After two weeks the workers return, and collect in their cubes like silt in the gear-teeth of a derelict clock. In a flagrant disregard for instinct they plan their meetings and follow-up meetings, and meta-meetings during which they will discuss the nature of meetings. I become swept up in the tide (or perhaps it’s the undertow) and witness as they awkwardly conduct themselves, and it’s like watching someone with amnesia trying to assume their family lives again: “Is this where I used to sit? Do I like meatloaf?” It saddens me. They speak of deliverables and collateral content and product specs. “No!” I want to shout. “Don’t you realize that you’re using the language of The Man?” And when you speak The Man’s language, he owns your mind. I try to save them from the rising momentum. “I wore this shirt for ten days during the break.” They think I’m kidding. So soon after their emancipation, and already they have their callous-toughened hands on the plough grips.

In the City you have to keep up appearances. The only way that people in large groups can effectively cope is to maintain their invisibility by conforming the behavior of the larger group. This is why they are leery of individuals who refuse to walk at the established speed.

Those who amble at a slow pace are either homeless or on vacation. These types are best avoided because an engagement of either is likely to result in a distasteful confrontation. Do not walk too slowly lest you be labeled a social outcast.

Those who move too quickly have probably stolen something, and are best avoided if only because they are likely being chased by a gestapo detachment who, if you should land in their way, may indict you for willful complicity. Do not walk too quickly lest you be labeled a terrorist.

No, it’s best to make like a fallen leaf in the stream, by which I mean to become more pallid and bitter as you go, until the undercurrents suck you down.

Oh, I forgot to mention another pace, between that of the average City walk and the felon’s flight, and that is the hurried step of the business person. These besuited cell-claws are probably just shy of late for a meeting, and are best avoided if only so that they don’t see that you’re taking another two hour lunch.

As a social experiment Caltrans have installed 7″ tall steel plates across all west-bound lanes of the Bay Bridge. The results of this experiment, so far, show that commuters love traffic. Even more than that, commuters love slowing down enough so that they can watch their cars drive over said plates in slow motion, like when Steve Austin was running. In their minds it’s happening really fast, but in real life I’m stuck in Berkeley behind eight thousand cars. It’s like standing in a carny line to see the sideshow freak–only you know that no one could quite compare to the person in front of you.

She is a wild-haired woman driving an old Chrysler K-Car. These cars were manufactured out of tin foil by Chrysler–another social experiment–in the early to mid-80s. People caught on after about five years, but not before bending down and becoming Lee Iacocca’s pony. To the wild-haired woman in front of you, the driving experience is something wonderful and new, and truly she drives like she’s entering heaven: slowly.

Even from my vantage point, wedged behind her, I can see her shiny knuckles jerking back and forth as she makes micro-adjustments to the steering wheel. Her windshield wipers are flailing on high 15 minutes after the last of the rain has abated, and her brake lights flicker on and off like a strobe light. And it occurs to me that she’s having a seizure. A grace seizure. A life seizure. If not, then she is surely practicing one of the more efficient isometric routines I’ve ever witnessed. I’ll bet she has not an ounce of fat on that twitchy, disheveled, slope-spined body.

I’m paying $2 for this show, and that’s $2 too much. The real problem here is that the Bay Bridge enjoys a monopoly, and any possible alternative you’re about to suggest ends up being costlier in one way or another. The real solution is to open up the market to competition. I think there should be a hundred bridges across the Bay, like strings of spittle across an old man’s mouth. Each one would present its own advantages, whether it be fun curves (you know, for kids), petting zoo oases, drink stands, girly bars, and one just for these 7″ plates that Caltrans is so enamored with.

And then there would be a single straight, featureless bridge that would lead directly from my house to the office where I work. And that bridge would be the last thing I saw before I woke up in the morning to get in line behind that spastic woman.

