Quiet Color

by kevin diamond

I stumble through the revolving doors and ponder the symbolism: circles, revolutions, life, death; all the classic cliches. Outside: it’s hot, humid, muggy. It’s September, but feels like the August we didn’t get. The iced coffee I grip tightly in my right hand is melting rapidly; by the time I reach the safety of my florescent-lit desk, it will be lukewarm sludge, and I will suck it down with the vigor of a desert traveler confronted with a water fountain.

I QUIT BY THE JEALOUS GIRLFRIENDS:

At this point, I will begin to wake up; to rub the sleep from my eyes; to take stock of my surroundings, and come to the realization that today is the day that I stop settling for a nice salary and unfathomable benefits; that I stop letting myself be conived and coerced by free bagels on Thursday mornings, by the false promises of “Casual Fridays.” Today I stop agreeing to attend the open-bar christmas party full of people I don’t know and never talk to, and the late summer company picnic with mediocre food, filled with the self-same boring boobs, standing around a plater of potato salad, smacking their lips while mayonnaise dangles from their cheeks like a doomed mountain climber who, only now, has taken the time to contemplate his own mortality. Today I put my foot down, take my life back, give up safety and security for true, honest to god contentment.

Today I quit my job.

How do you describe the unnerving freedom and unwavering happiness that greats you on the other side? It’s a high, I suppose. A high unmatched by drugs or love. A generation ago, this was the norm: to reject the working stiffs, the collars and ties, the suit jackets and cordial elevator etiquette for a greater nothing. But as I confront the undeniable reality of a life unemployed, it occurs to me that our generation has taken a different route: we are the iGeneration, defined, more than ever, by our stuff, things, and possessions: our iPods, iPhones, MacBook Airs. This city’s “Artist mecca” or “cultural commons” is Williamsburg, where condos sprout like magic mushrooms from a pile of dung, where rich kids spend insane amounts of money at American Apparel trying to look poor.

WHAT A JOB BY DEVIN THE DUDE:

And so, perhaps in reaction to this over-arching generation-wide willingness to allow our lives and culture to be co-opted by the 6-headed hydra that is the media-conglomerate-dominated world, I did the dumb thing: took a step off the ledge, off the deep end, head first into reality, safety be damned. Is it reactionary? Perhaps, But that doesn’t make it any less real. It’s bold decisions that turn the world, and this is the boldest I’ve been in my three years in this city. It’s about fucking time, I’d say.

I’ve got no prospects lined up, no ‘next step,’ no goals. A week from today, when my two weeks notice runs out, and I leave my security badge and corporate coffee mug behind, I will walk out of this building with no idea what I’m doing. I will board the same subway I took home every night. But this trip through the rat-infested tunnels of New York will be different. This trip will be my ruby slippers: there’s no place like home. Even though I may not be able to afford that home any more. I won’t think about that, though. I’ll be thinking of how happy I’ll be monday morning, when I wake up and see a day laid out in front of me, open and free to any whim that may possess me. I’ll think about this, the train wheels rattling beneath my feet, and I will smile with contentment. And that’ll be the best feeling I’ve felt in a long time.