Not Pounded By My Soul-Crushing Job Because I Quit - (Classic Tingler Revisited)

today NOT POUNDED BY ANYTHING collection volume 4 is out and while most of the stories in this collection have appeared on patreon, ONE OF THEM HAS NOT. this is because the story is pretty old and was accidentally left of previous collections, old enough that i do not think i even had a patreon when it came out

so HERE WE ARE playing buckaroo catch up with NOT POUNDED BY MY SOUL-CRUSHING JOB BECAUSE I QUIT. this is a favorite 'not pounded' tingler of mine because i think there is a cathartic way to this trot, but also this story takes off in a pretty fun meta direction with some forth wall breaking fun between buds. it is easy to just say QUIT YOUR JOB but in reality we live in a system that makes this kind of thing much more complex, so i wanted to make sure this fact was addressed in the tingler.

 Marv hates his job, and after years of inputting meaningless numbers on a computer screen without rhyme or reason, it’s not getting any better. Things finally come to a head when Marv shows up fourteen seconds late, prompting a series of reprimands that make absolutely no sense and only set up workers to fail.

Hoping to make a change, Marv has a meeting with the physical manifestation of his job, Yarpo. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that Yarpo is only interested in one thing: the bottom line.

Now Marv has a chance to experience one of the most tempting, tantalizing no-sex fantasies there is… to say “I quit!”

This important tale is 4,100 words of sexless self-realization between a buckaroo and the physical manifestation of his awful job.

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NOT POUNDED BY MY SOUL-CRUSHING JOB BECAUSE I QUIT

By Chuck Tingle

I’m sitting outside of the office, staring up at an enormous rectangular building that looms before me like a monolith of ache and discomfort. I’ve still got a few sweet moments of freedom, and I’m happy to spend them out here, but the longer I sit in my car the more my anxiety builds. In a few minutes I’ll have to get out and stroll through those familiar front doors once again, making my way up into the endless cubicle catacombs.

         I always thought someday I’d get used to this, that all these feelings of dread would eventually melt away and, at the very least, leave me numb. Now, numbness would be a treat.

         I still find myself completely elated when the weekend rolls around, and then overwhelmed with panic on Sunday when I realize the workweek is about to rear its monstrous, ugly head.

         I’ve had more internal debates about this lifestyle than I can count, weighing my options between an existence of freedom and fulfillment, or a decent paycheck. Truth be told, I’ve been saving up quite a bit of loot for a while, holding onto a nice finical cushion should I ever happen to need it.

         In other words, I could quit if I really wanted to.

         I’d like to think it’s simply the fear of the unknown that’s stopping me, but my excuse is actually much, much worse. It’s just so easy to stay locked into this pattern. Despite all the pain and heartache, this endless cycle of office life is what I know, and what I’ve come to expect.

         I glace at the clock in my dashboard and suddenly sit upright in alarm. I’d fallen into a thoughtful trace and lost track of the time, realizing now that there’s only a few minutes left to get upstairs and get to work.

         I close my eyes tight and muster up all the willpower I have to climb out of the car and make my way towards this huge grey building before me. I nod and the security guards on the way in, then scan one of my badges on a nearby reader. It immediately lights up green and lets me through.

         “Fuck,” I suddenly realize out loud, glancing at my watch as I go. “I’m gonna be late.”
         Most people would find a few seconds behind the clock nothing to worry about, and at other jobs this could easily go unnoticed. Not here, though.

         I reach the elevator bay and being to frantically push my button for the fourth floor, hammering it with my finger. I watch as the lift makes its way slowly down, hesitating for what seems like forever before sliding open its metallic silver doors. The whole world seems to pass me by ten times slower as I step inside. This feels like a nightmare where you’re running from a psychotic killer but your body is only obeying commands at half speed, trudging through a pool of quicksand that isn’t actually there.

         When the elevator finally reaches its destination, I barrel out with seconds to spare. I’m moving awkwardly, pushing into the fastest walk I can possibly muster, but when I slam down into my chair I immediately realize that the effort was still not enough. Technically speaking, I’m 14 seconds late.

         Hopefully, nobody noticed.

         Looking to put this moment behind me, I quickly turn on my computer and get to work, staring at a fresh new stack of numbers on the luminous screen. There’s a lot to take care of today.

