It’s taken awhile for me to nail this down. To be sure I wasn’t thinking crazy thoughts.  Something’s being introduced through the air filtration system at Job Service.

It’s the only explanation for the mind numbing that hits me when I enter the building. I’m reduced to a state comparable to the other glass-eyed zombies who fill the lobby. They don’t even know their own names. What did these slack-jaws do before this moment? Where do they live? How desperate are they? Can they hold out for a few more weeks or are they on the brink? Do they wonder about me? And just what are they thinking about me?

Then I’m herded into a cube this bitch criticizes the educational choices I’ve made. Why don’t they tell you? There’s no warning that screwing off the first part of my life would have a life threatening effect on a total stranger, who intends to make me pay for it.

And you did have a little too much fun, didn’t you?

And that’s when I get it. I’m snapped into a new awareness like a freaky out-of-body experience. Every last one of these losers has O.D.ed. They’re suffering a chemical reaction of bitterness and prolonged exposure to the nerve gas. The gas’s making them prissy, judgmental, and condescending. In a word: hung over.

(Snorts.)

She’s doesn’t know about it. If she did she would’ve blabbed it, while lecturing me on. "So what if you got a tan? You’ve got no prospects. And now this nerve gas killing you. Ha ha!"

The furrows in her brow knit tighter together. But I don’t think it’s working fast enough. She grabs a pencil, a metal, clicky one with the bolt of lead that pokes out of the casing. A gift for 15 years of loyal service to the company and she lunges at me! Bang! I’m back in my body. How much time has passed? I have no idea. Is it hours or only seconds? The gas is getting to me. I’m susceptible to shit like that. She looks up, and says "Are you even listening to me?"