The Working Man

Sometimes, it’s been so long that the ticking of the ancient, analog clock can no longer be heard. Once it’s too far past closing, it turns off to save battery and skips to when the business opens as usual. When I leave the building for the night, I can still hear the ticking on occasion; this is how it’s supposed to be. First into the office and last out. Everything about my job is perfect for me. I’m sure I was created for this position because I love my office, and I can buy whatever I please, though I no longer know what it feels like to call my house a home. 

I’m sure that I was brought into this world to be in this office; my cubicle must’ve been carefully crafted with me in mind. The temperature, the ambiance, the environment, my office felt like the other half of me, whatever I was missing before; this place felt as if it was “filling a void” (Admin). If I wasn’t sure that this was my proper fit before, the paychecks certainly silenced any worry I had. 

The hours I worked let me buy anything I wanted. Every hour I stayed in the office, I felt the cash adding up in my biweekly paycheck. Overtime felt 1.5 times better than my baseline 40 hours. The money I made was enough to buy me a nice apartment deep in the suburbs, leather furnishing, and high-quality business attire. I could buy whatever I pleased and still throw a couple hundred bucks in my savings each payday. Yes, I can buy anything I want, yet I don’t remember the last time I took a good look around my house. 

I don’t remember what my home feels like. What shade of blue my sheets elapsed in my mind ages ago. I don’t remember what it’s like to sit down in my armchair. I don’t remember how it feels to fall asleep in my bathtub. I miss hearing someone’s voice when I enter my house. Sometimes, I still hear my ex-wife wishing me a good night’s sleep. When I enter my living quarters at the end of each grueling shift, I’m hit with a wave of the smell of someone else’s house. I know that this isn’t where I really live; I live at the office. That is my life, not this empty shell of what used to be a home. My life appears to be phenomenal on the outside: all the money I could ever spend and more. My boss gave me generous raises at the end of each year. But at the end of each night, when I returned back to my sleeping quarters, something still felt wrong. 

Regardless, I would set my alarm for 5 AM and start the process all over again. Work, sleep, wake up, work, sleep, repeat. If I continued life like this, I wouldn’t have to face what I lost in the pursuit of cash: close friends, my wife, my family, and a home. The money I’ve earned won’t buy me what I have lost, so I have to keep working until it can. 

Work Cited

Admin, Innovation Cluster. “What Are the Causes and Effects of

Workaholism?” Innovation Cluster, 2 Dec. 2022