushing his chair back as he stood up to flail his arms and thrust his pelvis. "I LOVE COMMERCE" he shouted. He cranked the music up and danced in his jerky, silly style, shouting about being a captain of industry.
Someone was pounding the shit out of his door.
He turned the music down and answered it.
The guy from downstairs was standing on his doorstep.
"Hi, Rockefeller. Could you shut the fuck up about loving commerce at the top of your lungs please?" he asked Johnson.
"Oh, yeah man. Sorry. Want a beer?"
"No."
He went away.
Johnson turned the music back up, but not as high as before.
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