“And finally you just wake up one day and you ask yourself, ‘Why aren’t I working at a place where they treat you like a human being instead of like a fuckin’ cog in the fuckin’ wheel?'” said my colleague to whom I will refer as B.O. because those were his initials and for no other reason.
That’s “cog in the machine,” I thought. The cog is the wheel.
“And when shit goes wrong, they blame the cog.”
I was getting that feeling in my heart. Shrinking. “So much for the spirit of democracy,” I contributed. We waved each other off and a pulse of headache teleported me to my car. “Okay, man,” I said as I turned the key in the ignition. “It’s okay.” A lilting Irish tune came on and I floated out of the parking lot and down the road toward the local grocer.
My eyes burned holes in the road. Was this the futuristic noir adult life I’d envisioned in my youth? Sort of. Except for the grocer. Childhood fantasies never involved food.