Working nine to five

A friend just posted a note about her ten years with the company she’s been with, and even though I’m comfortably retired now, I felt a pang of envy. I loved working day gigs, day gigs in big giant buildings in big giant companies. I kept at it until epilepsy made working impossible and I finally gave in. I have to admit my life now is neurologically much more healthy. The less I do, the less the epilepsy gets stirred up. Besides, I was a lifelong failure as a bohemian, the idea of being a full time writer didn’t appeal to me at all, and I always felt out of my element in big gatherings of bohemians and their patrons. Aside from a very select few, I never even hung out with other writers. I was always more of the underground kind of guy, creative weird shit by night, excruciatingly normal environment by day. That’s what I did most of my working life, and though I was certainly one of the odder employees, I took to it like a weird fish to water. I liked the sick leave and vacation and salary, I like a lot of the scads of people I’d meet, some of whom I knew on a daily basis for years. Of course, my life out of the office had absolutely nothing in common with the forty hours I put in a week at the day gig. I never socialized with my fellow employees, never even did lunch. I suppose that’s why I quickly lost contact with almost every single person I ever worked with. Of the hundreds, if not thousands, of fellow employees I was on a first name basis with over the years, from CEOs to maintenance people, you can count the ones I still talk to on some of the fingers on one hand. Those almost forty years of 9 to 5 are like a dream now. I don’t have a single photo of me at any of the jobs I ever had. There’s not even a photo of any of my desks. No mementos at all. Hard to believe I was ever even there.