Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 8

Wednesday started even worse. Dmitry overslept – the alarm had turned itself off, or he’d hit the button in his sleep and drifted off again. He woke up in a panic at eight in the morning, realizing he was late.

The first thing Dmitry did when he opened his eyes was reach for the phone on the nightstand. He hadn’t gotten up yet, hadn’t washed his face, but he was already scrolling through the news feed. A terrorist attack somewhere in the Middle East. A political scandal. A highway accident. Sticky anxiety crept into his chest before he’d even gotten out of bed.

He washed hurriedly, got dressed, ran out of the house without breakfast. The metro was even more crowded than usual. He squeezed into the packed car, feeling someone’s elbow digging into his ribs and someone’s bag pressing against his leg.

The car was jammed. Dmitry pressed his back against the door and took out his phone. Opened social network. The feed – endless, garish, someone else’s. Maxim in Dubai, against the backdrop of a skyscraper. Sveta showing off the keys to her new apartment. Andrei with his wife at a restaurant, candles, wine, smiles.

Dmitry knew it was an illusion – people only posted their best moments. But knowing didn’t help. Every time he scrolled through the feed, he felt it: his life was gray, boring, wrong. And theirs – bright, full, real.

Something clenched inside him.

God, how much longer? he thought, suffocating in the stuffiness. How much longer do I have to live in this hell? Metro, office, metro, home. And no light at the end.

He burst into the office at nine-twenty, breathless and disheveled. The supervisor, Igor Vladimirovich, was sitting in the conference room and looked pointedly at his watch.

“Dmitry, you’re late.”

“Sorry, Igor Vladimirovich, there was traffic,” Dmitry lied.

“Traffic,” the supervisor repeated skeptically. “I see. Try not to be late again. We have an important meeting at ten today.”

An important meeting, Dmitry thought sarcastically. Where ten people will spend an hour and a half discussing what color buttons to choose for a new interface for a program that nobody’s going to use anyway.

The meeting really was excruciating. An hour and a half of useless talk, during which Dmitry struggled not to fall asleep. They talked about the new project, about deadlines, about budgets, about tasks. All of it was uninteresting, boring, and pointless.

Why am I here? he thought, pretending to listen attentively. Why do I need any of this? I never wanted to work in IT. I wanted to study history, to teach, to write articles, maybe books. And instead I’m sitting in a meeting about button colors.

After the meeting, he was called to see the director – a young guy, about thirty, who’d built his career thanks to his father’s connections and considered himself a brilliant manager.

“Dmitry,” the director began, “I wanted to talk to you about your work.”

Oh no, Dmitry thought. Here comes the talk about efficiency, about KPIs, about how I’m not motivated enough.

“You see, we have some concerns about your productivity,” the director continued, leafing through some papers. “You’ve been less active lately, less proactive. Colleagues are complaining that you don’t always respond quickly to their requests.”

Colleagues are complaining? Dmitry fumed internally. I spend all day doing nothing but solving their problems! I don’t have a single minute to work on my own tasks!

“I’m doing my best, Igor Vladimirovich,” he replied politely out loud. “But I have a lot of tasks, and I can’t always keep up.”

“I understand, I understand,” the director nodded. “But we need more output. You know, we’re thinking of introducing a performance bonus system. Those who work better get more. Those who work worse – correspondingly, less.”

So they want to cut my salary, Dmitry realized. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

“Fine, I’ll try to work more efficiently,” he said, feeling something boiling inside.

“Excellent!” the director said happily. “I believe in you, Dmitry. You’re a good specialist, you just need a little more motivation.”

Walking out of the office, Dmitry felt he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t keep playing this game, pretending he found any of this interesting, that he was motivated, that he was ready to work “more efficiently.”

I’m quitting, he suddenly decided. Right now I’m writing my resignation and leaving. To hell with this job, to hell with this director, to hell with all of it.

But then he remembered the rented apartment, remembered he had to pay for housing, for food, for internet, for his phone. And he realized he couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to live on.

I’m trapped, he realized with horror. In a real trap. I can’t leave because I need money. I can’t stay because I’m losing my mind. What do I do? What do I do?!