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So I say to Mark, You know, I could never talk about myself. My autobiography would be the first one never to mention its subject.
He frowns, and says, I'm sorry, what?
Nevermind, I say.
I can tell he's confused. A second ago we were talking about furniture, the advantages and disadvantages of using plastic instead of wood, he started asking which one I preferred, and that was my answer. Not knowing me, he must think I'm nuts. Not knowing me, he must be objective in his appraisal. Therefore he must be right.
That's the basic principle that underlies everything in our society, right? Objectivity, I mean, The Scientific Method. Objectivity rules. Fuck the idiots who believe in something. Belief is dead. Let us bask in our post-modernist brilliance and never make a choice unless it's backed by extensive research and polling.
And objectivity would be fine if it was based on the real thing, rather than on its appearance. That's the problem, if you ask me, we pretend to bask in objectivity, but we base it on surface, not underlying truth. And the more you get closer to the truth, the harder it gets to be objective, and eventually it is simply impossible. We have taken objectivity to heart, but not to its ultimate conclusion, which we deeply dislike. It's the uncertainty principle. But poor Heisenberg was never really popular, except in circles where talking about quarks and muons is a standard requirement to get invited to a party.
So here is Mark, not understanding my anti-postmodernist behavior coming at him from left field, looking simply for a reaction, something that will prove that what's in front of me isn't simply another machine that only produces carbon-dioxide, something that the plastic plants we have around the office don't really need anyway.
Yeah, I know that looking for proof, and that it's going against what I've been talking about. So I'm contradictory. So what.
Mark is new at the office. In fact, he is not just new. He's virginal. You could say that he hasn't even arrived yet. He still sees this place as some kind of preternatural location, a movie set of sorts, a surreal dimension where everything is perfect, people smile at him, and the coffee in your mug never gets cold. Eddie said I should Take Care of Him, just as I got back with Jordan from our shared Starbucks experience. He is a new hire, Eddie said, and I can't believe that Eddie is hiring people only two hours into his new job.
In a sense, Mark is a new person. He comes from another company. He wants to start again. There is that unmistakable glimmer of hope and expectation in his eyes, something that wants this to be it, finally what he was looking for. This is a human being just before his humanity is taken away, before the activation of that process in which some kinds of organizations atrophy certain sense-receptors and areas of the brain, with the result that for most of the creatures taking part doing what they're supposed to be doing becomes little more than hollow repetition.
Mark says, So where is the kitchen?
Ah, finally, the instinct to fit in activates, I think.
I point and say, Over there.
Cool, Mark says.
So I'm Mark's babysitter for the day. Eddie is running around, giving orders, ignoring that he is not in charge but only appears to be. Jordan left as soon as we got back from Starbucks, mumbling something about checking the security room.
I look at Mark. I can almost see his brain cells slowly shutting down, adapting to the new surroundings.
In a grandiose tone I say, Let me show you how to print a document.
I hope he gets the sarcasm.
Instead of chuckling, he just says, excited, Yeah!
Oh, well.
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