It's closing time for work. Not really. It doesn't close here. The door is locked at 5PM, or so, but most of us have keys. But around 5PM is also when the cleaning crew comes in. They roll their little cart full of cleaning supplies, and they walk around with chiming sounds from their huge ring of keys, opening all the offices to do basic cleaning. It's the same people every night that I am here. They are either a Spanish speaking couple or from the same family of Spanish speakers. They are quiet, except a few mumbles that betray their language. But otherwise, they are quiet. Whenever I hear their cart moving, or their key chain chiming, I know that work is winding down.
But I am still here. There's not much around me. The cubical is empty, save a few pieces of garbage I need to discard but never remember to. They should be in the trash bin, should be taken out by these five-o'clock people, should be gone. But then, I feel, my desk would be even emptier. The light above doesn't work because the electric cable can't reach the wall outlet. The desk seems so big, like a desert and my laptop is just a small oasis of work and intelligence. Behind me is a window to the outside, where cars are gathering on the roads as other people get off work, going back to their families, or no family, just their friends, or no friends, just their own little apartment, proceeding to their next items of the evening, whether planned or not.
I am sitting in my relatively comfortable chair. It's quiet. I can hear the sound of car wheels rolling on the wet asphalt outside. I can hear the air conditioning humming even though it's neither hot nor cold today. I hear the occasional opening and closing of the main door. People are leaving. I doubt anyone is coming in, except the cleaning crew. Then there's nothing else. No wind, no voices, just machines moving past one another.
The fluorescent light feels like a blanket to further shield me from the noises, to isolate me. It's here, just my fingers and the laptop that sits on the desk, not my lap. A phone sits quietly beside me; it has never rung since the time I've been here, and it has never been used since then. I feel I am in a museum, seeing things plucked out of their environment, just for viewing. I wouldn't know what the phone sounds like. I wouldn't know what this desk was destined for except to hold undiscarded garbage. I wouldn't know what the fluorescent light above me is most used for. I am just here, sitting with my feet touching the carpeted floor and my hands typing on this laptop that is the sole object of purposefulness. And each letter I type brings a little bit more silence to the world as people, wherever they are, whoever they are, leave and close things down.
My eyes have gone tired from looking at the screen. Tired from all the stimuli of the day. But they have only seen the outside, looking for the outside. They haven't had a chance to look inside. It's only when I can close them, close them gently, that they begin to peer inside me, see the memories, recorded feelings, images of the day. But then, what happens outside? I don't know. Things just stop outside, just stop. My memories of the people, I try to stop them from coming inside, making noise, painting images. When I close my eyes, I want to be like in my office at closing time, just hearing meaningless and gentle sounds. Nothing to draw my attention, nothing to make me believe I am needed for something. And in the darkness inside me, where no light can reach from the outside, finally, my eyes get adjusted to the peacefulness, and only then, I start to search for the light.
But now, it's also time for me to close things up, if I want to find some peace. And so I will close the only humming machine that thinks for me and asks me for attention. And I will subtract it from this bleak desert of museum objects. And I will go home.
