Another Writing Exercise, My Dear Sparrows!

Water Cooler
By David Oppegaard

Cuban scientists have found ants can be just as irrational as stampeding soccer fans.

The human body, I have heard, consists mostly of water. Perhaps that is why they like to huddle around me and drink my sloshing contents while chattering about things that even I, a water cooler, find dull.
“So, we took the boat out this weekend.”
“Nice.”
“It was nice.”
“Great weather.”
“The best. Very sunny.”
It is unfortunate that I do not have legs. Five days out of seven I am forced to remain where I am and listen to office prattle as if I had nothing better to do, as if I wouldn’t prefer a nice quiet evening alone with the occasional gurgle rising up in my bulbous tank. I like it when the office is quiet and shadows begin to settle over the cubicles and I can pretend I am in Venice, a city I have heard floats on water.
“So you heard about Simmons?”
“No, what?”
“Got that damn raise finally.”
“Really? Well, good for him. He’s been here since forever.”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Whew. Twenty-two years.”
“You’re telling me.”
Late at night a man comes in a vacuums the carpets and empties all the wastebaskets. I like him better than most of the watered down humans who visit this office because he does not talk. He does his noble work in quiet, the vacuum cleaner humming at a momentous, steady drone I find quite soothing. In fact, sometimes I can almost here the first few syllables of a tentative conversation in the vacuum cleaner’s roar. Perhaps some of my parts were assembled while the same soothing drone occurred in a factory somewhere and I am taken back to my own birth, my own youthful existence before I was subjected to talk of retirement options and company health insurance policies and hockey scores.
“See the game last night?”
“No. Had to go to my kid’s recital. Flute.”
“Oh, man. You missed the play?”
“Yeah. Saw it on Sports Center though. Can you believe that one?”
“Incredible. I think we might actually make it to the second round this year.”
“Who knows. It’s early.”
“Exactly.”
The only other human being I enjoy whatsoever is the Water Giver. He comes once a week and when I see him approach I get quite excited. He removes my bulbous tank so gently, with such a deft touch, it’s a pleasure simply to be touched by him. And while I don’t spend a great deal of time without a tank, I truly believe have my best thoughts when my inner workings are totally exposed. A feeling of dizzying lightness consumes me and I forget my cares, my worries, and imagine myself floating over this building all the way out to the ocean. I long to crest a wave, a huge wave that takes me toward the sun for one brief instant before I sink beneath it, floating slowly downwards until I settle on the ocean floor. Fish will dart about me playfully. I’ll grow my seaweed long. I will never be empty again, my tank endlessly filled by the salty blue waters around me.
“Did you see what Patrice is wearing?”
“Gag me. What was she thinking?”
“Maybe she got dressed when it was dark. Maybe her electricity was out.”
“Maybe she went blind. No. Temporarily insane.”
“And those shoes?”
“No, you’re right. No way those shoes match.”
Sometimes, early in the morning and before the first person has arrived, I dream of a terrorist slipping into the office just to find me. He’ll be a nice, well-meaning fellow who fills my tank with a liter of Drano and finally gets me the peace I so deserve.