Things were changing around the office. We had to adapt, they said, to high velocity change in the marketplace. Rapid innovation was necessary. Customer experience paramount. Engaged employees a must. All of us a part of something, all of us human beings.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They brought in a ping pong table. Put craft beer on tap. Bought a dog, Rudy, an Australian Golden Labradoodle, a veritable melting pot of breeds, who pranced around spreading love and self-care.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We had yoga classes at lunch, happy hours at four. We could work from home whenever we wanted. In-person meetings, even email, went by the wayside \u2014 everything could be done via Slack, WebX, WhatsApp. No more eight-person conference calls, no more wading through the crackling black emptiness, hesitating, deciding when to risk speech.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So what did we need the actual conference rooms for? Or the room rooms? Extra space, a waste of energy, efficiency \u2014 especially now, in 2019, with sea-levels rising. We, the people, were all that mattered anyhow. In due time, we leased most of the office back to the building, sought new tenants.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was an odd thing, all these changes. At one point we looked around at each other and wondered, in some still small voice, if we were even working anymore. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some of us said: I\u2019m working harder than ever before. I never know when I\u2019m not working.<\/em>
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Others of us said: But I never know when I\u2019m actually working either. The TV\u2019s always on. I\u2019m working out in the middle of the day. And the TV\u2019s on! <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some of us said: I\u2019m in total alignment with our core values of process automation, optimization, and a focus on human-centric experiences over mere demographics or data sets.<\/em>
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still others of us said: They\u2019re optimizing us out of existence, so why am I so stressed out?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And: It\u2019s a hustle, it\u2019s a grind. I haven\u2019t had actual sex in months.<\/em>
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All of us, meanwhile, binge-watched reality television and went to spin classes and took photos of our desserts because we preached, ironically or not, self-care and community, those figurative water-cooler chats of yesteryear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You know, decency, democracy, that kind of thing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014\u2014- <\/p>\n\n\n\n

All this time, I didn\u2019t get involved. I was in communications, after all; it was in my nature to understand both sides, and to also write \u2014 albeit in punchier language \u2014 what was sent or said or written to me to write.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The only thing I really wanted to know was what others of us meant when they said \u201cactual sex.\u201d Because I honestly didn\u2019t know. And I thought, well, if I don\u2019t know what it means to have \u201cactual sex\u201d then perhaps I\u2019ve never actually had sex at all. And if I haven\u2019t had sex, then have I even really lived?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lying in bed with my wife at night as she slept with her rose-colored sleep mask over her eyes, her silicon gel earplugs in her ears, and our essential oils diffuser on the nightstand, I couldn\u2019t bring myself to ask her, like I couldn\u2019t bring myself to ask the others. And the longer I couldn\u2019t ask, the more I truly believed I didn\u2019t know. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead, I replayed my first time again and again. Rosie Pfefferman and I were in the backseat of my car. We were sixteen years old. She had this beautiful mole smack dab in the center of the pasture that was her right cheek. I loved her, I was afraid of her, she sang in madrigals, I was fully Jewish, but I sang in madrigals too, wanting to understand, or something. She\u2019d asked, on top of my twiggy thighs that night, \u201cAre we doing this?\u201d And I asked: \u201cWhat?\u201d And she said: \u201cYou know.\u201d And I said: \u201cYou mean.\u201d And she said: \u201cYeah.\u201d And I said: \u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then I think we had sex, though now I can\u2019t exactly be sure.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then one day, a message from the firm leaders came through on the general Slack channel. It was as short as a Tweet \u2014 by then, all our communications were. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Unlimited vacation policy now is now in effect. Because if we trust each other, our employees will trust us. This is true #Freedom<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I brought it to my wife that night like a ritual offering. She was in the process of finishing her dissertation \u2014 it\u2019d been more than two years now, after the initial four, and then the one, and then another one, but no one seemed to be in the mood to rush. Things in her field kept changing, anyway. Even the name of the field itself was changing. Was it a \u201cstudies\u201d ? Or a \u201cdepartment\u201d? Everything was too interconnected, the same, yet different, like everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFinally,\u201d she said, washing her face with an acne scrub. I sat on the toilet beside her, watching her in the mirror while I filed down my toenails. Yesterday\u2019s Fresh Air played from her phone. \u201cWe can take a proper vacation.\u201d
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt seems too good to be true,\u201d I replied. I thought about what some of us said, and what some others of us said. Then, as is my wont, I summarized it. \u201cI can\u2019t tell if I\u2019ve been working non-stop. Or if I\u2019ve been on vacation this whole time.\u201d
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she said. \u201cThat\u2019s what they want you to think. You\u2019ve been working this whole time, all right. It\u2019s just been so mixed up with traditional leisure activity that you can no longer tell. So you\u2019re tempted to think it\u2019s vacation when in reality they\u2019re exerting more and more control over your life. It\u2019s just outside of the customary node of the workplace. Have you even read Deleuze?\u201d
