(This was written for NYC Midnight's 2017 Flash Fiction Challenge. The prompt was sweatshop/drama/automotive battery. I had a 1,000-word limit—and, boy, did that make things difficult. Nevertheless, enjoy!)
Every day I sit and watch them work.
The dozen or so rows of rickety old brown tables, the rusting typewriters that line each one, the monotonous clicking of the keys not unlike the irritating drone of a hundred crickets, the putrid aroma of spilled ink and bad breath filling the room as a silent, invisible killer, the sunlight streaming through the diagonal crack in the far wall that bakes them all slowly like meat in a broiler, the lines of individuals in similar drab attire pressed shoulder to shoulder in splintered chairs…they will never know this, but it is hell for me, too.
They will never know the bile that rises to my throat each time a young man—a boy, even—with a brown satchel greets me with a grin, takes a stack of papers, and continues off on his merry way. They will never know the ache that throbs in my temples as I scrutinize story after tedious story, at first itching to find the one that will most proficiently catch a potential buyer’s eye but soon enough drawing lots on which will fill the rest of the page. They will never know the smile that grows once one of them turns away, head bowed, after bidding me good morning.
The worst to bear, however, is the fact that they will never know that I know them.
There’s the man who sits in the far corner. Arnold. He’s a handyman by trade, will repair your leaky sink or change your tires free of charge if he likes you—or fears you, in my case—and never found a sufficient job in that field, so now he’s stuck here in what they all call the sweatshop, crafting false scientific studies and reports of fake technology. One morning, I went to start my car and realized the battery was dead, and I asked him if he could replace it, and he obliged without question. He’s a smart man as well as a good one. The irony is in the fact that here, he doesn’t even get to work with a computer.
Then there’s Susanne, who sits closest to my office. She’s pretty, or at least looks like she could be underneath the sweat and the frown and the messy hair. She’s the hardest worker of them all. Never once have I had to stand over her with that menacing look my predecessors and peers have told me to use. Sometimes I wonder if maybe someday I will talk to her, but she has been here writing celebrity gossip for five years and I have yet to do more than nod politely as I pass.
Next to her is Carla, who used to aspire to be an author. Then Sean, who was a librarian back before those all closed down. Then Lily, who is far too young to be here in my opinion, but there are no rules regarding that anymore.
Today, a man in a polished black suit steps into my office.
“Hello,” I say.
“Good afternoon.” He offers a hand and I shake it. “Emmet Smith.”
“What brings you here?”
“I’m interested in buying.”
I stare at him, confused. “You can subscribe by email.”
“Buying the company. I would like a rundown of how the place works, if you don’t mind.”
I swallow. “Okay. Um. It’s really no different than all the others.”
“If you don’t write something worthwhile, you go home hungry?”
“Exactly.”
He nods. “I own a magazine. I’m looking to, ah…” He gazes out my window toward all of them. “Expand my empire.”
I clear my throat. “I can give you the number of my owner.”
“I’ve already spoken with him.”
“Oh.”
He places a hand on the doorknob but doesn’t turn it. “I’ll be back.” Then he opens it—
“Don’t get too comfortable.”
—and closes it behind him.
I sit back down behind my desk. News stories. This would make a good news story. I’ll hand it off to Arnold or Susanne or Lily and have them write it for me. Headline: Man Infiltrates Company Office and Demands Ownership. It would sell so much that maybe I’d have enough to live off of if I were to lose this job.
Losing my job. I’ve imagined it before, of course. Each time I do, I pace the rows of tables and snap my fingers a few times in a few faces.
“Get your stories to me before sunset or you won’t go home tonight.” And then I feel bad, because I remember that they’re handymen and messy-haired and young. But I don’t take back my words.
Here, if you try to take back words, your own story will be pulled from underneath your feet.
I glance out at them, all of them with their heads bent over like the spines of those parabolic sea serpents, typing away. They will never know my feelings about this place. They will never know me.
They will never know that I am the one who bought the typewriters and eliminated the hand cramp-inducing pen and paper, that I am the one who prays at night for them to receive even the slightest bit higher pay than before, that I am the one who hates the distorted paper and defaming articles more than any of them.
I care, but they will never know, because I’m a coward. I’m a coward who doesn’t want to lose his job and will continue to publish a fake newspaper with fake stories for real money until one of them decides to write my own death.
So until then, I continue to sit and watch them work.
