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Authors: Bentley Little - (ebook by Undead)
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tried not to think about it, tried not to let it bother me. But it did
bother me. And I was reminded of it each workday, each time I sat in my office
with Derek, each time I walked through the halls, each time I took my breaks or
went to lunch.
It seemed frivolous to dwell to such an extent on my own problems, to be
so chronically self-absorbed. I mean, there were people in Third World countries
dying every day from diseases that science had the means to eradicate
completely. There were people in our own country who were homeless and starving,
and here I was worried that I didn’t get along with my coworkers.
But everyone’s reality is different.
And in my reality, this was important.
I thought of talking about it with Jane, wanted to talk to
her about it, even planned to talk about it, but somehow I never seemed
able to bring it up.
On Friday, Hope passed out the checks at four o’clock, the way she
always did. I thanked her as she handed me my envelope, and I opened it up to
look at the check.
It was sixty dollars less than it was supposed to be.
I stared at the printed number, not sure of what to do. I looked over at
Derek. “Is there anything wrong with your check?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t looked.”
“Could you check?”
“It’s none of your business,” he told me.
“Fine.” I stood up and took my check down the hall to Stewart’s office.
As usual, he was sitting at his desk, reading a computer magazine. I knocked
once on his doorframe, and when he didn’t look up, I walked in.
He frowned at me. “What are you doing here?”
“I have a problem,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”
“What kind of problem?”
There was a chair available, but he didn’t offer it to me and I remained
standing. “My paycheck’s sixty dollars off.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Stewart said.
“I know. But you’re my supervisor.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m responsible for everything that
goes on in your life?”
“No, I just thought—”
“Don’t think. I don’t know anything about your little check problem, and
to be honest with you, Jones, I don’t care.” He picked up his magazine, began
reading it again. “If you have a question, talk to Accounting.”
I looked down at the check, at the attached pay stub, and I noticed
something I hadn’t seen before. I cleared my throat. “It says here in the hours
box that I only worked four days last week.”
“There you go, then. That’s why your check’s short. Case closed.”
“But I worked five days.”
He lowered his newspaper. “Can you prove it?”
“Prove it? You saw me. Monday I helped you with the IBM memo and retyped
that page for the new keyboard. Tuesday I met with you and Mr. Banks to talk
about GeoComm. Wednesday and Thursday I worked on the list of processing
functions for GeoComm. Friday I turned in what I’d done and started on that
Biweekly Report System update.”
“I can’t be expected to keep track of every little movement made by
every little person in this organization. To be honest with you, Jones, I’ve
never known Accounting to make a mistake like this before. If they say you only
worked four days last week, then I’m prepared to believe them.”
He returned to his magazine.
I stared at him. This was an Orwellian nightmare, a real-life Catch-22. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I forced myself to take a
deep breath. Over the years, I’d grown immune to this sort of reasoning. In the
abstract. The three-hundred dollar Pentagon hammers, my dealings with the cable
company, all of this had caused me to take for granted the absurdity of the
modern world in which I lived. But to come face-to-face with this sort of
thinking on such a personal level was not only unbelievable but truly
infuriating.
Stewart continued to ignore me, made a big show of licking his thumb and
turning the page of his magazine.
He was smiling to
bother me. And I was reminded of it each workday, each time I sat in my office
with Derek, each time I walked through the halls, each time I took my breaks or
went to lunch.
It seemed frivolous to dwell to such an extent on my own problems, to be
so chronically self-absorbed. I mean, there were people in Third World countries
dying every day from diseases that science had the means to eradicate
completely. There were people in our own country who were homeless and starving,
and here I was worried that I didn’t get along with my coworkers.
But everyone’s reality is different.
And in my reality, this was important.
I thought of talking about it with Jane, wanted to talk to
her about it, even planned to talk about it, but somehow I never seemed
able to bring it up.
On Friday, Hope passed out the checks at four o’clock, the way she
always did. I thanked her as she handed me my envelope, and I opened it up to
look at the check.
It was sixty dollars less than it was supposed to be.
I stared at the printed number, not sure of what to do. I looked over at
Derek. “Is there anything wrong with your check?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t looked.”
“Could you check?”
“It’s none of your business,” he told me.
“Fine.” I stood up and took my check down the hall to Stewart’s office.
As usual, he was sitting at his desk, reading a computer magazine. I knocked
once on his doorframe, and when he didn’t look up, I walked in.
He frowned at me. “What are you doing here?”
“I have a problem,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”
“What kind of problem?”
There was a chair available, but he didn’t offer it to me and I remained
standing. “My paycheck’s sixty dollars off.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Stewart said.
“I know. But you’re my supervisor.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m responsible for everything that
goes on in your life?”
“No, I just thought—”
“Don’t think. I don’t know anything about your little check problem, and
to be honest with you, Jones, I don’t care.” He picked up his magazine, began
reading it again. “If you have a question, talk to Accounting.”
I looked down at the check, at the attached pay stub, and I noticed
something I hadn’t seen before. I cleared my throat. “It says here in the hours
box that I only worked four days last week.”
“There you go, then. That’s why your check’s short. Case closed.”
“But I worked five days.”
He lowered his newspaper. “Can you prove it?”
“Prove it? You saw me. Monday I helped you with the IBM memo and retyped
that page for the new keyboard. Tuesday I met with you and Mr. Banks to talk
about GeoComm. Wednesday and Thursday I worked on the list of processing
functions for GeoComm. Friday I turned in what I’d done and started on that
Biweekly Report System update.”
“I can’t be expected to keep track of every little movement made by
every little person in this organization. To be honest with you, Jones, I’ve
never known Accounting to make a mistake like this before. If they say you only
worked four days last week, then I’m prepared to believe them.”
He returned to his magazine.
I stared at him. This was an Orwellian nightmare, a real-life Catch-22. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I forced myself to take a
deep breath. Over the years, I’d grown immune to this sort of reasoning. In the
abstract. The three-hundred dollar Pentagon hammers, my dealings with the cable
company, all of this had caused me to take for granted the absurdity of the
modern world in which I lived. But to come face-to-face with this sort of
thinking on such a personal level was not only unbelievable but truly
infuriating.
Stewart continued to ignore me, made a big show of licking his thumb and
turning the page of his magazine.
He was smiling to
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