Morning all. I hope your week has been a good one. It is time to round it out with the last writing prompt of the week. Are you ready? Well then, timers set for fifteen minutes and lets get going.
No clue where this is going but I suspect it will start with a very strange informational hunt.
Friday, November 7th: Do I even want to ask?
“Do I even want to ask?” John looked at the office. Piles of paper were everywhere. It looked as though every filing cabinet the company had opened and disgorged it’s contents into the cubicle area. Underneath the stacks of loose paper there were boxes John guessed to be filled with even more paper. John was running slightly late that morning. He arrived just two minutes before the start of the day.
Most of the office arrived before him but he could hear a few people exclaim as they got off the elevator behind him, barely squeaking in on time. Those who arrived earlier were standing in their cubicles looking at the paper surrounding them. They had a dazed look.
They expected to come into the office as usual and weren’t expecting the tsunami of paper to arrive behind them. ‘At least it means I didn’t miss a memo,’ John thought. He knew his question wasn’t going to be answered simply because no one seemed to have an answer for him. He went to his cubicle, eased his way through the small path left for him and by some miracle managed to not dislodge any of the stacks.
His desktop, a laminated thing that ran in a u shape around his cubicle walls was covered with even more stacks of paper. The computer monitor was a sole square of black. With the keyboard tucked under the desk and the mouse somewhere under the paperwork, the monitor looked like it lost a battle.
The company declared itself paperless over a decade ago. At least it tried. Paper was inevitable, but they did cut down. Part of the cut down was intense monitoring of all the printers and copiers in the building. Printer ink was like liquid gold and rarely used for anything that didn’t have to go to power management. Post it notes were considered acceptable but the supply of pens was watched over by the main receptionist, and one had to stand in supplication should a replacement be needed.
So where had all this paperwork come from? ‘And what sort of paperwork is it?’
John slipped the strap of his bag over his head, coffee still held in one hand. Usually, he tucked the bag under the desk to get it out of the way. Today, there was no place for it. He put it in his chair and then stood, like the others, sipping his coffee and trying to figure out what he was supposed to do.
His mornings had a routine, a rhythm. None of it involved dealing with mass quantities of paper. He leaned over the nearest stack. The top page was stamped confidential with red ink. It was from a rubber stamp. ‘I didn’t think we had any rubber stamps.’
He hadn’t seen any of them since he was an intern. Then the receptionist, more than thirty years his senior had a collection in her desk along with various colored ink pads. He was pretty sure that when she retired, they went with her. He liked to think of her stamping Confidential and do not bend on various pieces of mail that came her way in retirement.
There was a low murmuring in the office that he hadn’t really paid attention to. It was the background noise of general office murmuring and something anyone working in such close proximity to so many others learned to tune out. He didn’t notice it until it stopped. The sudden silence was jarring. John looked up and saw the CEO had just entered the room.
Ten til Midnight 