—Welcome to Featherline! You’re starting your new position in support today, right?— asked the receptionist, with an exaggerated cheerfulness and kindness for a Monday at nine in the morning.
No one could be that friendly and sociable at such an hour, but even so, he forced himself to smile and nod. It wasn’t the time to be a grump on his first day at his new job.
A new job, which would be like all the others: a heavy monotony deeply marked by self-loathing, stress, and boredom. Two hours commuting back and forth, nine hours suffering a silent torture, all to then spend his few free hours getting ready for the next day.
He still hadn’t found a job that meant anything more to him than mere survival. But in Amerisia, all jobs were like that. Well, in the whole world, for that matter.
—You’re going to love working here— the receptionist kept babbling on. —Come with me, I’ll give you a quick tour of the office, and then we’ll head to your desk.
He followed her through the typical routine of introductions to coworkers he would eventually grow to despise, learning every detail of their lives. He didn’t need to like them, just tolerate them. Everyone greeted him as if he were a celebrity, with excessive enthusiasm and physically demonstrating their joy at having him on board. For God’s sake, why so many hugs? Why so many handshakes? Why so much invasion of personal space? A simple “great to have you here, welcome” would’ve sufficed.
—Featherline has won the award for best workplace environment four years in a row, and five consecutive years as the best place to work in Amerisia— his tour guide explained.
—Yes, I know —he responded, trying not to sound too gruff—. That’s why I was interested in applying here.
—You made a great choice! —she congratulated him, taking his hand and shaking it firmly, as if deeply thanking him for joining Featherline.
They arrived at his desk, which had a set of small, unnecessary gifts waiting for him. A notebook, a pen, a mug, a bottle—all with the company’s name. And also his own name. Well, how thoughtful, wasn’t it? They’d gone to the trouble of personalizing the gifts.
But it didn’t stop there: the chair, the desk, the work tools—everything was labeled with his name. There was even a small refrigerated drawer in the desk, containing a couple of energy drinks, protein bars, and a pack of ice cubes, all with his name on them.
All of that seemed inexplicably wonderful to him. No one could take his things and claim they hadn’t.
The receptionist kept talking about some details of the company, with constant and excessive friendly, pleasant physical contact, such as the fact that it was a company free of sexual harassment, racism, or any kind of discrimination.
By the time she finished speaking, he was convinced that something was wrong. But strangely, he felt at ease. Maybe Featherline wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe his past work experiences were the real problem. Or maybe he was the problem.
He felt a small urge to give Featherline and its army of happy, friendly workers a chance. After all, a little happiness wouldn’t hurt.
Something was wrong.
Or rather, something was horribly wrong. He had discovered Featherline’s secret, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Well, he did know what to do, and that terrified him.
At Featherline, not only did people work happily and in a good mood, but they practically worked for free. They worked overtime without asking for a cent, and some even came in on weekends.
No company in Amerisia, and perhaps in the world, had the attendance rates Featherline did. People simply came to work, happy to be there, committed to the company’s cause and mission.
Except that commitment had nothing to do with Featherline’s espoused values, the work environment, or anything they projected to the world.
And worst of all, he had become one of those cheerful workers himself. And now he knew why.
At first, it had been something sporadic, a small sense of comfort and happiness while working. He had chalked it up to finally having a decent job and didn’t pay it much attention.
But as time went on, the feeling grew stronger. Not going to work was torturous. Getting sick and taking medical leave was unbearable. His favorite day of the week was Monday, and during the weekends, he couldn’t wait to get back to work. He no longer had outside interests and figured that’s how someone who found purpose in their work must feel.
Who needed hobbies when a career was enough? Didn’t people in ancient times dedicate their whole lives to their daily work?
Eventually, living at home became agonizing, while staying at the office was pure pleasure. The relief he felt when crossing Featherline’s doors was ecstatic. Walking through his apartment door felt like torture—similar to withdrawal.
That’s what sparked his curiosity. In the past, he had experienced withdrawal from certain addictions, and this felt quite similar.
Taking advantage of the fact that he felt inspired and full of energy at work, he began to investigate, and soon found what he was looking for. It wasn’t too well hidden either, but none of his coworkers had felt the need to search like he did.
Featherline had developed a system that pumped the ventilation systems, air conditioning, humidifiers—everything, absolutely everything—with a product filled with neurotransmitter boosters.
It was a tiny dose, but toxic enough to make the brain secrete serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, GABA, and more. In other words, they were being drugged daily to become addicted to work.
He had discovered this dark secret, and he knew what to do.
He knew exactly what to do: keep quiet. And that terrified him. It terrified him to be content and comfortable with being complicit in this twisted labor exploitation scheme, in this new voluntary slavery Featherline had orchestrated.
But what awaited him if he quit? Going back to his miserable, pathetic life?
No, not a chance.
He didn’t care if it was artificial—at Featherline, the most Amerisian company in the world—he had found what happiness was.