self-destruct button

They were discussing equipment deployment strategies at the corner of 'Network Ave' and 'Engineering Road', so noted by the plastic signs attached to the corner of the cubicles.

One of the participants in the conversation held information I needed; having ignored my last several e-mails, which would have provided a painless solution to my informational needs, I was now forced to corner him face to face and squeeze the answers out of him.

Unfortunately, this required waiting for his current conversation to end. The topic of discussion moved away from deployment details and onto the more important area of the upcoming football season.

I'm a fan football; I've got the Sunday package that lets me watch every possible game each Sunday. I can name the starting quarterback for every team in the NFL. But at that moment, standing in the middle of cube land, six hours of work left to do, and two hours to do it in – the last thing I wanted to do was find out what these people thought of the Redskin's new coaching staff or their rookie wide receivers.

Yet here I was, listening anyways.

My hand felt its way into my pocket and to my keychain. I ran my thumb over the small red button that unlocks my car.

And for a moment, I imagined what it would be like if we all could carry around a self-destruct button.

How reassuring it would be to run your fingertips over it. In those moments of pure agony, when job or social requirements have placed you in a position where death by boredom becomes less of a euphemism, and more an impending threat – how nice it would be to have the chance to opt out in a singularly spectacular fashion.

It's just a day dream. But it got me through the next fifteen minutes of random conversation without resorting to violence.

I prefer to keep my violence at home, thank you.