Head Smashed in Briefing Note Jump

“We’re shipping you to the farm.”

“Please, please don’t,” I said. “I’ll do anything; I can be better, please just give me a chance.”

My prayers sank under the reproaching sounds of “forget it,” “don’t fight this,” and “too late.”  He slapped down the transfer papers and barked that authorities were already coming for me.

There was no place hide, no place to go, and no way to avoid assignment to the cubicle farm in the basement of C-27A.

An old warehouse at the edge of the complex, C-27A sat empty for almost decade after the simultaneous discovery of asbestos and gophers in its walls.   When union officials went public with these details, media commentators and animal rights groups joined in the fray thinking that the building was a venue for cruel experimentation.

Last year, the department opened it with a pledge to seal off the toxic fibers, relocate the animals, and install a warren of gopher-free cubicles.  

The unions hailed the decision, and animal rights groups moved on to the plight of pigeons on the hot, sticky roof of C-29B.

“In effort to minimize cost, the Government will limit investments in lighting, air conditioning, and washroom facilities,” said the memo to all staff. “We will transfer employee groups to the 2.0 cubicle farm through a process tied to efficiency, collaborative workspace priorities, and reverse order of hierarchical importance.”

I knew some of the first transferees and heard reports of widespread depression, sick leaves, and a spike in wrist-related papercuts.

“Personalize your cubicle if you want just as long as you stick to the grey, white, and beiges,” said the agent from building management. “No music and no yelling or screaming unless it’s for your work.”

I learned that we could sign out the branch helmet if we had special requirements to temporarily drown out the noise, to focus, and to write something coherent.  Today is my day to have it. I picked it up this morning, headed to my cubicle, and wrote this note.