The supervisor spoke in his thick European accent. "It's Albert's first day back everyone. Make him feel the good! He's good worker and we need him much!”
The exact details were kept confidential, but Albert had had some sort of mental breakdown. The word “suicide” had even been dropped in hushed conversations. His co-workers would now prove themselves good and loyal subjects to build Albert back up to his former glory. Albert – miserable ingrate that he was – dreaded it more than death.
Albert hated his job. He hated it because he hated dying. On occasion he would meekly suggest his predicament only to have it swept aside with, “But Albert, you do such a good job! Everything is fine. No job is perfect. And lots of people don’t like their work. Is good, no?” They could hear his words, but never Albert's dreams at the speed of light. Reality was, Albert loved his work, it was doing their work that crushed his living soul.
Albert could feel the spotlight as he entered the neatly cubicled office. Just kill me! A sea of manufactured smiles engulfed him as sticky, donut stained hands waited to pat him on the back. Albert would have preferred sniper fire to this. At least then he could explain why he was ducking. He cowed under the brutal assault of misunderstandings.
“Albert! I heard you had a birthday last week. Congratulations on wasting another year!”
“Hey man, really glad you’re back. We sure have missed your filing prowess. No one can do menial labor like you!”
“Albert, good worker. Hard worker! We all wish we to have his mind. Let’s applause him much and give him this fresh deviled egg!”
Slumping into his chair lower than ever, the target had no choice but to smile at his assassins and thank them. Placing the horse’s bridle over his head and inserting the bit into his mouth, Albert sat ready for work, wishing to be his cat instead. He was expected to rejoice having been found guiltless by a jury of his peers – and disregard a soul screaming “Guilty!”
And thus the perversion of paradise smothered forward. What Albert did not know was the vast conspiracy of silence surrounding him - countless guilty souls whose only prayer was hope of the salvation of creating industrial output to absolve all sin. It was a tempting god – a lusty one untethered to feeling – but like all false gods its path was one of doom. What Albert wanted was a way out, he already had despair.
The “breakdown” was supposed to be over – which made it run deeper than ever. Albert receded into the indulgence of his thousand yard stare – “melodrama” they called it. The Angel of Death hovered nearer, cackling as Albert’s supervisor approached with aimed arrow in hand, releasing it with merciless precision.
“My boy, glad you back! And I hope you realize sincerity when I say you best patent clerk we ever had, Mr. Albert Einstein!”
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