The Pager

Exercise from the third week of writing class.

It’s late.

The annoying klaxon of the pager sounded at 2:30. I dragged myself out of bed to log on and see what the problem was.

It’s now 3:30.

I stare blankly at the computer screen in front of me. For the last hour, I’ve been hounded for status updates, impact assessments and possible root causes by minions from various parts of the company. Talking to these people is an exercise in frustration. “I don’t know” is my honest but unsatisfying answer to their queries. Rather than going away to let me focus on the problem, they keep pestering with their petty questions.

“Just fucking leave me alone already!” I shout at the computer screen.

I scan the work log of the high severity trouble ticket. Buried within that verbiage is the clue I need. It’s hard for me to think clearly. I’m so sleep deprived. All I want is to fix this problem so that I can go back to bed. My sweet sweet bed.

I get up and lay on the couch next to the desk. I won’t doze off. If I do doze off, they’ll page me for another status update. That will wake me up.

“Why am I doing this?” I say to the ceiling. I can’t take it anymore. I start to sob slowly. I look at the pager in my hand. I start choking the life out it. I want to slam it against the wall. My shoulder muscles tighten. I could destroy it so easily.

“I don’t know what to do. Leave me alone!” I say to the infernal device.

It doesn’t respond. I sigh. The solution is simple. I just need to quit this job. Get a job where I don’t have to carry a pager. But I mostly like my job. I just don’t want to carry a pager.

A kettle starts to whistle. Coffee is a good idea. It might be a long night.