Ez Itylsorp Employee #7018325

A line of people are checking into work at Ez Itylesorp, the largest tech HQ in the entire world.

"Good morning!" A woman says. She’s grinning, work ID in hand.

"Hello Nancy," the receptionist responds, quite enthusiastically too. She scans the woman’s ID without breaking eye contact; the scanner makes a buzz, and the worker bee moves promptly after.

"Hello."

"Welcome Patrick!"

Buzz

Another suit approaches. "Morning to you," he says.

"Hi Henry!"

Buzz

And so on and so forth. Now it’s John’s turn (finally, as he’s last in the line). John smiles at the receptionist— teeth and all. In one hand John is gripping a nice leather briefcase as if it’s his oxygen tank, and in his other hand he proudly holds his employee ID parallel to his face. John is stiff but stiff is his idea of comfortable.

"Greetings, John!" The smiley receptionist says.

Buzz

John is about to move on promptly like his fellow employees, but he stops himself.

"I’ve worked here for a while now—" and as he starts the now-worried receptionist’s smile falters. She readjusts and quickly plasters it back on.

"Congratulations!"

"Thanks." He pauses. "I’ve never told you my name. It’s not on our IDs and no one refers to each other by name, just our employee codes. Confidentiality and all. So, just out of curiosity, how do you know it— how do you know anyone’s name?"

"Confidentiality only applies for equally ranking employees, John. I’m just the receptionist and I don’t actually know what it is you do. It’s strategic compartmentalization. But more importantly, as you know, here at Ez Itylesorp we pride ourselves in our personal touch.

For example, I also know that you always order option #3 for lunch. You’ve had option #3 everyday for the past 5 years that you’ve worked here. See, it’s the little things. We know what we need to know to make you feel valued!"

The woman at the desk smiles big, really big. John has a fleeting thought of clapping his hands right in front of her eyes; he has a feeling she wouldn’t even blink. A line is beginning to form behind him now and his unusual unpromptly matter is causing confusion.

"Alright. Thank you."John readjusts his tie and hurries off past reception through an automatic sliding glass door. Down the hall and to his left he approaches the elevator, and in about three minutes there will be a ding! and the doors will open. John will enter, scan his ID, and click the button for floor 2,467 where his office awaits him.

John loves his job at Ez Itylesorp. His cubicle is a spacious five by five box. He’s not too far or too close to the bathroom. The good vending machine is right down the hall. All his needs can be met in a fifteen step radius which is a necessity when you work twelve hours a day, seven days a week. The only function he can’t complete at Ez Itylesorp is sleep but sometimes, secretly, John sneaks a neck pillow into his briefcase past reception.

Last month the company invested in a sensor that automatically clocks employees in and out if they rise or sit from the cubicle’s rolling chair due to the change in weight. It’s efficient. Very cost prohibitive. Ez Itylesorp doesn’t have to pay for bathroom breaks, lunch time, or an employee’s pre or post-shift walk to the elevator.

John admires Ez Itylesorp and he doesn’t break or bend the rules. Except for one. A few times a week John doesn’t clock out, and he uses the aforementioned neck pillow to doze off at the office, ready at the start of his next shift. The extra bit that’s tacked onto his monthly pay is a big help. No one really notices because, for one, Ez Itylesorp appreciates employees who work overtime and John technically does because he sets an alarm every hour and makes sure to punch enough buttons for the Productivity Clicker to show he is working. And secondly, well, no one really notices John anyway.

His job is simple: to watch. What does he watch you ask? People. Ez Itylesorp has discovered a way to predict what people want— scratch that, what people need. Some citizens call it ‘an invasion of human rights’ but John knows it as the way of the future.

"Morning 70," A cubicle mate of John’s says as he plops into his rolling chair. She’s very nosy which is against work protocol, but she’s not nosy enough to where John can report her.

"Do you need something 5714933?"

"So formal. I’ve told you: you can call me 57." She winks. Her hands are curved around the top of John’s cubicle half wall, clutching it so she can peer over. An urge to flick them off arises in him.

