Writer’s note: For the times when you feel like a performer with no other role. Like being something for others is all you are. When you don’t feel important.
The gears feel tighter as I push my hour hand to strike twelve. My hand marking the seconds constantly shifts along.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I wonder if all those below me who hunch over their desks and sip coffee from paper cups acknowledge me as more than an object. the strain that I put in 24/7 isn’t a simple task. Eight years going strong while I feel my gears creak and groan along. I feel a bit giddy with all the glances I start to get at this time. Their lunch break is almost here, so my collection of small grins and smirks will arrive soon. Only a couple of times a day do I feel useful to the people I perform for.
Tick-tock.
My hands comes together to strike five in the afternoon. I am always so careful to keep my time running smoothly. Messing up isn’t an option. This is when a rushing symphony of excitement bursts throughout the office. People are shutting down their computers, handing in their last file of the day, or rushing to grab a snack for the road. My eyes flutter across the room of cheerful chit-chat and bright smiles. The slight condensation that builds up against my glass from straining myself is subtle enough to go unnoticed. I have let everyone know their work is over. The stress and bustle of their day has come to a close. This feeling of appreciation is a moment for me to indulge in. I worked hard, didn’t I? Was I good enough? I’m sure they would all say nice things if they knew I was listening. My work never stops. That has to mean something.
Tick-tock.
A hush settles. There is a soft murmur of the A/C along the ceiling. I’m alone in an empty office where chairs are pushed in, the motion sensors in the lights drowning the room in darkness. This open space with frosted windows separates meeting rooms from the outside. The used coffee filter sitting on top of the garbage. Pens lying in hidden crevices that are forgotten just like me. I’m stuck in this office when everyone leaves to go off into the world. Moving each of my hands to the right beat. Tick-tock. I wonder what fresh air feels like against my glass casing. It’s a harsh burden to be forced to perform day after day. The most contact I get is from the weekly cleaner, Glen. I sit on top of a slightly crooked nail with a clear view of every inch of this 4-walled cell that is my home. A place where my use is seen a few hours a day while my nights are spent in lonely agony. No one to talk to. No one sees me for who I am. I perform because that’s what I was made to do. I have no other setting. I have no one.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock. Did I do a good job? Tick-tock. Is my performance good enough for my demanding audience? Tick-tock. Am I enough? Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-
Written by: Melanie Diel
Edited by: Krizia Figueroa
Published in the Strike Magazine Orlando print issue 9, Fall 2024. Piece is on page 89.