FAST FOOD At 1130 PM

It is eleven o'clock in the night, but the office was not yet closed. This office is never closed. A few proofreaders were sitting on three creaking tables, heads bent, using their pens. In front of them, on the right, on the left, and everywhere else, there is a pile of papers, which was nothing short of garbage, but because it was lying on their table, it was the works.

  

Source

Away from the office, in another room, under the yellow electric lights, the composers were busy in their own world of upside-down letters. And outside the composing room, in the veranda, the editor was strolling.

He had wrinkles on his forehead as he leaned against the back of the room. He had a pad of slips in one hand and a pencil in the other. We all know the editor is always a person who works sitting down, but today our editor is not sitting. Today he is not able to sit. Today he is busy because he is in deep trouble.

A special issue is coming out of the paper, and he has to publish a top story on the first page of the magazine section. He has no good story for the front pages, but two rotten stories which are not worth publishing.

But he has to publish them anyway because he had insisted on asking for them from a big writer who is an editor of another big magazine. "That big writer cum editor has sent his stories with a lot of tantrums, and if I ask for his stories and don't publish one of them, I will be in trouble."

The editor was still worried because that big writer will take out his grudge in his criticism. "I will publish his photo, pay money, and then publish this rotten thing, which is okay, on the last page."

The editor was on the verge of breaking down. "I want the first story, but from where should I bring it, and what should I do? There are so many writers, but what should I do at the eleventh hour when I have just three or four hours before I run out of time?"

The editor was worried, "But—the first story. What should I do? Should I write it myself?"

Suddenly, the editor stopped and called out, "Dev!"

I knew it was trouble for me, but I came and stood in front of the editor.

As expected, he said, "Look, Dev, I need a story. In the next two hours, to be published in tomorrow morning's edition."

"Yes. But—"

"By tomorrow morning. One story, two pages."

After saying this, the editor turned his face away, showing that he was busy.

"Yes!" After saying this, I went back and sat on a tin chair away from the proofreaders.

Everyone thought I had a special talent. They felt I would do whatever work was handed over to me, especially after getting frustrated with others, and it would get done, no matter how. The result of my so-called efficiency in all tasks was that I fitted in on every work that all others refused or neglected.

I knew everyone considered me either lazy or useless, but for some I was the assistant of the machine man, and the machine man thought I was a lazy composer, and the compositors believed that I was a peon. The peon thought I was a clerk, good for every work that no one else does.

I do everything that no one else wants to do. Sometimes I remember that I was appointed as co-editor, and then I smile sarcastically because I am insulted by this memory.

Am I only the co-worker of the editor? If I can be called a 'co-worker,' then it should be called 'co-worker good for nothing.' Or jack of all but good for nothing?

Well, just like no one remembers God in good times, similarly no one gives me a dime when the work was going well.

Source

Now I am sitting on a tin chair in a corner, a pen in my right hand, a writing book on my knee, and in my mind—what is in my mind? Heck, nothing...

I am hungry; my mind is not working! Yes, it is time for my dinner, so I call my wife and tell her that I will not eat but will work overtime and come in the morning. Then I disconnect her, order fast food for myself, and now I'm thinking about the plot of the story because I have to complete it in two hours and also edit it, compose it and then help the machine operator.

I looked at the watch, it was 11.20, and I will be served with that hamburger in next ten minutes.

Beneficiaries @107855