I went to the office the other day and found a terrorist sitting at my desk.
“What the hell?” I said.
My boss came over and pulled me aside. “Why don’t you sit at Marilyn’s desk today?” she said. Marilyn was away on leave.
“Because I prefer to sit at my own desk,” I replied. “But I can’t because there’s a terrorist sitting at my desk.”
My boss threw up her hands. “What can I do about it? We all have to pitch in and help out in difficult situations, don’t we? Of course we do. Around here the real work is teamwork. So try to be the solution, Bob, and not the problem.”
So I sat at Marilyn’s desk that day. The sky didn’t fall, and the next day the terrorist was gone.
At first I felt a little sheepish about all the fuss I had made, but then I noticed that my Post-it notes were rearranged on my computer. And the cap of my favorite ballpoint pen had chew marks all over it.
Who does that? Who rearranges and gnaws on people’s things like that?
Worse, there were cigarette ashes on my keyboard.
Ashes? Really? Who smokes cigarettes anymore? And in a smoke-free building!
But when have you ever known a terrorist to follow the rules? That afternoon, when my boss walked by my desk, I stopped her and asked why the terrorist couldn’t have used Marilyn’s desk instead of mine. She didn’t even slow down but rolled her eyes way back in her head. Made it seem like everything was my fault.
Right before five o’clock, my girlfriend texted to tell me she had an unexpected open house and not to wait dinner on her. This was the third time this had happened this week. The real estate market was on fire, and my girlfriend worked around the clock.
So I stopped at the supermarket on the way home to pick up some take-out dinner. But the front doors didn’t slide open for me, and the aisles inside the store were dark. There was a big sign in the window that said:
CLOSED BECAUSE IMMIGRATION
“Oh, for crying out loud!” I said. “Closed? Really?”
I made myself a frozen pizza at my girlfriend’s apartment and afterwards watched some TV while I waited for her. The news was all about a terrorist plot at a train station in Europe. I was grateful that at least the terrorist at my desk hadn’t blown himself up.
Another news story reported on the president’s speech at a victory rally in an Air Force hangar. The Air Force was rolling out its new drones with bombs so smart they could pick out a single terrorist in a crowded football stadium. The president declared that America was wonderful. America was just incredible. And that was why terrorists were blowing themselves up big league.
I must have dozed off because I woke up when my girlfriend came in. It was quite late, and she was tired and cranky. Turned out, her prospective buyers were terrorists and they made her show them, like, a dozen different listings.
“They had all of these unreasonable demands,” she complained. “Everything had to be just so.”
But the terrorists eventually saw something they liked and made an offer, so things turned out well and good at the end.
The next day, as I was riding the train to work, I received a blast text from the office. My boss instructed everyone not to come into work; the office was closed, permanently, due to abortion. She thanked us for our years of service and sent us her best wishes.
I was stunned. I was unemployed. Again! I got off at the next station and took a return train home.
When I got to the apartment, wouldn’t you know it, there was a terrorist in bed with my girlfriend.
I lost it completely then. “Get out!” I screamed at them. “Both of you! Get out!”
The terrorist only smirked and flicked cigarette ash on the sheets, and my girlfriend said, “Someone’s forgetting whose apartment this is.”
Now I live in a motel, not far from the fulfillment center where I work. I get weekly rates here, with cable TV, wi-fi, air, and pool included. It even has maid service, so I suppose things could be worse.
I work the night shift packing cartons. Basically, the robots bring me stuff, and I put it in cartons.
I sleep during the day. Or at least that’s the plan. Lately, the minute I close my eyes, they pop right back open and I lie there, sometimes for hours, staring at the ceiling. Weeks have passed since I’ve gotten a good day’s sleep. It’s wearing me down.
But this morning I received an encouraging bedtime tweet from the president: America has the best sleep. It’s world-class sleep, what can I tell you. Our sleep ranking is huge, believe me.
His words help a little and I drift off, only to bolt upright an hour later with a galloping heart.
Why are things so screwed up?
I lie there, powerless against exhaustion, as I try to figure out how in the hell we got ourselves into this mess in the first place. Was it something we did as a nation or something we failed to do? Are we the victims here, or is all of this our own damn fault?
In desperation I cry out, “When, oh when, will this nightmare end?”
Under my bed, someone yawns and says, “I don’t know for you, my friend, but for me when you do something about the snoring. Sad (or Sick).”