Cubicles
I wrote Cubicles, a brief, one-act, dark comedy, several years ago in response to my growing disatisfaction with the direction I saw corporate America taking. If anything, the situation is worse today.
Corporations have changed. Many corporations in the U.S. and around the world have eroded wages, job security, the environment, human rights, and human dignity in favor of larger profit margins. Outsourcing and so-called free trade have raised corporate profits while undermining our national manufacturing base. National security is now threatened.
As is befitting a dark comedy of this type, the characters in Cubicles are deliberate stereotypes used to represent ideas, not actual people. The staging should be minimalist. Stage, lighting, and sound directions are in italics. In the unlikely event anyone should wish to stage this play, I ask they please contact me first at . Thank you.
Steve
Cubicles
A Play in One Brief Act
The action takes place in a customer service or data entry center at an anonymous corporation, somewhere in the United States. The date is today.
Elevator Muzak plays softly in the background as the curtain rises on a Spartan stage, curtained in black, lit, but not so brightly as to interfere with later lighting effects, in a fluorescent-looking white light. Center stage sit five occupied cubicle work stations. The upper front walls of the cubicles are removed so the audience can see the workers' faces, yet they are clearly cubicles and separate each worker. The audience cannot see the workers below their waists. Small black boxes, angled slightly upward and low enough that no faces are obscured, represent computers. From within these boxes, slowly-flickering bright green lights cast a pall on the workers' faces. Alongside each "computer" sits an old-fashioned wire in-basket. The workers, all women, sit in wheeled office chairs, hunched over imaginary keyboards, wearing identical short sleeve polo shirts. A numbered sign is placed in front of each workstation, and the numbers (one through five, from the audience's left) are the only names by which the audience will know the workers. All of the workers remain seated throughout the play.
Three white male junior executives, wearing identical white shirts, blue slacks, and maroon "power" ties, cross the stage from opposite wings, each placing sheets of paper in each worker's in-basket. As one Whiteshirt finishes crossing the stage, another begins. This continues throughout the play. The stacks of paper at the workstations grow noticeably higher as the play proceeds. Ideally, the Whiteshirts should resemble each other closely enough that the audience cannot be immediately sure that they are not all the same person. The Whiteshirts are silent throughout.
For perhaps half a minute, only the Muzak and the sounds of busy work can be heard, then a recorded, but pleasant, warm, and friendly, female voice interjects with corporate banalities. Hers is the voice of a sitcom mother from the 1950s, the voice one hears when in the supermarket, the voice one hears when on hold. One can hear the capital letters.
P.A. VOICE: Don't forget, today is the deadline to register for the Company Retirement Plan. Empower yourself by turning in your completed application form to your Human Resources Representative before close of business today. Remember, the Company is watching out for You and Yours.
Worker Number Two appears to be softly sobbing. Worker Number Three notices her coworker's discomfort and leans to whisper something to Two. Two says nothing, but responds by shaking her head and hunching more tightly over the keys. She continues sobbing.
P.A. VOICE: As of the first of next month, be advised that your copayments on the Company-Sponsored Health Insurance Plan will increase —
At this point, a new male voice interjects, cutting out both the recorded female voice and the Muzak, as it does whenever it speaks. This voice, the voice of masculine Authority, is obviously not recorded, but is accompanied by a slightly irritating, electronic, humming buzz, as if the address system is wired incorrectly or the speakers are cheaply made, but also reminiscent of the drone of a beehive. The voice is punctuated by a bright red spotlight aimed directly at those it is addressing. Those not addressed by it visibly move away from the spotlight.
AUTHORITY: Worker Number Three, talking is not allowed. Be advised that if you continue to disturb your coworkers at the expense of both your and their productivity, your paycheck will reflect a penalty.
THREE, shielding her eyes from the spotlight: I'm sorry … She was just … I was just … (resigned) Yes, sir.
Red spotlight off; Droning buzz off.
P.A. VOICE, continuing as if the interruption never happened: — need not worry. The Company will continue its Generous Practice of paying ten percent of your immediate family's health insurance premiums.
Muzak resumes. Two's sobbing becomes audible after this last announcement, and after a few moments she stops typing. Muzak off; Droning buzz on; Red spotlight on Two.
AUTHORITY: Worker Number Two, please resume your duties.
Three glares briefly at the ceiling, then rolls her chair around so she can physically comfort Two. Two stiffens as if afraid of the contact, and attempts to gain control of her sobbing. Red spotlight widens to include both Two and Three.
AUTHORITY: Worker Number Three, you were given permission neither to move nor to talk to Worker Number Two. Unscheduled breaks burden your coworkers unfairly —
THREE, interrupting, disbelieving: I'm not taking a break! I'm trying to comfort one of my unfairly burdened coworkers. Can't you see she's upset?
AUTHORITY, taken aback, as if unused to being interrupted: Worker Number Three, please resume your work. You may comfort Worker Number Two on your own time.
THREE: Her son is very sick, and she can't afford the company insurance for him. She can't even afford the time off to stay home with him.
