A few years ago I ordered myself the red stapler to use at work. Yes, “the” red stapler. You know the one I’m talking about.
I had just received my big promotion from a secretarial job in human resources to the professional position I’d been gunning for—a writer in the company’s marketing department. The new possibilities ahead thrilled me (when does a new job not make you feel prickly and shot full of vim?). But during my two-plus years shuffling paperwork in HR I’d picked up a friend, a cynical corporate imp, let’s call him Floyd.
Anyone who works for a large corporation for more than a few weeks makes friends with an imp. They thrive in close quarters under florescent lights. They feed on paper clips and legal pads from the supply closet. I sometimes suspect they’re addicted to toner.
Imps live to sow discontent. They whisper persuasive, subversive natterings: no one appreciates how hard you work, you deserve to park in visitor spots, that coworker saw you checking your gmail. We all become a little more paranoid. And we cling to our imps because they’re the only ones who can tell us the “truth” about what’s going on.
I think Rome fell because of the imps.
The red stapler was a statement. I placed it prominently on my desk—bright, red, and shiny. It’s my declaration of independence. My refusal to be sucked into the corporate morass unwitting. It’s a rallying cry for like-minded individuals. It says: “It’s ok, I know. You know I know. I know you know I know. And everyone knows we know it.” And as long as we “know” we are free.
Or possibly it’s just a cry for help. “I am Milton. I entered the corporate jungle in search of adventure and opportunity…but now I’m trapped, my map’s no good, and the tigers are after me.”
I’m not sure which one it is. But the weight of the stapler in my hand is comforting. It’s much nicer and more solid than the cheap Corporate Express stapler I found on my desk when I arrived.
But I worry that one day Floyd will kidnap my stapler. Its symbolism really goes against his grain. And then I’ll be reduced to wandering the building, asking each person I meet, “Pardon me, but have you seen my stapler?”
*Shudder*
I had just received my big promotion from a secretarial job in human resources to the professional position I’d been gunning for—a writer in the company’s marketing department. The new possibilities ahead thrilled me (when does a new job not make you feel prickly and shot full of vim?). But during my two-plus years shuffling paperwork in HR I’d picked up a friend, a cynical corporate imp, let’s call him Floyd.
Anyone who works for a large corporation for more than a few weeks makes friends with an imp. They thrive in close quarters under florescent lights. They feed on paper clips and legal pads from the supply closet. I sometimes suspect they’re addicted to toner.
Imps live to sow discontent. They whisper persuasive, subversive natterings: no one appreciates how hard you work, you deserve to park in visitor spots, that coworker saw you checking your gmail. We all become a little more paranoid. And we cling to our imps because they’re the only ones who can tell us the “truth” about what’s going on.
I think Rome fell because of the imps.
The red stapler was a statement. I placed it prominently on my desk—bright, red, and shiny. It’s my declaration of independence. My refusal to be sucked into the corporate morass unwitting. It’s a rallying cry for like-minded individuals. It says: “It’s ok, I know. You know I know. I know you know I know. And everyone knows we know it.” And as long as we “know” we are free.
Or possibly it’s just a cry for help. “I am Milton. I entered the corporate jungle in search of adventure and opportunity…but now I’m trapped, my map’s no good, and the tigers are after me.”
I’m not sure which one it is. But the weight of the stapler in my hand is comforting. It’s much nicer and more solid than the cheap Corporate Express stapler I found on my desk when I arrived.
But I worry that one day Floyd will kidnap my stapler. Its symbolism really goes against his grain. And then I’ll be reduced to wandering the building, asking each person I meet, “Pardon me, but have you seen my stapler?”
*Shudder*
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment