That morning I woke up with a scene of urgency and in need of a job, not because I needed one but because of a need of something to do.

Two nights before I had drinks at the bar and finished that night with the cigar on the balcony at a penthouse of a girl I met the same night, but again to the job. I retired from my previous job, and I felt like I needed to move forward with my life in order to occupy my time and channel my energy, nothing else.

This is how it all started.

I was sitting at the bar that night after the last call was made with four drinks in front of me. Lights were low, the place was empty, you can only see the melting ice inside the sweaty crystal glasses. Earlier this month I finished reading the book called, The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter. This is how I was in a need of a change, of a purpose, I lacked a vision. I needed to do something out of my comfort zone, something that I had no experience with. All I knew was that it needed to be uncomfortable.

I met my old female friend Lindy for lunch. She was married with three kids, but she always knew how to stand out in the party. It was a cool day with fog setting on the fifth floors of the skyscrapers. We had a few grilled sandwiches, which I honestly hate, because it always scratches the roof of my mouth and by the end I can only taste blood rather than food, and a cup of coffee that was actually bold enough for me to appreciate.

While discussing my potential job in the office and consuming the food, enjoying the stale air which never moves between the high-rise buildings in the financial district, it came all clear to me that this role will be ideal for me.

I rode my motorcycle to the interview, because it wasn't raining that week. The sun was barely rising from the horizon when I left the garage. The room was wide with two long tables, I was sitting at the one farther from the door. Two people, that’s all it took, some department VP named Jacob and a lovely elderly HR lady named Sarah, not sure about their last names.

I had a suit jacket on, still wearing motorcycle padded jeans and riding shoes, they can’t see them under the table. Despite the clean-shaven look of the corporate world they would expect, I had a full beard because it didn’t really matter to me, I am just here to get this job.

They asked me about my past experiences with teamwork. Without moving a muscle of excitement and any change in my voice, I told them the time when our patrol got ambushed and some members sustained significant injuries. Under a heavy enemy fire, we evacuated the casualties and continued with our mission, all that felt normal in my world. Importantly, for them to hear, that due to our teamwork abilities we continued with achieving the task. I knew I had to work; I was just playing hard to get. I had to stand out.

I was about to leave the room but Sarah abruptly asked me to stay. She wanted to know the closure, what happened to those team members. I had to come back to that long desk away from the door to finish the story. The sun was starting to rise above the window sills. She was cutting into my evening plans.

I got home and had a few drinks, to celebrate the journey, even if I didn’t get the job, which I knew I would, I still indulged in the fine-rare specimen in the bottle, again complimented by the refined cigar.

I started on Monday. I rode my motorbike, the cool air in the early morning calmed my excitement. I didn’t wear a suit jacket, just a dress shirt. I changed in the bathroom that time. I didn’t mind, they had two hooks on the door, which was more than enough to hang my spare clothes and the bag that I never set on the floor, especially the bathroom floor.

Throughout my work, I followed the basic rules of a wise man, Charles Bukowski, who once said: “I always started a job with the feeling that I’d soon quit or be fired, and this gave me a relaxed manner that was mistaken for intelligence or some secret power.” I had my vision and I knew my intent.

Job was a mind-numbing, climate-controlled temperature environment, which didn’t require any skill or anything that I didn’t possess from my previous work. I would show up early, for my early timing, 20 minutes to be exact. It was enough for me to read the room and explore different sides of the office. I memorised all the exits and fake dividers by Tuesday morning, it was easy.

Daily I was reporting to my immediate supervisor, named Shawn. He was tall with a big gut, overly opinionated, middle-aged man. Judging by his demeanor, he was probably living in his mother’s basement, who would shake my hand while trying to enforce some strength and say how he liked my cufflinks on my dress-shirt. I would smile with confidence and without hesitation match his set grip strength. In my mind I would tell to myself, “Don’t let this suit fool you Shawn, I will knock you the fuck out.” Followed by the loud laughter. We would both smile while continuing to squeeze hands. I was being serious.

In the mornings, I would walk to the big Xerox machine that would print at least 4 feet of paper reports. I had to find the end of each report, insert a slightly pink A4 standard sheet to make a visible separation. After, I would drop those reports according to the office locations, where I would remember people and layout of the rooms. Casually smiling at hard working individuals, who would take that job seriously, but not me. All that was going through my mind was to lean farther into the turn than I did this morning, because I knew the pavement would be hot by the end of the day. I could already feel it.

Throughout the years I was subjected to vigorous training under realistic conditions. Some things you will never use again, but others were sunk deep into your overall development. I had an idea that this job would be different, as I previously convinced myself while reaching the bottom of the glass. One thing I remembered is knowing your enemies.

