two months into the new job, and god knows it couldn't be easier.
every afternoon i leave my house with a mere twelve minutes to spare, slip-slide my way into century city in virtual solitude past the congested rush-hour mob headed the other way, pull into the garage of my building, take my pick of prime spaces, ride the empty elevator up to the plaza--the doorman always rushes to meet me me since i'm his only incoming at that late hour.
another empty elevator up to the 21st floor, i wave at the receptionist [whatever the fuck her name is--she always smiles back because she'll be leaving soon], head for my suite, drop my shit, start my day.
first thing, i review the day's email, most of it from people who have worked there for 20 years [and, since they all leave before i arrive, i'll never meet].
the work, if it comes at all, usually comes via email; when it's done, i traverse endless lavish, deserted corridors to deliver the finished product to dark, empty offices.
eight hours later when it's time to go home, century park east and santa monica boulevard are ghost towns, and i glide easily through the empty streets of beverly hills all the way home, making every light.
easy-peasy, right?
so tell me--why do i wanna fuckin' strangle somebody?
