The Joys of Being a Basement Employee

Dreams are funny things.  I don't mean the kind that have woken me from a dead sleep and have left me staring at the ceiling wondering about what I ate before bed that made me dream I was rolling a giant powdered donut down the interstate.  Not those kind of dreams.  I mean the kind that burn rubber on my brain in the middle of a slogging afternoon, shoulder to the wheel at a job that tested slighlty below average and recommend only by the unchoosy, impartial moms who didn't choose Jif.  "Hi. You have reached the voicemail of Jamie.  I am away from my desk right now.  I have sailed away to Margaritaville in seach of a  hot tub with my name on it.  Everyone else thinks I have diahhrea from a not-so-stellar salad bar selection at lunch today and assumes that I am spending the afternoon in the stall of the faculty lounge, but in reality,   I have absconded in hot pursuit of buried purpose and hidden meaning and will not return again until my soul-searching (ahem, I mean gut rot) wears off.  If you find my purpose in life, please place it in an interoffice envelope and kindly return it to me. I would greatly appreciate it.  Beep." 

Though I envisioned myself escaping my 40-hour a week existence via knotted-up sheets  and repelling down chucky brick-faced walls like a business-casual SpiderWoman, I was quickly reminded that I have a basement office.  When you work in a basement like I do, the only way out is up. When others in my place of business come down the 3 or 4 flights of stairs to see me and place orders or request equipment, I often resist the urge to say in my best Phantom of the Opera voice, "Don't look at me. I'm hideous!"  One might expect my skin to be the palor of a wax worm seeing as how the only light I receive for 8 hours out of my day is from the pole-barn sized flouresent lights that scream "we got enough killowatts to guarantee your sterility or your money back" and "we gotta blue light special on scratch and dent catheters in aisle 5!"  I distract them from my dermal-deficiency like the way a matador would distract a bull, by roping yards of bright, heavy jewely around my neck each day to divert their attention from the excess face foundation I have spackled on this morning with a grout trawler.  "Ooh, I like your necklace today!" the nurses exclaim, when they really want to proclaim, "Wow, you might need to up your Vitamin D intake. Your heading for a case of the rickets, young missy!"
 My current gig, though predictable and safe, sterile and sometimes isolated, is cut off from all forms of natural light and incoming air.  My workspace is oxygenated by the artifical, dry air that is pumped in to me to keep me sustained much like a goldfish in a Wal-Mart pet aisle who depends upon a algae-encased bubbler to keep it alive.  If you don't clean a fishtank, your fish will suffocate on dirty, recirculated, tired air.  Though an aquaruim is considered safer than say the Great Barrier Reef, it affords the goldfish a ho-hum existence in an environement devoid of any natural light, food sources, and opportunites to thrive and create. It won't die, but it certainly won't thrive. I, like my friend the goldfish,  swim in circles, lethargically, startled when someone taps on the glass unexpectedly.  They wave and make funny faces at me.  I make fish lips at them and they usually leave in disgust and I am left to repackage rectal tubes for the afternoon until the next well-wisher stops by and asks for the fish lips. I typicaally refuse. Unless its Friday....its my favorite and I like to put on a show on Fridays.
When I am not making fish lips or trying to take a nap while treading water behind the back rack of urinal cakes, I am dreaming.  I dream when I am awake, with my eyes open and my mind blank but noisy like static on a television station that doesn't run anything after midnight.  It is when I dream my best dreams.  I like a little fish, rise to the surface, swimming upwards from the basement toward a light that hovers overs the murky waters.  Swim harder, swim faster, kick your legs, lift your head,dog-paddle if you have to.  Just don't stop.  To my chagrin, someone will ultimately decide to give me the Royal Flush one day when they deem my fish lips aren't funny anymore or my urinal cakes just don't bake up as fluffy as they used to.  I know in my heart, sometimes a flush is just what you need to be forced out in to the big, nutrient-rich sea. A sea full of natural light and food sources to fill my belly and extend to all corners of my soul, a kaleidoscope of creation that sways in the gentle waves of my imagination await and beckon me with fishy kissy-faces that make me swoon the way dreamers do. Sometimes we have to get flushed and endure the one-way red-eye express through the poop-chutes of life to ultimately reach the sea.  Don't be discouraged by your fishtank in the basement, little fish.  That plastic castle anchored in the purple aquarium rocks? Why its just the right spot to hide out and dream until your ticket arrives.  Don't be afraid of the flush, though the waters swirl and sploosh, the dizzying descent only lasts a minute.  Hold your breath, it can be stinky. Close your eyes and take the opportunity to dream, your time in the poop-chute can be productive...SPLASH!  You have arrived.