         My job is simple enough, but the task itself is quite mind-numbing. Every morning when I arrive at work I’m greeted by a new stack of digits on the computer before me, numbers that typically arrive in groups of three to seven in length. I’ve been tasked with taking each of these number strings and then typing them backwards, before erasing the original numbers and sending off this new backwards message.

         I do this from nine in the morning until five in the evening, every single Monday through Friday.

         I have no idea what my company does, or why these numbers need to be turned around. In fact, the more I think about it, the less it makes sense. It feels like this task is something that could easily be automated, or that whatever’s creating these numbers could simply turn them around before outputting them in the first place. Even more importantly, what do these digits apply to? Are these sums representative of something real and meaningful, or just an endless cascade of nonsense that I’ve been tasked with sorting through for absolutely no reason at all.

         I’ve asked my co-workers what they think we’re actually accomplishing here, and the resoundingly hopeless shrugs I always get in response tell me everything I need to know.

         Just like everything else within the walls of this godforsaken building, it doesn’t really matter.

         “Marv,” comes the familiar and grating voice of my boss, who has suddenly appeared before me over the edge of my cubicle. “We need to have a talk.”

         I stop what I’m typing and slowly look up at him. “What’s up, Greg?”

         “Looks like you were late today,” he replies, sending an ice-cold chill down my spine.

         “Was I?” is all that I can think to say, playing dumb. “I’ve been here since nine.”
         “Nine and fourteen seconds,” my boss clarifies. “That’s late.”
         Finally, I break, letting out a long sigh of exhaustion. “Can’t we just let it slide this once?” I beg. “I was already here, I was just out in the parking lot a little too long.”
         Greg smiles and shakes his head in a way that’s supposed to be friendly and comforting but actually fills me with anger and frustration. “I’m sorry, but rules are rules. I’m gonna need to you do double the blocks today.”

         The computer before me sounds with a electronic ding, the digits that fill my screen instantly doubling in volume.

         “But… I’m gonna have to be here all night to finish this,” I stammer.

         “I certainly hope not,” replies Greg with a laugh. “You know we can’t have you staying after five because that would require overtime pay. If you don’t get your work finished by then, your blocks are going to double again.”

         “That… makes no sense,” I stammer. “Then I’ll have to stay even later.”

         “Sorry, those are the rules. If you want to share some feedback I can pass along a message to the folks upstairs,” Greg explains.

         “What if I just talk to them directly?” I question.

         Greg laughs. “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

         The two of us just stare at one another awkwardly now, marinating in this moment of tension until, finally, Greg nods and turns around, strolling back across the room.

         I glance back down at my computer screen, struggling to even comprehend the sheer amount of numbers that I need to reverse today. There’s no way I’ll get all these all done by five, and then what? Nothing about this system makes any sense to me, and yet there’s nothing I can do to extract myself from it.

         I suppose the only option is to get to work and hope for the best.

         Suddenly, my fingers begin to fly across the keyboard before me. I fall into a trance, just letting the numbers whip past and then moving onto the next one.

         It’s the only option I have.

         I continue to type away like this for a good hour or so, never letting up or losing focus until finally, I just can’t take it any more. I need a break, and when I finally allow myself to stop I fall back into the chair behind me, panting in exhaustion.

         I take a minute to zone out and collect myself, then analyze my progress. Mathematically speaking, I want to see if it’s even possible for me to reach my goals.

         “Aw shit,” is all that I can say as I come to terms with my progress, shaking my head in disappointment.

         It’s just not going to happen, and now I’m stuck.

         Suddenly, I hear an excited, booming voice cascading through the room, drawing closer and closer with every passing second.

         “Looking good people, looking good,” comes the confident tone as the physical manifestation of my job rounds the corner, smiling wide and waving to all the workers. Greg is walking along next to this sentient concept, showing him around.

         I’d never seen my job as a physical manifestation before, and I have to admit he’s not at all what I expected. Based on how much I hate coming to work, I’d have never assumed my job was this handsome, but here he is in all of his glory. Now, this fact is undeniable, as much as I’d rather it wasn’t.

         I’m suddenly struck with an idea, a wild and direct solution to this problem that I’ve found myself trapped in. I’ll go straight to the source, taking things up with the physical manifestation of my job itself. This is frightening for a number of reasons, but now that I’ve been backed into a corner, I don’t see any other options.

