The red ones are standard, technical issues. We see them late in the week
when there’s a thin layer of dust on most surfaces, and everybody feels
used up. I like that these babies are flexible units, employing carbon fiber
structures, nice dedicated response time. If a machine could seem happy,
I’d pick those standards. Sometimes I whisper to them, “Good, fine, nice
standards. You are the front line.” I make sure that the microphone ears
have not been engaged, just in case.
Once we have pledged ourselves to the pursuit of best interests for the
human race, scaled off the underground cone points, and said goodbye to
the beautiful, tractor goddesses, we receive the rare blue ones. Right away,
they reach for data as if it’s all going to bolt like a rabbit. I place my work
towel in my hand to grip their bases as if to say, “You are eager now, but
the more processing time, the less likely you are to survive this place.”
Most of them give off a noise because they work so hard. Always in motion
as if a constant breeze was pushing them around.
Old, rigid models are always sprinkled in until the next to last work day.
Orange plastic that most likely seemed yellow when they were brand new
encases them with no give. Featureless and economical, the comparison
to a jaundiced sunset surfaces on my consciousness when I put them
toward the back. Of course, they capture the crucial segments that put in
multitudes of future contracts, but I don’t talk to them. The sense of their
delicate equilibrium at stake makes me even more cautious, if you can