He snaps out of it, looks around to make sure no one is looking. Then he leans over and whispers, "I don’t want to call you by any nickname. It’s too personable. And it’s not 70– it’s 7018325."

"Who’s your latest customer?"

"None of your business," John thinks she should know better than to ask. She’s too perky. Too smiley. Her lipstick is too pink and her hair is too dolled up. People notice things like that. It causes suspicion.

"You don’t have to name names. Be nondescript. My latest is some fifty-something divorcee. When he’s on his way to work I override the GPS route to give him the most traffic heavy option. That way I can get him on those sports betting apps I keep pushing."

"Mine wouldn’t cave for anything like that." John says this before he knows he’s saying it. He shouldn’t have taken the bait but it’s too late now.

"Oh, really?"

He hesitates before deciding to indulge her further. "No. She’s different— smart. When I was first assigned to her she was watching T.V. I triggered too many generic ads for products and services that her demographic falls for. About five ads in I started up one of those post-break up therapy ads for well-educated white women. I figured she was just the type. But she didn’t get sad— not a single blip in her biometrics. It was strange.

‘The music, the lexicon, the cinematography— it’s designed to make clients feel sad— consciously or not. But she just turned off the television and opened a book. And not one of those romance ones with a long-haired shirtless Spanish guy on the cover either— 19th century classic literature."

‘Wow. I’ve never seen anything like that. Those books cost a fortune.’

"I’d never seen it before either. It looked like an old beat-up copy. Something someone gave to her once." John holds his head in his hand. He’s drifting off into a dreamy state. After a minute he realizes that his overly friendly cubicle mate is still leaning over his half wall.

"Anyway. Back to work 5714933."

She looks upset but he’s not sure why— and frankly he doesn’t really care. Her fingers uncurl from the wall ledges of his cubicle and slip into her own without another word.

John’s latest customer is named Martha, and he knows everything about her. After all, it is his job. He knows the surface level stuff any well-acquainted stranger would, like where she works and where she’s from. He also knows the stuff that you’d know as a friend, a close friend in fact, like her favorite place for take-out and the types of movies she’s into and that she’s a morning person not a night owl. John knows who Martha really doesn’t like and also the people she really loves.

Though the rule-abiding Ez Itylesorp employee would never admit it, he’s glad the list of the latter is short and none of those on it are of the romantic kind. Because Martha isn’t like any other customer that John has had. Like he told 57, she’s different. He’s spent a whole five months with Martha. That’s more time he’s been allotted with her than any other client. It’s too much time because John is now attached.

He’s stopped recommending a Spotify Morning Mix that’s in all minor keys and started suggesting happier songs. He knows customers tend to buy less when they’re not sad but he doesn’t want Martha to be sad. Sometimes he’ll cancel her alarm and reset it ten minutes later on weekends. She deserves the break. The ads he prompts when she’s scrolling on her phone are usually book deals now. When she’s too busy and doesn’t remember to vacuum, John turns on her Roomba while she’s out of the apartment. Once in a while, if she’s having a particularly difficult day, he creates an error in DoorDash’s system to misdeliver someone’s order to her unit. All of that is against protocol– fireable offenses. And John can’t lose his job because then he loses Martha. Some other schmuck will get to do her data mining.

Sometimes John doesn’t sleep at Ez Itylesorp in between his hourly alarms. Sometimes— most of the time— he’ll wake up in between that hour and can’t fall back to sleep. He’s been dreaming of Martha. When he can’t drift off again he logs onto his server to watch her. A Twilight Zone rerun is usually playing on her television and she watches it half awake. He watches on his end and pretends that they aren’t separated by the computer monitor.

If it’s getting into the wee hours of the morning he’ll set off her oven timer, just to remind her it’s late and she should be off to bed. It works more often than not. She jolts awake and heads to her bedroom. Martha crawls under the covers and when she begins to snore, John shuts off any lights she unknowingly left on and says goodnight.