         I take a deep breath and stand up from my chair, strolling towards Greg and the sentient concept that stands next to him.

         “No, no, no,” Greg says as I approach, waving his hands from side to side. “No questions at this time.”

         “Oh come on,” the physical manifestation of my job blurts, cutting off my boss. “Let’s here it. I’m Yarpo.”

         “I’m Marv,” I reply, reaching out and giving his hand a firm shake. “I’m sorry to bother you during the tour, but there’s something going on here that I think you’d like to know about. If we fix this problem, things would run much, much smoother.”

         “A problem, huh?” Yarpo replies, nodding in acceptance as our eyes lock tight. “Well, I’d love to hear about that.”

         I clear my throat, ready to dive in. “Okay, well the late policy here is setting people up to fail. The program we use…”

         Suddenly, I’m cut off by my boss, Greg. “Not during office hours. This tour can’t stop just yet.”

         The physical manifestation of my job shrugs. “I guess we’ll talk later, but I’d love to hear all about this. What are you doing after work? Is a dinner meeting possible?”

         “He probably won’t make that,” Greg interjects. “Lots of work on his plate.”

         “Oh, it’s fine,” my physically manifested job counters. “Cut the guy some slack. Let him pick back up tomorrow.”

         Greg seems very upset by this, but doesn’t argue. “Fine,” he finally replies, nodding at me. “You can start again tomorrow.”

         “Meet me at Rim’s Beef House at eight,” Yarpo instructs me before being pulled away to continue his tour.

Rim’s Beef House is packed tonight, overflowing with rowdy patrons who are heartily enjoying their meals. I wish so much that I could be in that kind of mental space right now, but as I sit here waiting for the physical manifestation of my job to arrive, I can’t seem to quell the nervous anxiety that bubbles up from somewhere deep within.

         When I hatched this plan to change the late policy at my work, it seemed like a momentary stroke of genius, and for a while I surfed on this wave of blissful ignorance. Unfortunately, the longer I roll this mission through my mind, the more I realize what a precarious situation I’ve put myself in.

         On one hand, I could very well get myself out of this mess and change my job for the better. Hell, maybe I could even get a promotion for pointing out our incredibly flawed system.

         On the other hand, what makes me so sure that the physical manifestation of my job will even listen to me? When my job is an abstract concept without any sentience I’m certainly not a fan, so why would I suddenly start to like him once he’s entered reality in a tangible way.

         Now the tension within me is continuing to build, causing my brain to make its way down a variety of different rabbit holes. Yarpo is late, and these extra minutes allow me a chance to think about the potential consequences of this evening even more.

         A half hour or so later, I spot the now familiar form of Yarpo floating towards me. Now that we’re out of the office I finally get moment to take him in, a swirling collection of office supplies twisting through the air in an ever-changing mass. He has a confident stride and a handsome, smiling face, his eyes looking directly at me as he crosses the room with a singular focus.

         “Hi Yarpo,” I stammer, standing up to greet him and extending my hand for a shake.

         The living object grips firmly, greeting me enthusiastically before the two of us sit down across from one another. I’m immediately disarmed by his smile, realizing that all the fear I’d been experiencing was likely for nothing.

         “You come here often?” the physical manifestation of my job questions, immediately jumping in and getting the conversation started.

         “A few times,” I reply. “Usually just on special occasions.”

         “Well, this is a special occasion!” Yarpo retorts. “You’ve got a lot to say, right?”

         “I mean, not at lot. Well, maybe” I counter, struggling to get to the point of why I’m here. “It’s just one thing.”

         “The you want to change the late policy because doubling someone’s numbers in a single day is mathematically impossible,” the physical manifestation of my job interjects.

         “Yes!” I cry out. “How did you know?”

         “I’m your job,” Yarpo counters. “I know everything about work.”

         I consider this a moment. It makes perfect sense, but it also suddenly strikes me as a bit strange. If the physical manifestation of my job knows the ins and outs of the office, then what am I supposed to be explaining to him. He should already know.

         “Then why am I here?” I suddenly question. “Do you already know how you’re going to respond?”
         “Of course,” Yarpo informs me.

         “Then why are we even doing this?” I continue, getting frustrated now.