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shook my head. Where was one to find the time? Aimlessly flushing, I considered her proposal. I had always wanted to take that road trip across America. Like Jack Kerouac, who my wife and I hated, but also secretly admired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOk,\u201d I said. \u201cLet\u2019s take \u2018em up on it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wrote back to the powers that be on Slack, limiting my response to 140 characters or so. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

That sounds amazing, thank you! I\u2019ll be taking off then. Attached please find a brief overview of my current projects. #YOLO
<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning, we began packing the car. When I didn\u2019t get a response, we decided to wait one more day before leaving \u2014 after all, what was the harm in postponing an unlimited vacation for one more day? Whenever it started it would start, then go on forever, until it stopped. Finally, around midnight the next night, I got a text message from my boss. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGreat to hear about your vacation!\u201d he wrote. I waited. Would there be more? I asked my wife, who was beside me scrolling through an academic paper on her iPad, listening to some new chill-wave band, what I should write back. She had cool cucumbers over her eyes. I didn\u2019t know how she could read that way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatever you think\u2019s best,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned on CNN. I began brushing my teeth. Sensodyne. With the other hand, I texted: \u201cThank you! You know, YOLO\u2026Are you ok with my overview of projects?\u201d
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ping<\/em>. A text came back a minute later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s great!\u201d he wrote. \u201cI\u2019m so happy for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stared at the phone, then at myself staring at the phone in my bathroom mirror, the TV blaring over my shoulder, toothbrush still wet in one hand. I was perplexed. I couldn\u2019t read the tone of the text. But it sounded, I was pretty sure, as if he were being somewhat passive aggressive. Maybe he didn\u2019t actually want me to take vacation after all. I talked it over with my wife as white minty foam slid down my chin. Should I write back or not? If I don\u2019t write back, then I might be in trouble, especially if he\u2019s being passive aggressive. If I do write back, maybe he\u2019ll rescind the offer of vacation, or continue being passive aggressive, or, if it went there, call me out for calling him out for being passive aggressive. I just really didn\u2019t want to make it awkward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My wife \u2014 the ostensible love of my life \u2014 took a deep breath. The cucumbers gently quaked. I couldn\u2019t tell if she\u2019d heard me or not. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I decided to call up a friend from work and ask her opinion. She was one of those people who thought she was working all the time, all the time. A real overachiever. She\u2019d gone to Harvard, I think. I told her the situation as I flossed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wouldn\u2019t go,\u201d she said, mid-chew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt seems like if you go, you might never come back,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you figure that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause he doesn\u2019t even seem to care you\u2019re leaving.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought that was the point.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf he doesn\u2019t care if you\u2019re leaving, he won\u2019t care if you\u2019re gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe he really wants me to turn off. Recharge. Refresh. I was going to do this whole Jack Kerouac thing. Road trip across America. You know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKerouac? Wasn\u2019t he a vicious alcoholic misogynist?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I gulped. Swallowed the Listerine I\u2019d swigged. Coughed it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah. But the idea of it \u2014 I mean, wasn\u2019t everyone, back then\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatever,\u201d she said. \u201cI just think that maybe he\u2019s testing you is all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thought about our weekly performance reviews. Our monthly brainstorms. Our biannual nature retreats. Our yearly earnings talks. I looked to my wife. She had deep purple circles under her eyes. Or maybe they were her eyes. I couldn\u2019t tell anymore. Her cheeks were immaculate, shiny, prosperous. She ate a yogurt curled up on the chaise, or maybe it was ice cream, or maybe it was the rug she was curled up on, on the ceiling. We had both been told, separately, that we needed more fiber in our diets. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat would you do?\u201d I asked my friend, still on the phone. I could hear her typing. A TV blared in the background, somewhere, and somewhere a fire burned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can bet your ass I\u2019m not taking vacation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I closed my eyes. Ahhgh<\/em>. So what would I text back? I could barely think of anything to say to my friend over the phone, who seemed busy, as if she were talking at and\/or listening to three other people at once, as if we were on a conference call \u2014 were we on a conference call?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With the phone dangling between my ear and raised shoulder, I stared out onto my now empty bedroom, tongue scraper in hand, and suddenly missed Rudy, wondered what had happened to him. Was he in the supply closet surviving on local gluten-free craft beer? Sleeping under the ping pong table? On a sweaty yoga mat? Or had he starved to death? Then again, was
he even real? Was he an \u201cactual dog\u201d?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then as if from far away, I heard a voice on the other line. It was asking, \u201cWhat do you mean? Bill? Billy? William? Dick? Robert? Bobby? Bob? Bob? Bob? Bob? Bob?\u2026\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n