The Elevator Music Chronicles

Day One

We were told that we are unable to wear earbuds or headphones at our desk anymore. Presumably, this is to be more available for spur-of-the-moment work conversations or to be more available to answer phone calls when the office manager is not at her desk. We were told that with the availability of speakers throughout the office playing one of the local radio stations, there is no need to listen to our personal devices.

We were promised that the music would be varied to accommodate everyone’s tastes.

Shortly thereafter, the radio was changed from the classic rock station to something I have yet to be able to identify. I believe it can only be described as “easy listening jazz” filled with trumpets and horns and even some long-ass keyboard solos that would probably be more enjoyable if I was partaking in some edibles from the local dispensary.

In any case, the coworkers and I, already crammed into a tiny office space, are now feeling like we’ve somehow gotten trapped in an elevator together. I mean…even my dentist’s office plays soft rock these days.

We are fighting now to stay awake enough to tend to the work at hand. Hopefully, tomorrow will bring a new station to the airwaves.

Day Two

It’s back. We had hoped for a reprieve while other musical selections were made, but instead, we are listening to the horn section really show off their chops again.

I guess what they really meant by “varying the music” was that they were going to give us the perpetually vague sensation of being placed on hold.

Nineteen eighty-two called. They want their muzak back.

We started sending coded messages up front to the office manager, begging for a change of station. She responded with a volley of 80s rock, which really made my heart sing.

There are truly good people in the world.

Alas, just when I began to relax and sink back into thoughts that made sense, Def Leppard’s Rocket was halted mid-song by a long pause, and then…

…more fucking trumpets and drum gymnastics with an extra dose of high-hat cymbal.

I fear I may not make it to five ‘o’clock.

Day Three

During particularly long and tense standoffs, the FBI has been known to cut the power and blast loud, annoying music or sounds to wear down the people inside.

The FBI calls these “pressure tactics”.

I call it “Wednesday at work.”

My coworkers and I are standing strong. We continue to fortify ourselves with strong coffee and snacks. The young lady in the adjoining cubicle slipped me a Fruity Pebbles cereal bar.

I feel like we could survive this, even if it does sound a little like we’re in the middle of a car chase sequence on Starsky and Hutch. Where is Huggy Bear?

Day Four

We are losing hope. As day breaks over the horizon, the sound of a lone jazz saxophone wafts into my cubicle. I am on the verge of breaking.

I will sign a confession.

I didn’t do anything wrong. At this point, I’ll confess to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby.

I. Just. Need. For. It. To. Stop.

I can tell my coworkers are weak too. Their eyes have the vacant, haunted look of people who have seen things. I’m sure I carry that look as well. We’re all just shells of our former selves.

I’m writing this in desperation that someone might read this message and send reinforcements. Sometimes, my mind wanders and I fantasize that someone uses Bluetooth to connect their phone to the speaker and we might hear something with some heavy bass and ripping guitar riffs. But I’m not greedy, even in my fantasy. I would listen to twangy country music too.

We cannot afford to be particular in dire situations.

Day Five

I’ve lost my will to live.

The days and nights run into each other and sometimes I’m confused about where I am. This morning I was overcome with emotion and drank black coffee straight from the carafe. My ears have gone numb and I think they might be gangrenous.

It is clear we are at an impasse now. There is no hope of rescue. We’ll all be dead by the weekend. I have given my coworkers permission to cover their ears with my cold, dead hands if I should perish before them.

This morning I had a hallucination. A mysterious figure, with a guitar slung over his back, materialized in the doorway. As the figure hovered closer, I could see that he was dressed entirely in black and he was motioning to me.

It was Johnny Cash.

Then I realized he wasn’t motioning to me. He was giving me the finger, just like in that infamous photograph.

I awoke from my reverie, even more determined.

How can I just surrender after the Beastie Boys fought for my right to party? We must make one final stand and overcome this oppression or perish.

I am afraid, and I fear I will not see my loved ones again, but they will know that I stood my ground and said, “We’re Not Gonna Take It Anymore!”

If you find this missive, please tell The Husband Dude that I love him and deliver the following message:

“How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat?”

We will launch our assault at noonish.

Henceforth, it shall be known as Operation Rock of Ages. The signal is “Gunter Glieben Glauchen Globen.”

Good luck to us all.