There are so few opportunities for me to hone my wall-eyed stare that I’m amazed how readily I’m able to pull it off. I can go from mild enthusiasm to ambivalent disinterest to near catatonic dissociation in the time it takes for a man in a suit to set up his PowerPoint presentation. And, while in many situations my behavior would be deemed dismissive at best, in a business meeting the ability to completely disengage from reality is a survival technique.

Of course, the achievement of such a state should not suggest the complete arrest of mental activity. To the contrary, I’ve had some of my most enlightening philosophical epiphanies while in a state of high inattention, not to mention anthropological, and socio-political insights. Take the matter of archetypes, for example. I’ve found that a good meeting will summon an impressively broad range of them. As a passive voyeur, I see them all.

Edward is at the helm, clearly the alpha specimen. “Look, guys,” he says, “we all know that this is what we’re trying to do. This here,” and he points to one of the schematics, “This can go. This can go. This can go. If we’re going to cut this shit, now’s the time to do it. I mean…” And he holds his hands out, and everyone else in the meeting room nods like the matter is obvious.

After a moment of silent consideration, Neal basically repeats what Edward just said, only twice as fast and while gesticulating and interspersing other random words into the spiel. If someone should attempt to clarify, Neal’s eyes will become unfocussed and his voice will raise in volume until said party returns to silence, thus establishing that he’s already clarifying.

Leighton makes a sardonic comment, and becomes aloof just in time to avoid responding emotionally to his own comment.

Pavel is all about the big picture, and starts with, “So what we’re all basically saying-” but then Edward says, “Look, guys, I mean I think it’s clear that we know this, and it’s obvious.” Everyone is silent.

Neal squints.

Edward points to the schematic, “This, no one knows what this means, so it goes. This too, and this too.” He then shrugs, and if you don’t get that then you just haven’t been paying attention.

Neal is interested in backing up and asking the meta question, only in a chipmunk-like rapid fire, so that he can counter Edward’s assertions while weaving them into newly-formed concessions.

Leighton chuffs and leans back in his chair–the top of his head is now very close to the wall behind him.

Pavel attempts to reiterate what Edward said, but Edward is shaking his head with a resignation final enough make HR issue him severance pay.

Neal shakes his head too, only twice as fast.

Belatedly they all reach a dramatic stall, and turn to regard me. I say, “Wasn’t Mitch supposed to be here too?” Because to me this just isn’t yet enough of a fucking circus.

Meetings, for me, have a devastating effect on alertness. Without fail, a meeting will slowly lull me into a state of helpless catatonia just as the points of the agenda are read off in that familiar monotone. This may be due in part to the fact that meetings are, on the whole, as stimulating as a potato, and not actually productive. For some people, I understand, meetings are the measure of work. For me however, meetings serve as little more than an opportunity for struggle. Namely: is it possible to hide the symptoms of narcolepsy from my superiors?

Fortunately I’m not the only one thus afflicted. I say this not because misery loves company, but because the plight of others is the only solution to my own struggle for wakefulness. Strange as it may seem, when I see someone across the table give in to the irresistible pull of chin to chest, I feel a renewed sense of alertness. Like a cannibal who receives the wit and wisdom of those whose brains he’s eaten, it’s as if I were receiving the unused energy, parasitically, from the hapless coworker on whom my gaze has fallen.

Sometimes it’s enough to keep me going for another few minutes–just long enough to find another host. They can doodle until their pens cut through the paper, but there is no resisting the siren song of sleep that sets in soon after the meeting commences. Not unless they catch me nodding first.

The thing is, I had this dream about titanic, red-eyed, space-faring beasts with glass-encased passengers on their backs. During the meeting later that day at work, the grown-ups were talking about revenue or something (talk about wasting time) and I thought, “I cannot speak of this revenue. Giant beasts are – even now – hurtling through space!” The only thing that might have given me away was my wild-eyed stare. Oh, and the small pieces of paper that lay scatterred on the table before me. Okay, and the high-pitched noise I was making way back in my throat. But those things had nothing to do with the dream – I’m just not good at meetings.