Religiously I would stop by the HR office to visit my ladies, that’s how I would call them every time I visit them. It was an open space office with many neatly stacked chairs along the wall.

The Seniors HR lady, named Stephanie, always well dressed in a three-piece suit, immediately connected with me without any verbal introduction. Her husband was a lifer, which I knew from before. Hardcore – old school personality. She knew I was different by simply how I would enter the room and scan my surroundings.

The other HR girl, Becky, the one who would eye fuck me without a shame. She had a sweet smile while standing tall in heels barely reaching five feet four. That justified my frequent visits.

Overall, I was working at my desk as everyone else, but after the lunch, after people had enough time to digest and process new gossip, I started to hear the conversations and notice all eyes on me, they were sizing me up, or in the corporate world, they were trying to get to know me and find ways to communicate with me. It was obvious.

All that started after the Senior VP from the floor above came down for some meeting and subsequently stopped by to see me. “Is it Paul, I presume, our new employee?” he said. My name was not Paul and he knew that. After that humble gesture, and the sound of our hands connecting together followed by the man’s hug and a few noises, all that certainly made a statement in the office. People went wild with gossip.

Not everybody knew but that Seniors VP son, Robert, I call him Robby, because he didn’t do much with his life but rather leached off from the assets and wealth of his father’s deep pockets. He was my trench battle buddy during our basic courses and his father, the Senior VP knew about me longer than he worked at that floor above.

Twice a week I would sit at the lowest position, the front desk. Greeting incoming people, answering the phone and filling up the visitors log on Excel spreadsheet, it was degrading, but I didn’t mind, I got paid, and it occupied my time with something to do. At the end of the day, I would ride my motorbike home to get drunk, get laid and hopefully remember the night. I had bigger plans.

One morning while sitting at the front desk and performing the job of an undeveloped monkey, this group of hot shots came after lunch, a few minutes past 1 pm. They all were from the office opposite of mine, on the other side of the floor. It was important for most employees, but clearly not for me. One of the studs threw at me a hand gesture of a pistol firing a shot, connecting his thumb. Followed by a deminer smirk, he thought he was better than me. Making himself significantly important in front of his colleagues.

In my mind I had vision, this was my plan. With my left hand I would disconnect the flat screen monitor and simultaneously with my right hand, launch it towards him as a distraction. Meanwhile, while the monitor is making contact with his over obsessed persona, I would close the distance between the desk I was sitting at and that character. By the time he would realize what just happened, I would have knocked his fucked socks off. But I didn’t, because I was better than that, and I needed this job, because I was bored.

I always had lunch, I never brought any with me, it was always given to me. Mostly it was delivered by this hot-pink, long hair Asian girl with a full tattoo sleeve on the motorcycle. Which made quite an impression on those basic corporate mules, while consuming their stale sandwiches and pretending to be interested in the conversation by people around them.

All I wanted was to do my simple job, get drunk, screw some corporate skirt and not be late to work the next morning to repeat the cycle. Making friends was not a part of my daily routine.

To make my situation worse, I was invited to lunch by this short, skinny, weathered character. Who looked like rehab was the best decision of his life. He told me how office girls were looking at me and saying how different I am on that floor. Like I gave a shit about his observation skills. Then he told me how he can throw a football far without any effort. I had a different opinion about his skinny, dilapidated arms. I forgot to ask him if he ever sent a burst of suppressive fire towards the enemy’s position, but clearly his football story had more impact on that hot day.

I only found out later, but apparently, my beloved female friend, Lindy. She was kind of a big deal in their world of corporate nuisance, I am happy for her, that’s how I landed this job.

After working there for several months, that would explain how the group of those self-proclaimed individuals, who would not last a week in the field, started to become significantly friendlier to me and showed a way more interest while arriving past one pm to the office from their lunch break, still being late. I refused to pay any attention. I knew this was a temporary solution for my permanent problem.

One day the department VP asked me to step into his office one gloomy morning, to see if I would like to continue in this role. I said, nice and clear, without hesitation, something that aligned with my life trajectory. “Thank you for the opportunity, it was great, but I quit.”

In the full episode of panic, his uncontrolled hand gestures and shallow breathing he asked: “What will you be doing now”?

Calmly with the most confidence I said “I am going to Germany for a beer!”

I got my gear, left the entrance card on the table, and exited the office. I never looked back, I just don’t. I rode my bike to the beach, saw the sunset, followed by the drunken night and sporadic packing for the trip. I was moving forward.

I haven’t worked in the office since. Not because I didn’t want to, but simply because I can’t. Let’s just leave it as water under the bridge.

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