In the break room, past the cork bulletin board of useless
customer compliments and company news, past the refrigerators filled with
lunches no one will ever eat but they'll complain about if someone takes them,
past the microwaves and coffee maker; Bryson makes his way to the vending
machines. Not sure of exactly what he wants, he looks through the soda machine,
a snack machine of chips and cookies, and a machine known around the office as
“The Wheel of Death.” The Wheel of Death is a vending machine that contains
burgers, chicken and fish sandwiches, and other assorted snack items that were
premade with an expiration date. Bryson was never sure where the name came
from, but it's possible someone had purchased a perishable item from the
vending machine past its expiration date. If you want to take your life into
your own hands, just grab something from “The Wheel of Death.” Of course, other
snacks weren't any better. How were they able to maintain their freshness
without an expiration date?
As Bryson stands in front of the vending machine holding the soda, an older man
walks into the break room and reaches into the refrigerator as he looks over at
Bryson, “How's it going? You working hard or hardly working today?”
Bryson pushed back tendencies reserved for a more sarcastic approach to a
stupid question like this while answering, “I'm alright, you?” Lying was
ingrained in the job.
“Trying not to work to hard, it's against my religion,” he responded, laughing
at his inanely brilliant joke. “Have a good night.” The man grabs a lunch bag
and leaves the break room, and Bryson just glared after him. He hated that
phrase, working hard or hardly working. It was, unfortunately, a popular phrase
used by the easily manipulated who couldn't think for themselves. Even the guy
who invented that phrase had to hate it, every idiot around the world in
seventy different languages repeated that phrase on a daily basis. The guy who
created that god-awful phrase probably wishes he died before he could have come
up with such a phrase that was repeated by easily lead automatons regularly.
As Bryson thought of it, other thoughts poured into his mind. He wished he
could pound in the faces of anyone he talked to on the work lines who asked, “How
the weather was?” Hey, if the weather was nice did they really think he wanted
to be reminded that he was stuck here? If the weather was bad, well at least it
wasn't bad enough where he couldn't answer they're calls otherwise they'd whine
and bitch about how the weather inconvenienced them. If they seriously
questioned the condition of the weather surrounding planet Forrester than maybe
they should check the weather channel or the internet. People always liked to
ask where he was located, and when he said Green Bay, Wisconsin another shit
storm of stupid comments assaulted him. No, he didn't care about how the
Packers were doing this season. No, he didn't care who Favre was playing for
this season or if he was going to be in the league next season or if he was
retiring for the umpteenth time.
Then all time stopped. From the corner of his eye he saw her walk in from the
other side of the break room. Her khaki skirt revealed legs that went on for
days, or at least he wished they did so he could look at them forever. Her
blouse was cut just low enough to reveal a little bit of cleavage, but not low
enough for people to call her a slut. It was like the slow motion passing of
the hot girl you see in some movies, complete with her mid-back length brown
hair waving behind her as she walked through the room.
“Hi,” she said as she passed through the break room with a smile that
brightened the room around her.
“Hey,” Bryson feebly responded back as she passed the room, leaving it darker
in her wake. Women like that didn't go for guys like Bryson. What was dating if
it wasn't about finding a mate and procreating? Girls like that procreated with
beautiful people or strong people. All they really wanted in offspring was
either a model or a body builder. Some of the geeks got the girls, but that was
being they were funny, intentionally or unintentionally. Bryson was none of
these things. His clothes were nothing special, and even if he did add a little
muscle to his physique that he casually maintained from when he was in the
Marine Corp he wasn't a strong man. He had his moments when he was funny, but
nothing special and he definitely wasn't anything spectacular to look at. Even
in an intelligence race Bryson had to concede that he was quite possibly the
most average person on the planet. If he had to describe himself in one word
that word would be: generic.
He sighed looking in the direction she left as he finally settled on a Pepsi.
He reached into his back pocket to grab his wallet, but when he looked into his
wallet nothing but a receipt and a few pennies greeted him. “Son of a bitch,”
he muttered under his breath as he replaced the wallet. Forget smart, he
couldn't even tell you the balance of his wallet or bank account let alone
explain the mysteries of the universe.
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