89%, or the worker of the future

Every day, the Man runs around like he’s chasing his own head. Presumably, he never leaves it

behind. His life is constantly in fragments, yet somehow he still has to maintain his personal quirks. And of course, there’s the Boss, whom he should be impressing. Not to mention himself. He falls apart and fixes himself back together dozens of times a day. But at the moment of complete breakdown, does he find that everything is actually fine?

He has a passion for numbers. During breakfast, he watches the block of panel housing across the street, checks out what’s happening, how a new day slowly unfolds before his eyes, keeping that day’s humidity in mind. He always writes it in his diary, right after eating his buttered toast. “89 percent, drizzly rain. Light fog. 12 degrees Celsius.” His apartment is neither big nor small—two people could live in it quite comfortably. The kitchen table has a smeared blue-and-white checked cloth with exactly one

thousand five hundred and ninety-six squares; it’s been there forever, never once washed, covered in today’s, yesterday’s, and many days’ crumbs. There’s a ketchup stain somewhere, but it’s hidden by the vase. The daffodils are withered, but he finds them beautiful. After breakfast, he brushes his teeth first. If he could, he’d count the bristles on his toothbrush, the water spots on the mirror, the newly sprouted facial hairs. Maybe on the weekend, he’ll write those down. He pulls on suit pants, a checked shirt, and a sweater—same as yesterday, the day before, last year. His briefcase isn’t in the usual spot. He stops. Disorder throws him off. Suddenly, terrible anger boils up inside—at himself, at the world, who knows—which nearly sends his fist flying into the hallway mirror. But he doesn’t do it. He goes looking for the briefcase. He has no desire to buy another mirror. The wall behind the mirror is nearly punched through

already. He just wants to stay calm.

He circles the apartment. He remembers his watch—he never wound it last night. No tie. Favorite pen left in the kitchen. Wishes for once not to be in a rush, but there’s always something—yesterday he left his wallet behind. He’s sick of it all. He scurries from wardrobe to nightstand, desk to kitchen table, sees the diary (nearly forgot it), counts seconds, and decides he’ll be late. One, two, three, four... teetering on the border of losing his mind. Everything around him speeds up, he only gets slower, starts to lose the thread—the one people follow every day. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four… The line between himself and the world blurs. He moves like a force of nature—whirlwind, tidal wave. His head is a black fog, ruled only by want and need. There is nothing else—only the things he must do.

Only instruments, only goals. Only the problem of the now pulses between his ears; he’s searching for the tool that will fix it. One thirty-two, one thirty-three, one thirty-four, one thirty-five… He forgets his name, his language, his parents. Wants to disappear. It’s not that he wants to stop existing—but he doesn’t even want to think about wanting an end. Just leave me alone. All he sees is the Office—the thing he must reach again today. All his life, he’s been looking for this, not knowing when

he’ll actually get there. Often, he’s felt right at the finish, but then a curve always threw him off,

slowed him, or stopped him entirely. He could have been an artist, or an athlete. He never stuck

by himself, and that’s one sin he’ll never forgive. Something was always more important—a violin

over tennis, tennis over violin, university, friends, tennis, violin, and so on.. That’s why he works in

the Office. Here’s where his love of numbers felt at home, the only thing that stayed, made him

feel like somebody. But there’s always that “what if” thorn in his side, the one that’ll never come

out. In reality, he let those dreams go, but the questions still echo in his mind, gnawing away

at him like a parasite, conjuring pictures that never even existed. Four hundred seventy-one,

four hundred seventy-two, four hundred seventy-three, four hundred seventy-four.. While knotting his tie, he sees the violin case. He forgets everything that’s been driving him, and the world freezes for a moment. Wonders what might have been—and what could still be—if only he were a bit stronger. Flatters himself: better and stronger than the rest, with all the drive to rise above them. But inside, he knows he’s the most cowardly. He’s so afraid of greatness he does everything he can

to remain unseen. Not that he lacked talent; he was just terrified to stand out. Nobody sabotaged

his life except himself. He wanted fame, fortune, didn’t matter if as artist or athlete—just wanted

to be great. But he could never bring himself to do the work. Four seventy-one, four seventy-two,

four seventy-three, four seventy-four... Suddenly comes to. Ties his tie, runs out onto the street.

