I was bored on the bus so I pulled out my newspaper. Because it was a rainy April day the newspaper was smooth in the middle and wrinkled at the edges. The picture I stared at could've been the photograph of a woman or a man. I wasn't quite sure, because I live in San Francisco.
"Cool picture of Boy George," remarked a teenage girl wearing orange leg warmers and a matching mini-skirt.
The bus stopped right in front of my newest assignment. I'm now a temp for a law firm in the financial district. I always feel like that newspaper when I go to a new assignment -- like I'm on the wrinkled fringes and I don't fit into the normal structure of things. That's ok though, because I'm a non-conformist.
A short brown-haired assistant in his early twenties -- clearly a yes-man, ushered me to my work space to file various papers.
"If you need anything call me," he instructed.
I could’ve said something but my voice trailed off as he walked back to his square little cubical. I felt trapped -- a claustrophobic dwarf in box. I wanted to free my narrow existence and break the unspoken code of commands that held me. Visions of the parody of an Orwell novel in a popular commercial gripped my mind. Me with a sledgehammer destroying Big Brother.
The assistant strolled back to my workspace.
"The boss is on line one."
"Yes sir," I sad and pressed the button.