Salvation From the Giant Lobster is in a Paper Castle

In the weeks after I was discharged from the Institute, I found work at Silent Partners, Inc. as a Pan-Departmental Substitute Employee. The work was simple, said the man who hired me. He was wearing a checkerboard suit, punctuated by a large red bow-tie. The work would always be mind-numbingly simple, no matter what it was I would be required to do on any given day, and it would always be repetitive to a degree that all but a certain type of person would find to induce suicidal feelings, the man said as he flipped through my resume, and the notes from my various doctors that certified me as non-dangerous. The dress code, the man added with a quick glance up from the papers to appraise my outfit, was formal attire, with some eccentricities allowed. In an effort to reduce employee suicide attempts, the managers had revoked rules forbidding bizarre color combinations and patterns.

Due to the dangerously mentally unbalancing nature of the work, most of the employees were substitutes, like myself. The turnover rate for employees at Silent Partners was so high that just about everyone was replaced by the end of the month.  In fact, the only people I ever seemed to meet on the job were fellow substitutes. Every week I was given a new, utterly different and always repetitive task. My first week, I discarded every third page from each of the 3,124 customer files that had been complied by a national corporation that sold stationary. The next week, I stamped 2,394 certificates that certified such and such a person passed an assessment test and were thereafter eligible for an increase in responsibility and wages at an international corporation that produced brochures for Medicare providers. During my third week, I went through personal information for 12,304 voters and marked each file with one of three colors: red if the voter was between the ages of 18 and 25, purple if between 25 and 40 and yellow if between 40 and 75.

Since starting this job, I've hardly even seen that damn Giant Lobster, which used to stalk me everywhere.

I went through 10 therapists. I was required to see a therapist twice a week by the Institute, and every three weeks, on average, I was assigned a new one. Each time, the new therapist would ask, with different degrees of bewilderment, what exactly Silent Partners, Inc. did.

"We fulfill all paperwork filing, rearrangement and processing for our valued clients, most of whom are major international or national corporations!" I would sing.

They tried to get me to quit. They tried to get me promoted. They tried to get me to move out of the storage unit I was living in. They tried to convince me to take lunch breaks. I'll never understand where therapists come from. Who are they? What are they really trying to accomplish? How would they feel, if a Giant Lobster decided to ruin their lives? For five years I worked as a substitute and I lived in my storage unit and I went twice a week to the therapists. Then, suddenly, change began to encroach threateningly on my happiness.

I was called into the office of the regional manager, George Gorges. He showed me the employment forms that I had filled out five years earlier, when I was first hired. Did I recognize them?

I nodded proudly. I have always had incredibly legible handwriting.

"The reason I ask is because we've just recently noticed that you opted for stock options instead of full pay," Mr. Gorges said nervously. "Of course, people don't usually take that option because it is typically financially unfeasible. I'm not even sure why it's on the form!"

He chuckled, while I watched on, unsure what he was talking about. Seeing that I wasn't laughing, he became very solemn.

"We're willing to accept that you made a mistake," he said, frowning, "and we're prepared to pay you $43,780 in back pay that you were unable to collect due to that mistake." He held out a piece of paper. "If you sign here, you can have your money."

Then I laughed. "I don't need money. I don't want money. Please," I pushed away the paper. "Keep your money."

He turned white, and sighed. "Well," he paused for several seconds and paced around his desk several times. "I guess I'll be the first one to welcome you to the Board of Directors," he swallowed uneasily and offered his hand. I shook it obediently, still staring at him and waiting for him to tell me what to do. "You're a major stockholder in our company," he said uncertainly after a few awkward seconds.

Suddenly it occurred to me that he was waiting for me to tell him what to do. I gaped at him in horror, and fled. I didn't leave the cubicle I had been assigned that week for the rest of the day. The next Monday, my supervisor looked at me confusedly when I approached him for my weekly assignment, and I had to squabble with him for several minutes before he shrugged and gave me that week's job. After that, however, things generally went back to normal. For the time being, at least.

I'm increasingly worried about my future. I received a letter, taped to the assignment I was given one Monday morning. From the markings on the envelope I could tell that they had tried to mail it to the fake address I had given on my job application. The letter informed me that I had become the major shareholder in the company, and that I could sell those shares for around $10 million. This sort of gibberish means nothing to me, but it causes me mounting anxiety. I have the sense that they want something of me, and I can only hope that they don't mean to take my job away. I try to explain the severity of my situation to my therapists, but they don't seem to understand. I have seven therapists now, one for every day of the week, and I am their only client. Somehow throughout this mess, I've been given "Gold Patient" status at the Institute. Their big push right now is to get me to move out of my storage unit.

They don't understand. No one understands. Aside from those all too-brief, wonderful moments that I'm flipping through those files, stamping, highlighting or simply rearranging, I live in constant fear of that goddamn Giant Lobster who is always trailing me. He's been trying to get me to take up smoking since I was 12 years old, what makes them think he'll stop now?