They made being tortured a job-description but didn’t list it in the posting,
Who would answer such an ad – “Must be able to stand the sound of footsteps and gunshots for hours on end”.
It’s safe enough, this world’s a simulation, no stray bullets or knives in the back,
But how should a mind react, made paranoid and over-shouldered jumpy, desperately seeking brief reprieves and how many customers have there snuck up on me?
There are two rooms you’re ushered into where the boss decides your fate, and there, also fake but more serenely in the waiting harbors…the sounds of a harbor: tugboats, seagulls, bells on a buoy, cars passing in a distance, some light construction, beeping of a forklift. It sounds like the Brooklyn Shipyard in fall and even has that bite to the air, the only thing it’s missing is the sea-salt smell, but that’s hard to simulate in Las Vegas.
This sanctuary is momentary – when we’re busy my station is a corridor, stared at by long-dead wiseguys and blinded by the green-neon field of stars and a blacklight purgatory that serves as your transition. Your transition, patrons, past incessant footsteps out a speaker that signals sanity’ retreating when you’re stuck, time ticking off each click in a modern-day Bastille.
Why complaining? I make pretend for a living. I’ve a sandwich sitting in the break room fridge. I’m paid to sit, and I wrote this there, so what’s with this whiney, melodramatic flare-up? So sanity may be subjecive and the sounds might drive me off its brink; the truth is that I’m very blessed, a fact made clear when I stop to think; the sounds inside the sanctuary include the trump of horns that blow, that beckon the Messiah’s come and for now? A steady stream of dough.