‘Office as Body’
Karin Reimondos is freelance photographer, writer, and horse breeder, living on a farm in Sweden with her Welsh Springer Spaniels, Ben, Billy and Mickey. Karin has had poems published in Poet's Choice poetry book “Words That Heal” and "My life, My Choices" and photos published in Fusion Art, Light Space & Time Online Art Gallery, Beyond Words Magazine with forthcoming artwork in L'Esprit Literary Review.
Office as Body
My boss, Mr. Ryan D. Lawrence, Director of Interoffice Synergies, so trite,
stereotypically balding. As if centrally casted from “Mid-Level Executive: An Archetype”. He
puts his hands on my shoulders while I was processing words instead of word processing.
“Are you some kind of writer?” he asks, his breath a blend of despair and ambition, and
the Sun Chips from the fourth-floor vending annex.
I don’t answer. Because there is no “answer".
Suppose I say: “Yes, I am a writer,” then what? He offers me a lifetime subscription to
Writer’s Digest? He offers me a window office?
Nope.
Instead, his hands float like corporate ghosts to my earrings—cheap hoops where they
dangle like question marks beside my cheekbones.
Can you work late tonight? he asks. Like toner from a broken cartridge, the subtext oozes
out of his mouth.
Work late, say K. Be flexible, say KK. Be accommodating, say KKK – or something that
would make her be a team player, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll keep this job that lets you eat
lunch, regularly.
So I had to fuck him.
Of course. Of course, I did. I can’t live off my anemic symbolism, my flabby free verse
conducted entirely in Google Docs. I need to keep my clerical skills employed—typing 88 WPM
with 91% accuracy.
The next morning during dictation, I wear my embroidered white blouse. It’s so crisp it
snaps when I move. Crisp to the point of aggression. I take his precise notes. I don’t alter. I
remain blank-faced, spiritually formatted.
Our eyes meet: his, full of metaphor, heroic self-concept, the noble manager
misunderstood, and mine, patently literal. No suggestion of allusion. Just the delicate, ticking
clarity of someone who knows the difference between a simple sentence and a complex sentence.
Allison Whittenberg of Philadelphia is an award winning poet, novelist, and playwright. They Were Horrible Cooks is her collection of poetry. Her novels include Sweet Thang, Hollywood and Maine, Life is Fine, Tutored, Sane Asylum, and Killing the Father of Our Country. Her plays have been performed at The Festival of Wrights (New York), Downtown Urban Arts Festival, The Secret, Hedgerow Theatre, Theatre in the Round, Interact Theatre, and Equity Library Theater of New York.
