I am just old enough to remember when the plays of Ionesco, Beckett, and Pinter were considered Theater of the Absurd. These days, those bleakly humorous scenarios and dialogue read like a typical day at the office for the average employee. The only difference is the stage sets now would be cluttered with workstations and white boards rather than a single, leafless tree. In many ways, I suppose the Theater of the Absurd was really a dystopian vision of a corporate future not far removed from Orwell's 1984 in a business park.
They've moved my desk into Cubicle 101. Every water-cooler conversation seems as though we're both buried up to our waists in sand; every presentation I give in the conference room feels as though I'm speaking to empty chairs; all interactions with my bosses are filled with an air of ambiguity and menace. My annual review is conducted by Martin Esslin, and he didn't return after the entr'acte, if you know what I mean.
Staring at this laptop screen, eyes flickering back and forth between my email inbox and the clock, I manage my time like a woman giving birth over an grave, as dear old Sam B might say. And to paraphrase the great man further: "What am I doing here, that is the question. And I am blessed in this, that I happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense apathy one thing alone is clear. I am waiting for Retirement to come.”
