She brought her whole self to work on her first day at the office. Her whole life. All which had shaped her, prepared her to encounter the world and contribute to it, enter its markets with intention and meaning and earn a fair wage.
The lights overhead dazzled and hummed. The hard-wearing commercial carpeting whispered “welcome aboard.” The armrests of her desk chair greeted her elbows like they were long lost lovers back from the war. A breakroom full of mugs begging to grace her lips. What industriousness! What skill unleashed in the service of competition and gain!
Initial awe gave way to a more temperate joy which morphed into a satisfying if milder sense of duty which in turn, over many shifts and pay periods, through countless quarterly and annual reviews, coalesced into something else. An invisible, incomprehensible whelming. Work supplanted life. Her skin began to itch as soon as she crossed the threshold into the workplace. And one day, in a frisson of fear, she felt the work invade her. As if the office were her possessive lover. As if each of her pores were being penetrated, millions of pores plugged up with millions of thick miniscule dicks. She endured an eight-hour shift of this assault but couldn’t accept the slow and steady rape known as a career.
Thus, she began to bring less of her self to work. She portioned her self in the morning as if she were slicing up a birthday cake. First, she left one toe at home. Though her supervisor shot her a quizzical look when she momentarily lost her balance eating a stale donut in the breakroom, none of her other coworkers noticed one little toe missing inside a sensible loafer. When she returned home, the toe left behind reported a general feeling of wellness. A marked reduction in lethargy and an uptick in contentment. She continued with this apportioning apace. Left an eyebrow on her bathroom sink. A vestigial organ in a bowl wedged between a few green bananas. All of her arm hair in a plastic bag beside the white noise machine on her nightstand.
Her supervisor may have looked askance at her newly-smooth forearm or at the sudden asymmetry in her face and yet nothing was said. Her work continued to be completed. Emails were answered in timely fashion. Parts of herself filled her designated seat in every meeting.
The stakes, as a matter of course, required raising. Whole limbs began to be left at home. Entire organ systems. Her supervisor lingered a bit more by her desk, chatting, drumming his fingers on her mousepad. But if he suspected anything, his suspicions remained unvoiced. She grew both bold and envious upon returning home each day to see these parts of her self so merry and fulfilled. Her spleen sat happily in front of the television soaking up its favorite sitcoms. Her fingers taught themselves to knit and produced custom cardigans for every isolated part of her. Her left foot could now samba and entertained the others by dancing up and down the hallway after every lunch. Her right eye had read halfway through the Western canon. Her shins played soccer with middle schoolers in the field across the street, reliving their youth.
She was no longer sure which part was the real her or if she’d become many hers and who or what, if any one among them, remained the ruling part. The subdivision of the self continued nonetheless. Happiness meant differentiation and happiness must be pursued. Her performance review went well except her supervisor rubbed her remaining knee under the desk. He claimed it was an accident and she said nothing, not wanting to draw attention to herself or selves. At the holiday party, a few coworkers commented that she looked great. Like she’d lost weight. Her vocal cords emitted a growl as thanks. Her supervisor began to call her in to his office at the end of the week for a report though he never appeared to truly listen to what was uttered or conveyed. Instead, he seemed to be sizing her up, waiting for something, gazing alternately at her remaining breast, her crotch, her ear, elliptically referring to the importance of employee presence as a major factor in ensuring workplace cohesion and efficiency. Praised her for being a team player.
She convened with her other parts that night. Sacrifices must be made to protect this life they’d created and come to love and need. Tear ducts wept. Lips sucked thumbs. Skin was stroked. Arms held one another deep into the night.
The following morning, her right ear, left breast, and genitalia commuted to the office as usual. They noticed other people on the bus missing parts. A man carried a briefcase with a three-fingered hand. An earless woman hummed to herself. Even the bus driver, who had once looked so glum, shot her a lipless grin. Which parts of him were out there, living the life he wished for? Hers weren’t the only parts which had converted to the religion of separateness, embracing the pain of the few for the happiness of the many. And was that enough?
The work day came and went. The lights hummed and dazzled. The carpet whispered “welcome back.” At five, her boss summoned her three remaining parts. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “I’ve been waiting so long for someone like you. You’re finally perfect.” His hand undid his belt and dropped his slacks and briefs on the floor. His penis emerged, approached, and began to rub along her genitalia. His mouth closed over her nipple and his penis inserted itself into her genitalia. Sucking ensued. Gnawing. More and faster rubbing. Insertion and withdrawal. Groans from deep within the chest. Mucousy weeping. His life told her its story: cold parents, injustices, lackluster birthday presents, a childhood home without a pool, the shame of secondhand cars, the scramble for middling grades, woes and pressures and no one to listen and care, his indifferent wife sleeping through the night in their dead bedroom, pussy sewn shut with threads of contempt, his boss, the head honcho himself, spewing from the crooked hole in his face an incessant stream of lacerating nonsense about profits and performances, outsourcing and optimization, the bottom lines coming for his head like death’s own swinging scythe.
When they returned home, the other parts of her self cleaned her ear, washed her weary breast, iced her sore genitalia and slid all three into their respective cozy cardigans.
But come morning—and morning came ruthlessly fast—they were sent in again, a sacrifice to sustain the lives of the rest of her, all her separate thriving selves. Full liberation of the whole proved impossible. This was the price to pay. Three indentured parts: an ear, a heaving breast, a mound of resigned genitalia.
Three. Not necessarily a large number. But not exactly small either.
-- Jon Doughboy’s pre-oedipal omnipotence was crushed when Mother Literature withheld her glorious breast. Yet still he whines and puckers his pitiful little lips @doughboywrites
