The Worker riffles through the pages of his black binder, going through the motions of preparing for his next meeting. After a moment, bored, he claps the binder shut. No need to bother with this sort of thing anymore. Success like his has its rewards.
He stands quietly in the center of his immense office—his sanctuary—each detail of which he has personally chosen. Bright and elegant, it boasts a grand mahogany desk, two plush velvet couches, a crystal coffee table with a matching chandelier and a series of expensive paintings by well-known artists. By far The Worker’s favorite feature, however, is the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looks out onto the rest of the floor. Though the transparency level of the wall is adjustable, he prefers to keep it totally clear, so that he and his office can always be seen.
The Worker strides to the door, binder in tow. He mindlessly reaches for its diamond handle, only to find that it is gone. In fact, he now notices, the entire door is gone, leaving only the glass wall. Positive he must be imagining things, he stares at the wall, blinking. Suddenly he begins to worry that he will faint, so he sits down on the floor. A few seconds pass, and he realizes how this must look to everyone outside the wall. He jolts up, straightens his suit, then starts banging on the wall.
“The door is gone!” he shouts. “Someone get me out of here!”
People walk by, looking at their phones, paying him no attention. How can it be that nobody sees or hears him?
Frantic, he calls one of the men he was supposed to have met with three minutes ago.
“Where are you?” the man screams into the phone. “You’re never late!”
“Yes, I know! I’m so sorry. It’s my door! It’s—”
The man cuts him off abruptly. “Don’t call me and then be silent! I don’t know what the hell you’re doing right now.” As he hears the man’s voice splutter over the phone, The Worker can almost feel his colleague’s saliva hitting him in the face. “Get down here in one minute or I’m coming up there myself!” the man yells. Then he hangs up.
A minute later, his colleague appears outside his office. A wave of relief passes through The Worker. “Oh, thank god!” he cries. “Now you see. Now you see that I’m stuck here! Please! Please help me get out!”
But the man doesn’t help. He doesn’t even acknowledge The Worker. Instead, scowling, he gestures for two men standing nearby to join him and, after exchanging arcane glances, the three men, each wearing a black suit, approach the wall, step through the glass and begin throwing the contents of the office out the window.
“My paintings!” shrieks The Worker. “My computer! My desk! What are you doing!”
There is no response, no sign that the men are even aware of his presence. The Worker finds himself paralyzed, powerless to stop them, only able to watch.
Once the office is demolished, the men nod at one another and tread back toward the wall. Again, they go smoothly through it. The Worker scurries after them, hoping that he, too, will be able to pass through his beloved glass wall and escape. But he only slams into it, crumpling to the floor in pain.
Lying on the ground, The Worker studies his reflection in the glass. He looks dirty, disheveled, weak—nothing like what he has always known himself to be. It is repulsive. He is ashamed. And he now sees, reflected behind him, that his beautiful refuge is going up in flames. The Worker allows himself to shed a single tear, and then, as he watches it trickle down his cheek, begins to weep.