by Craig Davis
***
Joe B. successfully slept off his sorghum hangover, and a new day dawned.
He followed his train route to work by rote, getting off his stops and making transfers without realizing nor knowing. The hours passed with no relief from the mailroom’s mechanical tedium. Letters flew past his eyes like cucumbers from a Salad Shooter. Joe B. felt his humanity caught in the gears, ground into hamburger and set sizzling upon a grill. The electronic chime announced five o’clock, and he turned sullenly to register his existence with the time clock.
Before him stood the outer secretary from the Big Boss’ office suite, her face locked into a stunned expression. Joe B.’s heart sank.
“I thought I should tell you this face-to-face,” she began, her voice unsteady.
“The Big Boss will see you now.”