No Surprise

He climbed the stairs wearily, moved slowly into the bedroom and began the procedure. The procedure that would transform him into that which he was not.

The flannel pants he wore around the house were the first to go. So comfortable, so warm in the unforgiving climate he was trapped in. Flannel pants, a sweatshirt, a blanket, a book and a cup of coffee.

That's all he really wanted from this life.

Reluctantly he removed the flannels and reached for the cargo pants. Had to be cargo pants to carry the box cutter, the pens and markers, the ancient cell phone, the keys to the car, the key to his prison.

Box cutter. Weapon of the truly successful.

Remove the Bruins championship T-shirt. A very cool shirt purchased from a shady friend who sold cool shirts cheap. On with a long sleeve T. Had to be long sleeve because his idiot boss thought she was running a butcher shop. Customers complained when they walked into the artificially chilled climate.

Of course the climate would be artificially chilled no matter the temperature. His boss was a cold hearted, selfish bitch.

The purple shirt was the killer. The purple shirt with the logo over the left breast, the marketing on the right shoulder. He pulled the despised shirt over his head and invariably felt a sense of defeat.

More than a sense of defeat really. All vitality, all sense of self, all pride literally drained out of his body. The shirt was like the anti-leech.

Leeches suck blood and promote health. The purple shirt sucked pride and promoted conformity.

In a juvenile, condescending way.

The final nail in the coffin was the name tag. Five minutes after walking through the gates of hell and being assaulted with questions, problems, meaningless bullshit and updates, the name tag was pinned above the logo.

A box cutter. A name tag. A purple shirt.

He had not dreamed of these as a child.

Still, he knew there were millions like him. Millions who were forced into ridiculous uniforms and commanded to smile.

Millions who numbed the self to play a role in a costume.

Millions suffering silently under the crushing weight of the conflict between who they really were and who they were forced to be.

This brought a strange and twisted smile to his lips as he asked for the first of what would be hundreds of times that day "Can I help you?"

The customer looked into his eyes and quickly away, saying "No thank you." The customer moved to a far corner of the store as if seeking refuge.

This did not surprise him at all.