LALAKI

Relative Deprivation - I

June 2nd, 2019
10:15 AM
Tristero Building, Emilio Jacinto Ext, Poblacion District,
Davao City, Davao del Sur.
(Nearby Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas)

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I am surrounded by heads and bodies.

Fourth floor, Room A-1, cubicle 27. If I were to die, I would like to die inside an office cubicle-shaped coffin with my desk, yellow sticky notes, and HP computer; at least dying wouldn't be frightening, it would rather be a familiar feeling. My hands at this point are merged with the keyboard keys, I've written almost a thousand words on Paul's unfinished article. A hot-shot basketball player was being interviewed while a piece of lettuce was stuck in his teeth specifically upper incisors. The hot topic of the nation, the talk of the town, and current scandal gossip. An event so controversial that the athlete starred as a guest in Fast Talk with Boy Abunda to get some closure and to attempt to salvage what remains of his professional Basketball career.

My eyes droned over the screen, they felt like unfocused camera lenses I didn't even have to look at what I was typing or focus on what was being written on the screen, it just happened like breathing air; there's certainly enjoyable masochism in doing work that requires the bare minimum, you write about the slop that masses will read and enjoy but you don't think about it too much, it doesn't matter. It's transparent and non-existent. Give your keyboard a few clicks and you're free to go. It's during working hours that I often let my mind or sense of control drift, a kind of auto-pilot mode or safety mode where I don't necessarily pay much attention or exert any sense of control. I don't consider this job as the death of me like those movies about guys stuck in a dead-end office job only to become unhinged and let loose, I also don't consider this to be my dream job, because I've always wanted to become a local writer or psychologist. I'm honestly fleeting, a weighing scale that's balanced both of its sides or snowing while raining. I don't feel too alive nor I do feel too dead; maybe a bit of both. Maybe this is limbo.

"Mmmm yellow, how are we doing here?" My boss, editor-in-chief, sir JD. He had a habit of saying hello like yellow.

"I'm on it chief, I'm around 1,500 words now. I'll just re-edit some lines probably."

"Ah good, good. By the way, are you willing to come this Wednesday night?"

"Uh, why? What's up" I said without taking my eyes off the view of the computer screen.

"There's a Media Writer's Expo that night at the Azuela Cove, I need some folks from us to attend y'know for some exposure and such, who knows maybe you can learn a thing or two. Just saying. It's alright if you don't wanna."

Sir JD is a meticulous fellow. 5'10 feet tall, a clean pompadour, and a light yellow-brownish tan. He gives me his friendly stare and smile, a smile like you got your bills and debt paid, everything on your plate, and everyone on your bed. Smile because it's not pallid nor attractive, but because there is nothing else to show. Sir JD has a habit of making requests so shallow and casual that you can't help but want to accept them. I hate it. I hate how he closes his eyes when he smiles and that strand of facial hair he has above his lip that looks like a lollipop that fell to a carpet, that shit-eating grin and smug demeanor on his face. hate how he doesn't try but he gets what he wants either way. I hate how willing I am to accept his offer, I hate how I can't help but want myself to like him. I hate how he's himself and not me in every way.

"Sure sir, I'll spare some time," I said trying to hide my disgust and spite.

"Hell yeah!" He pats my shoulder and I flinched a little, "Thanks man, I knew I could count on you. See you Wednesday, and don't forget about that article!" I waved bye and continued on focusing my article just as I was about to type another sentence, I felt another presence hovering over behind me casually.