         “I’ve gotta let you feel like you’ve got a little free will, don’t I?” Yarpo explains. “I’m just gonna let you run your mouth for a while, promise to so something about it, and then continue onward without changing anything. That’s always how it works.”

         I sit in utter shock, my mouth hanging open slightly as I grapple with the fact that Yarpo has simply come right out with it.

         Before I have a chance to counter, the waiter strolls over to our table and asks us if we’ve had a chance to look at the menu.  It’s amazing how quickly the two of us fall into a normal, upbeat pattern of speech with our waiter, asking about the daily specials and then finally making our order.

         When he leaves we’re left in silence again. Now, however, I’m grappling with the slight awkwardness of how to behave. Do I make a scene? Do I stay angry?

         “I don’t know what to do,” I finally offer. “This doesn’t seem fair.”

         “It’s not,” replies Yarpo. “I’ve got all the power here.”
         “Why not choose to do the right thing then?” I protest. “If you know it’s not fair, then why not change things?”

         “Because that’s not my job as a…” Yarpo trails off. “As a job! I might seem like your friend, and sometimes I am, but mostly I’m motivated by the bottom line. I’m interested in profits, not problems.”

         “But you’ll make more profits if you fix the problems!” I reply.

         Yarpo shakes his head. “Sometimes, sure. Not problems like this, though.”

         “So what am I suppose to do?” I question, less angry and more genuinely curious. “Are all jobs like this?”

         The sentient manifestation of my job shakes his head. “Oh no. I mean, plenty of us are like this, but there a places you could work that are much healthier than me. They’re hard to find, though, and I’m not gonna make it easy to switch over.”
         “Wow,” I stammer. “You’re a huge asshole.”

         Yarpo nods. “Yep. But what are you gonna do, leave? Really? We’re halfway through this date and your foods on the way. I’m buying.”

         “You’re buying?” I repeat back, not sure I heard him correctly. This seems strangely generous given the rest of the things he’s been saying.

         “I’ve gotta give you a little bit or else it’s too easy for you to quit!” Yarpo explains.

         I scoff at this assertion, tempted to prove my worth right then and there by standing up and storming out of the restaurant. Before I get a chance, however, our food arrives, two sizzling plates piled high with a variety of flavorful offerings.

         “At least have your food,” Yarpo observes, drawing me back in. “You’ve gotta eat, right?”

         He’s got a point.

         I grab my fork and knife and dive into the meal, cutting off a small piece of my steak and then watching it sizzle and steam as I lift the meat to my mouth. I take a bite of the juicy morsel and find my entire body flooded with satisfaction.

         “See, it’s not so bad hanging out with the physical manifestation of your job!” Yarpo offers with a big grin. “This is why I can still treat you badly. You’ve gotta eat!”

         I take a deep breath and let it out, trying to keep his assertion from striking too deep within the depths of my soul. I feel incredibly conflicted, yet just barely satisfied enough to stay.

         I realize now that this issue isn’t simply a black and white choice, it exists in a grey area of what I want verses what I need.

         I’d love to just quit my job, but there are other considerations I need to make so that I can eat, stay healthy, and keep a roof over my head. Sure, I’ve got a little money saved up, but is it enough? Is any of this really worth the effort?

         The longer I think about this, the more my anxiety begins to build once more. Being constantly pulled in either direction is not a fun place to be, and the longer I remain here, the worse it seems to get.

         Every bite of the steak floods me with satisfaction and flavor, but also feels like a weight within my stomach.

         Finally, I just can’t take it anymore. I need a moment to think.

         “I’ll be right back,” I suddenly blurt, pushing my chair away and standing up with an abrupt movement.

         Yarpo barely even notices, still gobbling down his prime rib as I make my way to the restroom.

         When I finally arrive I burst through the door and rush over to the row of sinks, putting my head down and splashing cold water in my face. All of this pressure is a lot to take.

         When I finally look back up at myself I jump with a start, shocked to see a tall man in a suit standing behind me.

         “Oh my god!” I blurt. “I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

         The man smiles. “Sorry about that. I’m the attendant. You look like you could use some assistance.”

         I laugh. “You could say that again.”

         I reach over for a towel but the bathroom attendant hands one to me before I can get there.

         “Oh, thank you,” I continue, wiping off my face.

