I've actually got no idea what I am doing here.
In fact, I never know what I am doing here from day to day, or from job to job. At one time I thought that everyone else around me did, but I have come to realise that they don't either.
I think it's something to do with cars. Or medical supplies. Or maybe moving goods from one place to another. We take instructions over the phone and fill out a 7B-1A1 which we then pass to the right person downstairs via a messenger, according to which of four geographical areas the order came from. Or is destined for. I think.
The 7B-1A1 is white. The 7B-1A2 is pink and is only used if we have made a mistake on the 7B-1A1. We get told when we make mistakes. Not how we made the mistake, just that there was one. We write out the correction on the 7B-1A2 and pass that on too. On a rare ocasion we see a 7B-1A3 which is green. When we see one of those most people try to avoid any contact with the person receiving it, and maybe exchange a look of oh dear with our nearest colleagues, perhaps with a mild shake of the head or a mild tut. Usually the person getting one is moved on. No one has any idea what a 7B- 1A3 is or what it's for or what it means. But we know it's important, and it's always bad news.
I've never had the wit or the courage to ask anyone why we are doing this job or the reason why we do it or what it means or produces. At first it was because I didn't want to stand out, but now it's because I think it would put everyone into an existential crisis of a sort. There is also a hint that to do so might be dangerous, although no one has ever said explcitly that it is. It's just insinuated by the silence in the building, the way the phones ringers are almost silent, the way that people whisper into the mouthpiece if they even speak at all, and the way no one seems to make much eye contact with anyone else.
There wasn't even an interview. I was put forward by the Department of Chronic Umployment because I had been out of work for a while - by which I mean I last worked seven years ago. I was told to come here, where they asked me if I could read and write, then showed me to a desk and told me that I'd pick it up as I went along. I got a flowchart, but there is no real purpose behind any of this.
I don't even know the name of the company for sure.
Three different people have sat at the desk facing me. I don't know their names. I'd ask the boss, but I have no idea where she is from day to day. Every two weeks or so a man with a clipboard comes along and makes notes and figures after looking over our shoulders, then leaves. No one knows who he is or what he is doing. One day, the girl who was then working beside me caught sight of the clipboard and saw that either he was writing in a weird code, or that he didn't know how to write at all and was just making illegible marks on the paper. The day after she whispered this to me she got moved somewhere.
I get paid monthly. I get to park where I like because the rest of the estate is barren, filled with empty offices and buildings just like this one. I'm told there is another branch somewhere nearby. I don't even know where. Maybe they know what they are doing. Maybe they don't.
How long have I been here?
A playlist for the album can be found here.
Titles conceived, composed, arranged and performed by Mike Dickson
(c) 2026, Black Cat Music Factory