December 21st | 2012 | America

Mark:

"I warn you man, don't make me do it." 

I, Mark Wallburg, 27, Wall Street, tread lightly behind a man standing poised with a blade. Crossing him, I sigh heavily, I'm relieved that I’ve successfully evaded that volatile guy. Turning, I lean in to enter into the ongoing crowd, when suddenly, a black something whooshes past in front of me. 

"Cut! It's a wrap,” yells a loud booming voice overhead. Dumbfounded and flabbergasted, I stare on wide eyed as a camera wheezes past me on a dolly. Crew bustling, staff hurrying, and set wrapping all around me. I just watch on like an idiot as a costume department staff pushes past me and hurries up to the man with the knife. Reaching him, the staff starts to take off his accessories, chatting with him throughout the process. 

I tug on the collar of my raven black jacket, trying to hide the spreading blush of embarrassment—but I can't hide the red that paints my ear tips. I turn and disappear into the neverstoping wave of crowds.

Mixed among the ongoing crowd like a 'needle in a haystack' I feel more invisible than ever. I like the feeling of being a tiny nut in the makeup of the whole system—it makes me feel less lonely. 

The constant pushing, pulling, shoving and yelling of 'watch where you're going!' no longer irritates my ears, it has become like white noise to me. A sound to be ignored, but not dismissed completely. 

The busy morning streets of Wall Street had always reminded me of an ant trail. A trail of mindless workers that would stop for nothing, and no one. It would just bypass any obstacles it came across, even if said obstacle was a rotting dead body. 

As my office building rushes into view I step off of the crowd express. Standing on the open mouth of an alley overlooking my office, I pause briefly to stare at it, to contemplate, and to take a deep breath before I begin my exhausting day. My office, the semi-rundown building I see before me, is drenched in the blue dew of a shivering December morning, setting the somber mood of the building. Moss patches grow from molding spots on the building; moss patches that my boss made us try to clean. Moss patches that we failed to clean – surprise surprise – I mean, that idiot ordered a bunch of software engineers to clear out moss patches, this was bound to happen. 

Me; I am – ahem, sorry – was an immensely talented software engineer, the top student in my ‘IVY league’ uni. I'd supposedly been so good that I had been scouted by the top tech companies before I even graduated. And seeing as I hailed from a perpetually financially struggling household I hadn't hesitated in the slightest before taking up the highest paying offer there was, and how good that offer was, truly. But also, alas. Alas, that I had been gullible enough to get roped up in a monetary scandal headed by my seniors and ex-colleagues. A lousy money scandal that was easily caught by my company accountants. And once caught, the higher ups at SicroMoft, my company – the biggest tech giant in the world – had sacked me. I still remember all those cold, accusatory eyes very vividly; they still invade my dreams, a hellish repeat of all those insulting spits. I still scorn myself for sacrificing my high earning future there, just for a quick buck. 

I had lived like a homeless wanderer then. Wandering around from job postings to job postings, but my excommunicado status from SicroMoft had blacklisted me from the entirety of the corporate world. And it was precisely when I was getting extremely desperate to find another job – before my severance pay ran out – that I happened to stumble across this one shabby little office, with an equally shabby little poster plastered outside its door. 

‘Looking for software engineers. Will hire anyone. No CV needed.’

Read the poster. Reaching out to pull off the poster I'd fallen into the blinding lights through the suddenly opened door. I yelled with pain. Rubbing my possibly concussed head I looked up to find myself in a small studio apartment – heads poking out from behind tiny desks to inspect me. I look up to see a spectacled guy standing in front of me, offering me a helping hand, a comforting smile plastered on his face. "Are you here for the interview?” He asks. I take his hand, and he pulls me up. 

“You're rather light,” he mutters – audibly – to himself. “I'm Winston,” he says, “come this way.” And with that he ushers me inside. 

My interview had taken place that very day. I was sat across from a grubby, balding man and his oddly sultry wife. A little taken aback at finally getting the chance to sit down for an actual interview I had blurted out to them about my last job, to impress them, and to my surprise, impress it did. They were made soo jolly by my former intern posting at SicroMoft, that the grubby owner and his sultry wife had hired me on the spot, promising me a high starting pay, and more. Promises that I would later find out to remain just that, empty promises. 

But I had been a bit happier here, because unlike in SicroMoft, the other two employees here – Winston (whom I formerly met at the door) and Melissa – treated me with civility and respect. We became fast friends. They gave me a voice to speak with, and heard all my suggestions with an open ear. The bald headed grubber, on the other hand, always acted with arrogance—to hide his shaming ignorance I presume. I never understood his logic though, he had hired me specifically for my expertise in the field, so why wouldn't he pay heed to the advice he paid for?

But, I didn't let this discourage me; ‘cause at the end of the day, this firm had given me the chance to shine, and shine I did. With my sweat, blood and tears – and my two wonderful colleagues – I had grown what was initially only a three-employee office into a fifty person, multi-storey company. 

The work environment, however, had remained as shabby as its owner's heart. Still, it was not all bad for me. My pay, even though nowhere near that of what SicroMoft could offer, had still risen consistently through the years. And something else that had also consistently risen through the years was the value of my advice. The grubby, prideful owner had given my advice no heed at first, however his wife had, and now that my advice had been bringing in the big bucks for the firm, even that arrogant owner gave precedence to what I had to say. 

With my mood a little better now, I push myself off of the alleyway wall and head to my office, expecting to see the cheery faces of my team, which is composed of my two lovely colleagues, a plethora of second generation employees that I hand picked myself, and a number of talented interns.