         I toss the towel into a nearby linen basket then turn my attention fully towards this mysterious man. “Do you like you job?” I ask him, curiously.

         “I’m not the best person to ask,” he replies with a knowing smile. “I love my job. The question is… do you like your job?”

         “Not really,” I reply, “but it’s more complicated than that. That’s why I asked you. You seem like a damn good bathroom attendant.”
         “Oh no,” the strange man offers with a chuckle. “This isn’t usually what I do for work. I’m a writer.”

         “What do you write?” I ask, curiously.

         “This,” the man explains. “I’m writing this story right now.”
         Obviously, I’m skeptical of these claims, but I decide to play along, reaching out my hand towards the strange, well-dressed man. “Well then, author, I’m glad I got a chance to meet you. I’m Marv.”

         “Chuck Tingle,” the restroom attendant replies. “Well, a version of Chuck Tingle.”
         “And why have you written yourself into this story?” I question.

         “To help you out with this little problem of yours, and to take care of a artistic problem of mine,” Chuck explains. “Let’s just say this visit is mutually beneficial.”

         “What do you think my problem is?” I ask, skeptically.

         “You want to quit because your boss, and the physical manifestation of your job itself, are assholes,” Chuck explains. “But it’s complicated because, well, everyone needs to make a living.”
         A sharp jolt of shock erupts through my body when I hear this. The bathroom attendant is absolutely correct, and there’s no way he could’ve known this information unless he was listening into my conversation with Yarpo earlier. Unless, of course, he’s telling the truth about being the author of this very story.

         “How did you know that?” I stammer.

         “Because I’m the author,” Chuck continues. “I know everything.”
         “That’s impossible,” I counter.

         “I could write you to understand,” Chuck continues. “Would you be interested in that?”

         I nod, but before I can even finish this movement of my head I can feel my mind flooded by a potent realization and acceptance. I fully acknowledge my place as a fictional character within this story, as though someone else wrote these thoughts directly into my inner dialog.

         “Oh… wow,” is all I can think to say, my mind reeling.

         “Now that’s out of the way, let’s get to your problem,” Chuck continues. “You want to quit, but life is complicated. I get that. Keep in mind, I can’t just go writing a book where the lesson is to quit your job because, well, people need jobs.”

         “Like me,” I offer.

         Chuck hesitates. “Well, not exactly. See, I’m talking about the reader, but you’re just a character. Your life is substantially less complicated, and really you’re just here for a bit of escapism.”

         “I’m not sure I follow,” I continue.

         “We’re here to have fun,” the author says bluntly. “Quit your job! Make a scene! It’s okay because this is just a book. In fact, it’s even better because it gives everyone out there who would love to quit their job a little moment of enjoyment and fantasy.”

         “Oh, okay!” I reply, the puzzle pieces starting to fall into place.

         “Maybe you’ll inspire someone out there to do the same, if it’s the right choice for them,” Chuck continues. “Who knows. Life is complicated, and I understand that. At the very least, let’s put on a good show.”

         A broad smile crosses my face as excitement overwhelms me. After this long slog through my mixed feelings, it’s great to simply have a direct mission in mind.

         Chuck smiles and pats me on the shoulder. “Have fun,” the author says.

         I immediately turn and head back out into the restaurant, swiftly crossing the room until I reach my table.

         “Hey,” is all the physical manifestation of my job manages to say, his mouth still full of food.

         Instead of responding I take a glass into one hand and a fork into the other. I climb up onto our table, standing proud and tall, then ring the glass like a bell in order to gather the attention of the dining room around me.

         Everyone at their tables immediately quiets down, turning to gaze upon with shock and curiosity.

         “Hi there,” I call out. “I just wanted to let everyone know that I’m leaving my job. It’s really an awful, soul-crushing place and they don’t listen to a thing I have to say. They don’t value my skills at all and are way more concerned about their bottom line than the well being of their employees. Most of the policies there make absolutely no sense, and the people in charge are assholes. So… I quit.”

         A deafening silence has now fallen across the restaurant, but it only lasts a moment before the room abruptly bursts into a wild applause. People jump to their feet and rush to my table, hoisting me up into the air with a rousing cheer.

         As the crowd carries me away, I think to look back and see how Yarpo is reacting to this news, but I stop myself.

         For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t really care.