It’s pouring rain. He’s forgotten the rain, let alone the umbrella. Panic inside him grows like pressure

in a shaken champagne bottle—fear and pain from wounds we inflict on ourselves just spilling out.

He glances up at the third floor, looks down at the concrete, and heads for the metro. He cuts through

the housing blocks, cursing under his breath. To an outsider, he looks distracted, even clueless. Uses

his briefcase as an umbrella (kind of); sometimes gets sick of carrying it, just trudges through the

rain as if it isn’t happening. He goes down into the underpass and double-checks he’s taking the

right train (might as well get something right). Annoyed at the crowds, the wait, sure he’ll be late.

The glare of the metro blinds him as it approaches the platform. A fast, tempting solution appears—He

hasn’t even thought of it today, but it could work. He’ll never reach the goal; doesn’t even know what

he was searching for in the first place. Doesn’t even know what the goal is. His life feels hopeless,

invisible. He can barely stand himself, let alone anyone else. Nobody asked for this, and certainly

not him—he dropped out of his mom, before that from his dad, though maybe that wasn’t even him.

He stares at the train’s lights and the shiny tracks below—such a strangely inviting sight. Takes a

step toward the rails, pauses, freezes. Feels the danger, likes it. For once, he’s filled not with anger

or helplessness but something else, something sharper. Edges slowly toward the yellow safety line.

Could cowardice really be beaten back? Reality yanks him back—a sarcastic laugh from a university

student behind him, “Why the rush, work’ll wait!” Shame bowls him over. Looks around: no one’s

looking at him. The student disappears, and exhausted faces remain. When he turns back, the train’s

there already. Head down, he steps inside. Too cowardly to even die. Can’t count anymore, would’ve

helped. Would have counted seconds, minutes, heads, hair color, anything.He stands in a daze in

the metro car, brain empty, just searching for the burgundy stop with anxious eyes.

The train stops. He moves, with clumsy steps, and looks for the farthest staircase. Eight staircases in all; eighteen steps each—total one hundred forty-four. He knew those numbers, and finding them now makes him calm. Control returns, memory too: who he is, why he’s here, where to go, what to do. The underpass is packed; he despises everyone around him—now that he’s himself again. Shoves through the crowd, pushing ahead, only focused on reaching that damned staircase. Bumps into somebody, whatever, keeps walking. Nothing can break him now, he’s already broken.. He has been, nearly broke again today, but he’s in control, finally (thank God), controlling everything—even himself. Rain hits him again, harder than before, maybe. No matter—he’s on the home stretch. Always the home stretch. Runs across the square, over tram tracks, the tram bell rings behind (he doesn’t care). Counts umbrellas—fifteen by halfway across. Here come three pink umbrellas together—what are the odds? Feeling oddly spirited, he rounds the last corner into his Office’s street. He runs through the entrance, greeted by the desk guard, who smiles. Flustered, he shuffles past, slowing down. The stairwell fills with the scent of coffee, slowly soaking through the whole building. Coffee would be good, he thinks. Really, it’s the Boss on his mind—what will he say about the lateness and the wet clothes? Steps up the stairs, almost in rhythm. Childlike worry settles in, pressed in by the Office’s obnoxiously green walls. Third floor—he sees the Boss, striding toward him with a huge grin. He catches him off guard—he never expected that. The Boss praises him for being early (right on time, actually, to properly start the day). “Grab a coffee, have a smoke if you do (he never knows who does); just put your sweater on the radiator so my best worker doesn’t catch a cold!” His voice echoes through the empty hall. The Man mumbles a thank-you, drops his briefcase. Boss picks it up, pats him, and heads off to his own office.

The Man just stands there a while, staring at the green wall. With a weird smile, he goes into his office for coffee, to dry his clothes, to finally sit down and work. Peace, at last. Maybe this is the goal, he thinks. He remembers the Boss, almost starts to cry—he doesn’t know if out of joy or what, and doesn’t care either. Just wants to sit down at the computer and get to work. At last, nothing to deal with, just work.

He takes out his diary and underlines it twice: 89%