A day in the life of a Worker
The day begins with a dark red hue filtering through the windows, late spring, a workday like any other. The man is but a simple worker, waking in his small house somewhere in the District, it could be anywhere, for they are all the same: wooden floor, simple furniture. And he could be anyone, for they are alike. The man has no need for an alarm, nor the necessity of acquiring one. He wakes every day at the same time in the same way. Right next to him, his wife stirs, feeling that he has awakened.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, the man takes but a minute, a single minute for himself. He has a perfected internal clock, requires neither push nor prompt to move, but every day he takes a minute to himself, his little conquest, his little victory. It passes, and the rush begins: bathroom, change into uniform, wife and children follow in his wake, eat, get out, and join the throng.
The man never thinks about it all, how the noise of humanity on the move rises as one, doors opening and closing at the same time, feet marching in lockstep, though their owners don’t feel it. The transportation network, a bus, a tram, and finally the train. He knows all the steps and all the rhythm. He finally arrives and sits on a chair. It is comfortable enough. The man is a man of the City, unthinking; he is never truly angry nor truly sad. Around him, many scowl, many are irked by one thing or another. But not the man, he is just there, following the flow.
The train starts with a lurch, this lurch is the same as every other time, which will be the same as the ones that are going to come. The City gives repetition, and there is safety in repetition. The man closes his eyes and enjoys the nothing. If they were to ask him what he remembers of the trip, he would say nothing at all. He doesn’t even feel the pain of the transition that so many others suffer from. The station he arrives at, the Rings, he remembers a bit more; it is more clean and more luxurious than the one he comes from. But he never questions it, he just lets his feet carry him. His work is not too far.
Around him, reality is a blur; he doesn’t think of the faces, he doesn’t consider those around him. All he knows is the rhythm, how the throng always thins the same way, how he just knows what turns to take. Once he knew the names of the streets, they were not needed anymore; he had the rhythm of his life to follow.
Arriving at the deep blue building, punching his card on the clock, he passes by the little open window where the one in charge of confirming their check-in is. He hears him say something, ignores him, gets his helmet, and gets to his work station.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
That was his day, every day, following the rhythm: the light, the machine activates, he pulls the handles, waits for the rumble of the machine, releases, and repeats.
Lunchtime arrives; morning had come and gone. He goes to the eatery, some tables, some beige painting, some open space at the back. He gets his tray, gets his food, and gathers with buddies. This he knows a bit more, though they would be forgotten if they ever leave the factory. He eats slop, lunchtime over, back to work.
That was his day, every day, following the rhythm: the light, the machine activates, he pulls the handles, waits for the rumble of the machine, releases, and repeats.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
Grabbing one handle, then the other, he waits for the red light to turn on, pulls the handles, feels the machine do its work, releases.
And that should have been his day, should everything have gone the same. The day would have ended, and he would have retraced his steps, the same turns backward, through the station among the throng back to the districts. Up the tram, the bus, and walk back home, interact with the children, with the wife, rest a bit, dedicate life to them so they are fine. But this wasn’t a normal day.
He felt it, though he didn’t register it. A rumble under his feet, the gasps of his coworkers, alarms around him. He just kept on the motion of life; the rhythm didn’t stop. He kept doing his job.
But then the machine rumbled and died, black smoke emanated from it. He didn’t move, though; he waited, and waited for it to rumble again. Eventually, he noticed that nothing was happening. So, he released the handles and looked around. He was alone, and there was a deep rumble everywhere. He walked a bit, as if dazed. He went to the front of the machine; he had never seen it from that angle; it looked like an angry face. He turned again and there was none still.
Unsure of what to do, he went to the offices; they had been abandoned. Even the man at the open window was gone. Confused, he decided to leave, punched his card on the clock, left a note on the logbook, and went home. It was earlier than usual, so the roads were emptier than usual. Turn and turn, the familiar repetition was making him feel safe again. Though he worried a bit about what had happened, he pushed the thought back; it didn’t concern him.
Arriving at the station, there were a lot more people than usual; he didn’t think about it either. He got on the train, much more crammed than usual and tuned out. When he opened his eyes, he had miscalculated the time; they were still a few stations off, odd but not something to worry about. He arrived at the station, got down, and was enveloped by steam. Around him, people rushed here and there, terrorized. The man didn’t think about it either; he just hoped that he could go back to his day soon enough. He took a moment to orient himself; he had taken this road all his life and he marched.
Except that not many were like him, either by terror or chance; someone had lost control of their car and barreled into the man. The City continued around him; he turned into just one of the casualties of the day, the day of the white blanket. The City moved on, his family wept a bit, but they moved on, and even the man himself moved on; his mind lost somewhere still did its jobs.
