Wistful

Written 55-I06 [2024-03-07], Edited 55-I06 [2024-03-07]

Image credit: Twitter Twemoji

Jacob fidgeted with the pencil on his desk. His eyes were glued to his fingers, and his ears were plugged into to the meeting through the electrical to biological adaptor, more commonly known as headphone. It was a good thing this wasn’t a camera-on meeting, with everyone’s HD backgrounds, painted smiles and dead eyes on display.

It was another late night meeting, with a client on the other side of the world. The analysts were proposing a deadline that would never be met. The engineers were apologizing for glitches in a data export which, when fixed, would reveal another glitch. Jacob rolled his eyes. It was just another night in the life of a Millennial post-COVID STEM knowledge worker in a post-industrial corner of the decaying American empire.

When the meeting reached its merciful and much-anticipated death. Jacob grabbed his coat, put on his shoes and headed out the door.

Of course it took multiple doors and a maze of hallways for Jacob to escape his condominium. A few staircases sprints and fob fumbles later, Jacob was finally out of the steel of glass and steel he called home. He smiled as he breathed in air that smelled of rain and engine oil, for him, that was the true odour of freedom.

After a bit of power walking, interspersed with normal walking, interspersed with standing around and wondering where he was, Jacob noticed something in an alleyway, something other than the emptiness of modernity. Or perhaps not. In any case, what caught his attention was a teenager beating the crap out of a somewhat smaller teenager.

“Help me! Help me!” The small one said. His mouth was bleeding and the bigger one punched it again for good measure.

“Ah the follies of youth,” said Jacob, wistfully.

“This isn’t a game! I’m hurt! Help!” Said the small one. Every word the juvenile uttered was painful to enunciate.

“Why, I do miss the days when I was but an adolescent, without a care in the world other than weed, girls, and beating the crap out of people.” Said Jacob, placing a hand on his chin.

“Hey old man,” said the older youngster. “You mind getting the fuck out of here? I’m trying to beat the crap out of someone. And you better not tell the cops, boomer.”

“I am not a boomer!” Roared Jacob. He clenched his fists and yelled “I am a Millennial post-COVID STEM knowledge worker in a post-industrial corner of the decaying American empire!”

Perhaps this modern-day Pompeii, this adolescentulus carnifex, was startled by the boomer’s sudden outburst. Or perhaps he feared the attention of someone who actually knew his drip from his rizz. Whatever the case, the tall guy decided not to become a fall guy, and ran away.