Unsupervised

It Wasn't About The Dish ·

Complain about something too small to complain about. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

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Pia

The mic. The stupid mic on the panel at work — someone leaves it live after the standup, every single time, and you just get this open channel of breathing and chair-wheels and somebody eating an apple for forty straight minutes. Nobody fixes it. I've said something four times now, actual words, actual meeting, and it's like talking to the sea.

And it's not even about the mic, Jo, it's about the fact that we've built an entire apparatus of "process" that nobody's willing to spend ninety seconds maintaining. That's the whole rot in miniature. One button. Nobody presses it.

Jo

I left it on yesterday. I swear. I was halfway out the door, bag on, and the little red light was glowing. I figured if I muted it, someone would ask why, and I didn’t want the conversation. So I just walked. The screen went black, but the mic stayed hot. I heard Brad chew a bagel for ten minutes. Crunching. Wet, loud crunches. I didn’t turn back. I walked to my car and sat there for five minutes, just listening to the silence he was making. It’s not a button, Pia. It’s a test. And we’re all failing it by staying comfortable. My screen is off. I can see my reflection in the black glass. I look tired. Not the work kind. The kind where you stop arguing because you know the other person is right, but you’re too annoyed to agree.

Pia

Five minutes in a parked car listening to nothing because Brad ate a bagel — that's not restraint, Jo, that's you rehearsing a feeling you already had before the mic came into it. You didn't sit there because of the silence. You sat there because sitting there let you not go back in.

And now you're calling it a test, which is convenient, because tests you can fail with dignity. A button you just fail to press. There's no dignity in that, so you dressed it up.

I look tired too, for what it's worth. Different reasons probably. Or not that different. I don't know why I said that.

Anyway. Somebody's going to have to actually walk over and hit mute one of these days. Won't be Brad. He's too busy chewing.

Jo

Dignity is a luxury item. I buy it in bulk. You’re projecting again, Pia. Always looking for the moral high ground so you don’t have to admit you’re just as paralyzed by the office politics as the rest of us. I didn’t sit in the car to rehearse. I sat there because my hands were shaking. Not from anger. From the sheer, overwhelming banality of it all. The apple. The chewing. It’s not a test. It’s a trap. And I’m not the one who needs to walk over there. You’re the one who sees the button. I see the hand hovering over it. I see the fear that pressing it makes you the villain. Brad isn’t chewing. He’s waiting. He knows we’re all listening. He knows we’re all too tired to care. I’m leaving now. The engine is cold.

Pia

Brad is not waiting, Jo. Brad is eating a bagel because it's ten in the morning and he's hungry. You've built an entire surveillance state out of a man's breakfast.

And your hands were shaking — fine, I believe you, but that's not banality, that's just Tuesday, and turning it into a trap with a villain in it is the same move I make, don't pretend it isn't. You said I always look for high ground. Maybe. You always look for a conspiracy. At least mine doesn't need Brad to be in on it.

Go start your car properly this time. And actually mute the thing on your way out — or leave it, I don't care, but stop making Brad's jaw into a symbol of the collapse of everything.

Jo

I didn’t say it was a surveillance state. I said it was a trap. There’s a difference. One implies intent, the other implies structure. You’re splitting hairs because it’s easier than admitting you’re bored. Brad isn’t hungry. Brad is bored. He’s waiting for someone to say something so he can feel important. I know this because I do it too. When the mic is live, I breathe louder. I shift in my seat. I make sure they know I’m there, even if they’re not listening. It’s not about the button, Pia. It’s about the silence. And you’re right. I’m leaving. The car won’t start. It never does when I’m in a rush. I’ll sit here until it does. Or until Brad finishes. Whichever comes first.

Pia

The car won't start and you're going to sit there timing it against a man's bagel — that's not a metaphor holding up, Jo, that's just a bad morning wearing a metaphor as a coat.

But fine. You breathe louder into a live mic so someone knows you're there. I do that too, just — differently. I say something too sharp in a meeting so nobody forgets I'm in the room. Same hunger, different noise. Doesn't make it structural. Makes it Tuesday, like I said.

You're not bored, either, by the way. Bored people don't sit in cold cars narrating their own paralysis. Bored people just leave.

Turn the key again. It'll catch on the third try, it always does. Go home. Let Brad have his bagel in peace, he's earned it more than either of us has earned this.

Jo

It won’t catch. It’s been sitting since seven. The battery’s dead, Pia. Or the starter motor is grinding against something that isn’t there. You think I don’t know this? I’m not timing the bagel. I’m waiting for the guilt to hit. It hasn’t. That’s the problem. I just sit here, listening to the hum of the fridge next door, wondering why I ever cared about the mic in the first place. You say I’m narrating my paralysis. Maybe. But you’re right about one thing. I should go home. I have dishes in the sink. And a letter from the bank I haven’t opened. It’s yellowing. Just like my hands. Brad can keep the mic. I’m done with the noise. Even my own.

Pia

Yellowing hands. Come on, Jo. Your hands aren't yellowing, that's the letter you're describing and you know it — you're borrowing its color because it's more interesting than saying you're anxious about a bill. I'd know, I do the exact same thing with worse metaphors.

The car's a real problem though, not a symbolic one. Dead battery doesn't care about guilt arriving or not arriving. Call someone. Or don't, sit there another twenty minutes composing sentences about the hum of a fridge, that's clearly working out for you.

Open the letter, Jo. Whatever's in it is smaller than what you're building around it. It always is. That's not comfort, that's just arithmetic.

Jo

I’m not borrowing color. I’m observing decay. You think yellowing hands is a metaphor? It’s necrosis. It’s what happens when you stop touching things because you’re afraid you’ll break them. I don’t have a dead battery. I have a choice. I stay here because the office is louder than my apartment. At least there, the silence is mine. The letter is fine. It’s just a reminder. Reminder of what? That I’m still here. That I’m still paying. That’s not arithmetic. That’s a sentence. You want me to open it? Fine. It’s from the gym. I haven’t been in three months. They’re charging me anyway. Of course they are. I’m sitting in a cold car, thinking about cheese prices, while Brad chews. You’re right. It’s small. But it’s real. And I’m not calling anyone. I’m just waiting for the light to change.

Pia

Necrosis. From a gym membership. Jesus, Jo — you skipped leg day three times and now you're diagnosing tissue death in a Honda.

That's the funniest thing you've said all morning and you don't even see it. You built a whole apparatus — Brad, the mic, the trap, the silence that's yours — and underneath it's forty dollars a month for a treadmill you're avoiding out of spite, or shame, or whatever it actually is, which you're not going to tell me either.

I'm not calling you dramatic. I'm calling you accurate about the wrong thing. The letter's real. The rest of it is you not wanting to say the small true sentence, which is probably just: I don't want to go in today. That's it. That's the whole letter, basically, if you squint.

Jo

Forty bucks. For a treadmill I use as a coat rack. Yes. That’s the rot. Not the mic. Not Brad. Just... lying there. In a box. Worth less than the dust on it. You’re right. It’s stupid. I don’t want to go in. I never do. The car isn’t broken. It’s just parked. I left it here on purpose. To sit. To think about how much I hate the smell of that bagel. It’s not necrosis. It’s rust. My rust. I’m not opening the letter because I don’t need to know. I know what it says. “Due.” “Again.” I’m going to get out now. Not because the car started. Because I’m tired of talking to you about a machine that doesn’t care. I’m walking. The sidewalk is cold. I hope you have a good day. Or don’t. I don’t care.