Two begins to distance herself from Three, trying to get out from the spotlight, mumbling thanks and apologies.
AUTHORITY: Worker Number Three, your concern is commendable, but it's obvious that even Worker Number Two feels your concern comes at an inopportune moment. Worker Number Two knows better than to bring her troubles to her workstation. She may speak to Human Resources on her scheduled break about enrolling her son in the Company Insurance Plan, although, obviously, a current illness cannot be covered. She may also see Human Resources at that time about unpaid leave. Worker Number Three, you may not help her with any of these things, so please, without further comment, return to your duties now and I will not deduct this wasted time from your paycheck. Consider it a gift.
Two smiles wanly at Three and indicates she is alright. Three hesitates, then reluctantly rolls back to her station. She is obviously angry, but controls herself until the next announcement. Red spotlight off; Droning buzz off; Muzak resumes.
P.A. VOICE: Time is Money. Remember to keep your time away from your station to a minimum. In the interest of fairness to your coworkers, unscheduled breaks totaling over one minute will be deducted from your paycheck.
THREE, arms extended heavenward in mock praise: And thank you, Sister, for taking his side in this! Will you betray us all with a kiss?
The four silent workers attempt to distance themselves from Three, and pretend nothing is happening, diving even deeper into their work. Muzak off; Droning buzz on; Red spotlight on Three.
AUTHORITY, irritated: And thank you, Worker Number Three, for the opportunity to write up a letter of reprimand and fill out the necessary paperwork to dock your pay. As if we Supervisors have nothing else to do. Expect a counseling session during your dinner break, and the loss of one hour's pay on your next paycheck. Now please, resume your duties without further comment, and do not inconvenience me further.
THREE, mocking: Absolutely, sir. Not another word.
Red spotlight off; Droning buzz off; Muzak resumes. At this point Three notices a Whiteshirt approaching and spitefully turns her wire in-basket upside-down, spilling some papers. The Whiteshirt fails to notice and mechanically places his papers on top of the overturned basket, as do those that follow.Authority generously overlooks Three's last bit of impertinence. The Whiteshirts stack ever more paper in the in-baskets, and the silent workers redouble their efforts at anonymity.
P.A. VOICE: We have Great News! The figures are in, and it's Official. The Company has increased its profits by over nine percent since last quarter, and by over twenty-one percent since this time last year. To celebrate, the Board of Directors unanimously voted a twenty percent salary bonus to our beloved CEO, and a ten percent bonus to the Company's Vice Presidents. The Company knows it couldn't have done it without You and all Your Hard Work, so take a moment on your scheduled break to congratulate yourself and your coworkers. Kudos all around!
THREE, after a momentary hesitation, as if waiting for more news: Wait. That's it? What about our bonus?
Muzak off; Droning buzz on; Red spotlight on Three, brighter than before.
AUTHORITY: Worker Number Three, you have been docked already today. Don't make it worse on yourself.
THREE: What about our bonus? Haven't we earned our share? We need that money!
AUTHORITY: Worker Number Three, you may, as always, write out any complaints you may have on the proper forms and deposit them in the suggestion box.
THREE: What, so they'll be ignored, as always? Look, why don't I save you the effort and just trash the complaint forms myself?
AUTHORITY: That will do, Worker Number Three. Expect to be docked another hour's wages. Anything further will result in a day's wages lost. Think of your family and resume your work.
THREE, waving her arms: I am thinking of my family! (Pointing at Two) I'm thinking of her son, home alone and sick. I'm thinking of all our families. We — all of us! — have worked hard here for very damned little. Even your sanctimonious recording acknowledges our contribution. Why can't we share in the profit?
AUTHORITY: I see you refuse to listen, Worker Number Three. Consider this day's wages lost.
THREE: You can't do that! Condescending (swallowing the word) — I'm not some little girl! I have a right to be heard!
The red spotlight narrows like the eyes of an angry man, tightening its focus on Three's face.
AUTHORITY, coldly scolding: Not on Company time. Not on Company property. In here, your only right is to do as the Company instructs, Worker Number Three.
Three notices the red spotlight's tighter focus and begins to move her head about to avoid the gaze it implies.
THREE: Dammit! Quit calling me that. I have a name!
AUTHORITY, dispassionately cold: Your name is irrelevant to your productivity, Worker Number Three. You sit at the third station, therefore, for today at least, you are Worker Number Three. The only other identification that matters is your log-on ID and your password. Now, resume your work without further comment or you may be removed from the premises.
The red spotlight tries to follow Three's head, gives up, and widens to its original size.
THREE: Removed from the premises? Just like that? I should just leave — go home to my family — seeing as how I won't be paid anyway.
AUTHORITY: No, Worker Number Three, you may not leave. Abandonment of your workstation will result in the termination of your employment. Do continue working.
THREE, scattering her papers explosively: No! Come out here and talk to me like a human being, you cold robot! How much do you make? How much do they pay you to sit up there and lord over us peons and threaten our livelihoods, our families? How much did you sell out for? What's the price of your humanity?
AUTHORITY, anger creeping through: That is more than enough, Worker Number Three. Consider your employment terminated.
