A man walked out of the elevator. Two dozen cubicles spread out symmetrically before him. With practiced steps he walked past the four on the right and squeaked into a chair. The monitor in front of him struggled to wake up, blinking alive only after the desktop to the side had time to psyche itself up and kick the monitor into submission.

Login screen, passwords, then out came the excel spreadsheets, juggling their numbers through hoops and loops until they landed neatly in a row of colorful boxes, mostly red. He sighed and grabbed the next folder, fat with a full-course meal’s worth of deluxe papers from the printer place down the corner. Each page is an ocean of words, each sentence flowing into the next, the underlines catching the waves and riding past the bold swimmers. The dour numbers on the beach that refuse to jump in the water stay to themselves beside the graph pointing to the exit at the bottom of the page.

The man types data into the spreadsheet, then checks his email. Boxes the size of skyscrapers host parties on all floors, and the first floor is the one with the screaming metalheads banging out their anger in a mosh pit right up in front of the stage. He reads the message, types out a careful response, and hits send. The next floor’s got the blues on, and the sobering vibe is a nice change of pace from the metal one floor up, but they have their own funk going on; the crowd’s jamming to a more complicated beat while they look around and ask for answers.

The man decides to check one more email and then start processing invoices. Before he has a chance, the phone drums out its digital percussive groove, sliding smoothly into the improv drum meet popping up around the office, but with some new material the others hadn’t heard before, a rapid triple triplets type rhythm. The flashing number on the screen blinks in approval while the man picks up the phone and says some scripted words to calm the angry person on the other end.

The office carnival plays on as the sun shuffles awkwardly across the room, until it’s on the other side and the clock is reading 5 and the man squeezes into a tight elevator. He ruffles past a crowd, waving away the have a good weekends and the see ya later Davids until he leaps into his car and slaps it into gear. The tires squeal against the pavement, and a traffic cha-cha slide or two later, he’s back home, barely ready for the next carnival.