Alive In the Land of the Dead

Churning air.

I'm so miserable I can cry. I never in my life ever believed...ever, that I could get so exhausted doing absolutely nothing. I mean, I was even allowed to sleep in the front of a video interview class. I nodded off until my body got sore in the chair, my fat ass began to hurt. I walked again for lunch, moving faster and farther, and still time crawled. This morning I ate breakfast, read the paper and napped. Churning air.

Then, to the computer room where I checked my email, and handed over my doctor's note to the document lady, which disappeared. What the Hell was that about? At least I made a copy for myself. I stood around in the hallway for a total of a half hour, with my hands in my pockets, playing pocket pool. Then I went back into the lab to play on the computers some more.

One of the instructors this morning who was filling in our monthy reports was asked the question: When do we get out of here? "You don't," she replied. "Not unless you die, or find a job. One or the other. Some people have been here for five years or more." My mouth dropped to the floor. There are some people who LIKE it in this fucking limbo. I've seen them too. They're well known by everyone of the Facilitators and Instructors, floating from lab to classroom like motes of dust. Sign in, sign out for lunch, sign back in for the afternoon session, sign out for the evening. Nine to Five. This is their job, this is what they live to do, rather than find a job and escape this psycho-ville. Fuck that. I can't deal with churning air for much longer.

At least when I was homeless, I had a job. You may not have felt it as being one, but I wrote. I was regular with my writing. I wrote novels, screenplays and poetry. It was like being on a job. When the Library opened in the morning I was there and when it closed I was the last to leave. Helping my brother run the SHOUT OUT was another job, it didn't come easy, it came from hard work. I was always a productive person, always one to do work even when 'work' was not present. If I made a living from the hours that I put in doing my kind of work, I could afford an apartment, good clothes, and a nice woman.

But churning air is something that defies the mind. Just think of sitting in a chair for four hours. Read a paper, read a book. You'll get tired. Daydream, you'll run out of shit to daydream about. Twiddle your fingers, play with your hair, rub your eyes, this will become tiring too. You have nothing to do. Nothing, but sit in that chair and watch time creep by. You feel life seeping through your pores, tears run from the corner of your eyes. It is the most insane thing in the world, churning THIS MUCH AIR. There is absolutely nothing to do. The Facilitator tells us to "Think." This is what everyone does. Sit and think. No talking, just thinking. What kind of mind control shit is this??? A woman opens a wide, high window and someone moans: "Don't jump." God, I know that's exactly how we all feel in this room.

By the time I got to the video interview I was too tired of doing nothing. I was exhausted from CHURNING AIR!!! I slump in my chair and sleep right in front of the Instructor. He couldn't care less. Now time raced by. In moments I was awakened by the movement of the entire classroom as the three O'clock break was called. I stand and rub my eyes and race with the urchin to room 4F, the lab. Everyone is ready, spastic horses at the raceway gate, waiting for the door to open and allow them access to the computers inside.

I stroll in because I exploit a little known space near the door, slipping in before the crowd and getting to my computer. I think about it for a moment. I could easily disable this computer and enable it whenever I come in. That way the urchins could not come to use it, and it would not be easy to find my devious work. But that is too devious. These systems are not mine to monopolize. I shake my head against the thought. Besides, after checking my email I ran out of things to do without bringing files from my laptop on a flash drive. I tried to work on getting the systems to recognize the damn things, but to no avail.

"Five O'clock people, it's time to sign out!" The Facilitator shouts up into the air. I don't rush into the line like the rest of the urchins. The line is so long that it runs along the wall of the classroom and out its door. I continue to grope on the computer, now writing this blog post until everyone is gone and there is only three or four of us left sitting behind the computers. "C'mon you stragglers! Time to go home!" I stand and go to the desk, signing out and head out.

The ride uptown was like I was sleep walking. I walk into my room, grateful to get behind my own computer. I'm not churning air here. I'm back to work.

Fuck the Roach Motel. I'm taking a vacation....

Hobobob