THREE: I'm not finished. Not yet. Not by a long shot.
AUTHORITY: You are finished, Worker Number Three. You may now leave quietly. Please be sure to empty your locker before you go.
THREE, incredulous: God, you are so perverse! Have you no conscience? Don't you have any compassion, you bloodless reptile? No, I suppose not. None of your friends lost their jobs after the last lay-off. None of your children have to do without new shoes or dental exams because their mommy or daddy lost a job. That's just downsizing to you, isn't it? And we're just numbers on a chart somewhere, numbers to be manipulated, to be used. Slaves to your filthy wages. Not people at all.
AUTHORITY, regaining self-control: Worker Number Three, Security has been called. You will be escorted out of the building. Your locker will be cleaned for you and your personal effects forwarded to your home address.
THREE: Yeah, just ship them to The Third Cardboard Box Under The Bridge. That's where I'll be. My newly homeless family and I.
AUTHORITY, exasperated: It's probably pointless to argue, but surely you're being melodramatic. Your husband works, yes? You must have enough savings to see you through to your next job.
THREE, cynically angry: Oh, please! Have you any clue what it's like to live paycheck to paycheck? My husband has a college degree and still works as a part-time grocery checker, exactly one hour per week less than necessary to receive benefits. And I, I've been at this, this dump, for going on five years now and have nothing to show for it. I worked at minimum wage for a year before seeing my first annual two-percent raise. Meanwhile the cost of living climbs five-percent each year. Christ! I make less now than when I started!
AUTHORITY: Obviously, I should have said nothing, Worker Number Three. I feel for your family, but your problems are obviously of your own making. If you and your husband would have just worked harder, spent your earnings less frivolously —
THREE, interrupting: Frivolously spent on rent and groceries?
AUTHORITY, ignoring the interruption:— perhaps none of this would have come about. (Addressing all) But, as I have already noted, you are unfairly affecting the productivity of your coworkers, and many will likely have to work late as a result. Excepting Worker Number Three, of course, I wish all workers to know that they will not be penalized for having to work late today, and that you will be all awarded one hour's extra wages for having had to suffer through Worker Number Three's needless ranting. As for you, Worker Number Three, your escort has arrived.
Three stiffens. Enter Blackshirts, two security guards, tall, silent, muscular men with close-cropped blonde hair, from stage left. Both are dressed head-to-toe in typically black security guard uniforms and carry black truncheons. The Blackshirts approach Three silently but menacingly. The droning buzz begins to slowly increase in intensity and volume, but not loud enough to drown out dialogue. Three silently watches the approach of the Blackshirts for a moment, then continues her protest.
THREE, sarcasm mixed with resignation: Oh, yes, right! How typical. Just like a fascist to send in the Blackshirts. As if I can even resist. Wheel me away then, you pathetic stooges!
AUTHORITY: Yes, do wheel her away. See her outside the gate and be sure it's locked afterward. Worker Number Three, your final paycheck will be mailed along with your personal effects.
THREE, sarcastically: Please, keep it. I insist. Consider it the cost of my admission to this bloody three-ring circus. I'm just sorry I missed the bearded lady.
The First Blackshirt turns Three's chair around to wheel her off stage left, while the Second Blackshirt stands to the side, ready for trouble. The red spotlight follows Three. As Three is turned to face the audience for the first time, it can finally be seen that she is belted into the chair. She struggles but is unable to rise. The Blackshirts pause a moment to allow one of the Whiteshirts to pass, then begin to wheel Three off stage. Three ceases her struggle.
THREE, in resigned sarcasm: Well, at least I'll be home before my kids for once. (Looking up to the Blackshirt) To the bus stop, James, and step on it.
Exit the two Blackshirts with Three, stage left. Red spotlight off. Droning buzz continues, still increasing in intensity, only now to the point where it starts becoming truly loud and annoying. The workers continue to work, but the absence of the Muzakand the growing presence of the droning buzz signals that all is not yet well, that they are still under scrutiny, and the workers are clearly frightened.
After about thirty seconds, the Blackshirts return, the First Blackshirt wheeling another chair in which is belted a new female employee already in a shirt identical to those worn by the others. The First Blackshirt plugs the new employee neatly into the recently vacated slot — there is loud, sharp click and the droning buzz, having become nearly intolerable, suddenly stops. The P.A. Voice resumes, and during the announcement, the Blackshirts stand behind the new worker while she straightens up some of the mess left by Three.
P.A. VOICE, having dutifully ignored the whole exchange: — without You. So get ready for Company Employee Appreciation Day, conveniently scheduled for next Sunday — your day off so you won't have to miss any work! As an added bonus, there will even be a professional clown, so bring the kids too! Just one dollar extra per child.
Muzak resumes. Exit First Blackshirt, stage left. The Second Blackshirt stands, arms crossed, truncheon in hand, at the end of the bank of workstations. He pauses and glares at the workers long enough to look like the overseer he is, then moves to follow his comrade.
The Muzak fades as the curtain falls.
© 1997 Steven V. Hight
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