The Concrete Cubicle

I stepped cautiously out of the cool air conditioned building and into the street. The heat hit me immediately, the humidity making my skin and clothes damp. Greeted by the sight of gridlock and by the smell of carbon monoxide fumes, I pulled the pile of papers I was clutching closer toward my chest and hoisted my bag up my shoulder, preparing to step into the pandemonium that was every street at this time in the early evening. Observing for a second, I witnessed the array of different people; business men on their way for a pint after work, briefcases in hand. Teenagers on their way home from school, shirts untucked, ties loosened and an air of freedom about them. There were tourists wandering aimlessly, but still in a rush, swept along with the crowd with excited looks on their faces. The last to be noticed were the beggars, the homeless, the ‘hobos’, slumped against the sides of buildings with a scrawny dog at their side and a hat on the floor with a few coins uselessly lying in it.1

Stepping into the crowd, I was immediately bumped and pushed from every angle the heat increased and I felt even stickier among other sweaty bodies. The smell of body odour was in the miniscule breeze being created by the fast-moving crowd and the chatter of people talking on phones and to friends seemed almost deafening.2

I crossed the street, easy, in between the cars that jammed the road. Even here, there was no peace, people constantly honking horns and leaning out of their windows shouting at the cars in front, behind and to the side of them. 3

On reaching the other side of the road I caught a glimpse of my face in one of the wing-mirrors of a car which was less full of condensation than the others. My cheeks and forehead were shining with sweat and my hair stuck to my skin making me feel even worse. My wet, shining, skin contrasted with my eyes, dark bags hanging beneath them. I glanced back across the street to the gray concrete cubicle that I was unfortunately privileged to call my workplace. This is what a 12 hour shift staring at a computer does to you.4

A head suddenly popped out of the window of the car which I was staring intently at, talking to me, asking questions. I hastily turned around, hair wet with sweat striking the unknown man in the face. 5

Immediately I was swept into the crowd once again taking me in every direction with the exception of the single one I wanted to go.6