Furiously tapping away at my personal handheld type-pad, synchronous key-striking nervously buzzes throughout the room, off the interactive scene-changing walls – to alter our current moods – and through my head. Though, it hasn’t yet affected my current sentence. Strike that, now it has. Lost in the melodic trance, my hands act on their own, pulling away from the type-pad, as the small screen floating in front of my face goes blank. I should be surprised, but I’m not. The noise continues, melodically washing over my entire being, carrying me to a subconscious work-a-holic’s heaven. Accountants are playing the ALT chord, while the CEO’s vibrato solos through the speakers, dictating to his own personal screen with an opera singer’s ease. Reporters continue to compose the piece while the rest of the band plays on, sans moi.
And then the finale begins to pick up steam, almost over-compensating for the entire piece itself. But it all comes crashing down abruptly leaving my ears to only hear the intense flapping inside my chest and the clicking of the walls changing scenes, from a droning office brimming with superficial sunlight to an actual outdoor scene drenched in real, face-warming sunlight.
Each cubicle represents the desire of its inhabitants as far as scene-specifics are concerned. Then, without much further warning, the siren blares and a far-away voice reads, “Mandatory five-minute hyperexercise break.” I wonder if I’ll ever put a face to that name.
I check my internal clock, 10:55 already?
We’re allowed one second to strap ourselves into our Nike+Wii interactive bodysuits – no light task, as the thing nearly weighs twice as much as I do, and trust me, that’s a hefty sum. (more description about the suit.) For five minutes, we’re allowed whatever cardiovascular activity that tickles our fancy. Today, I’m a tennis champ. My opponent against the wall is a lean blonde beast of a Slavic woman named Dannika. Standing still, she looks like your average human being. But once her body sets in motion, her rippling thigh muscles and muscular quads appear as if they could snap me in one swift motion.
“Bring it Dannika,” I say to the wall in a Zen-like trance.
She starts off with a 139 mph whopper of a serve. Thankfully, my mother had me undergo Lasik eye surgery when I was an infant to ensure my super 20/10 vision still intact today. Thanks to the wonders of lasers, my eyes perceive the fine line between .05 inches of in/out of bounds territory. This time, her strength works against her and my eyes do not deceive me as the serve lands just outside the line. She, too, recognizes her mistake and smashes her racket to the floor. No sooner does a new, shiny Nike racket appear in her left hand, does she launch the ball into the air in preparation for a second serve. This time, she takes a little pepper off and serves me up a fatty, right down the center of the court.
“This is going to be a good match,” I chuckle in the split second before the fuzzy green sphere comes whizzing over the net.
However, she wins today, 60,46,61.
Sweating profusely and panting without any control or restraint whatsoever, my screened walls change back to their usual office form, as Gatorade and water tubes plunge from the sparse, white ceiling. I run the digital numbers of my clock over my eyes briefly: 11 a.m. And the chorus picks right back up where it left off. It is only momentarily silenced when I receive an urgent red flagged text to my cerebral inbox.
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