Haus Morgenrot: The Week Mr. Germlin Became Contraband
Mr. Germlin had worked at Haus Morgenrot for seven months.
Seven.
Months.
This is important because seven months inside Haus Morgenrot is approximately eleven years in normal human time.
He had survived admissions.
Discharges.
Headcounts.
Missing hallway cats.
Found hallway cats.
Hallway cats who were not technically missing but had decided that wherever they currently stood was precisely where they were supposed to be despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
He had survived lunch.
He had survived dinner.
He had survived Computer Club.
He had survived Free Time, an activity Haus Morgenrot occasionally treated as though recreation itself had been outlawed by the Geneva Convention.
He had survived the ancient ritual:
“Where are you supposed to be?”
“I’m going to my room.”
“Your room is the other direction.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you walking this way?”
“I need to ask somebody something.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Mr. Germlin—”
“NO.”
Seven months.
And somewhere during those seven months, without particularly intending to, Mr. Germlin had become part of the furniture.
Ten o’clock: Germlin appears.
Badge.
Backpack.
Lunch.
Front lobby.
Hallway.
Headcount.
“Sir.”
“No.”
“Go to class.”
“No.”
“Your counselor isn't here.”
“No.”
“You cannot stand there.”
“No.”
“Whatever you're thinking about doing, please reconsider.”
Repeat until 10 PM.
Then Germlin throws the deuces and disappears.
It wasn't glamorous.
Nobody was going to make a movie about it.
The Employee's Shift, starring Mr. Germlin as Himself:
A man goes to work.
He performs work.
He gets paid.
He goes the fuck home.
Five stars.
Perfect film.
Unfortunately, Haus Morgenrot had writers.
And those motherfuckers were bored.
September 14 arrived.
Mr. Germlin was approaching the final stretch before eight months of employment.
This should have unlocked an achievement.
SURVIVED HAUS MORGENROT FOR 7 MONTHS
Reward:
+2 Patience +4 Institutional Cynicism +17 Hallway Cat Resistance +1 Monster Energy Dependency +0 Ulrics
Instead, September selected:
Random Encounter.
There were beepy pants.
There was a wand.
There was an allegation.
There was procedure Mr. Germlin should have followed better.
There was a camera.
And, through an extraordinary alignment of celestial bodies, architecture, and ass, Mr. Germlin's own body managed to block the portion of the camera view that might have made everybody's lives substantially fucking easier.
Outstanding.
Technology had been invented.
Cameras had been installed.
Humanity had conquered electricity.
We had placed men on the Moon.
And Haus Morgenrot had finally encountered the natural predator of modern surveillance:
Mr. Germlin's ass.
Thus began the investigation.
Mr. Germlin was sent home.
Fine.
Investigate.
Surely this would take—
One day?
Two?
Perhaps somebody watches the footage, gathers statements, compares accounts, checks policy and reaches a conclusion.
Ha.
HA.
Haus Morgenrot had discovered a revolutionary new contraband-control technique:
Remove the employee.
Day One.
Mr. Germlin remained home.
Somewhere inside Haus Morgenrot, a hallway cat noticed something.
The front lobby felt...
different.
There was no Germlin.
Interesting.
The hallway cat stepped three feet outside his assigned area.
Nothing happened.
He stepped six feet.
Still nothing.
Another hallway cat emerged.
“Where Mr. Germlin?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Don't know.”
Silence.
The two hallway cats looked at one another.
And somewhere deep inside the facility, an ancient seal broke.
DAY TWO
Three hallway cats stood in the lobby.
One claimed he was waiting for Medical.
Medical had never heard of him.
Another needed to see his counselor.
His counselor was not working.
The third had absolutely no explanation whatsoever and seemed offended anyone had requested one.
Haus Morgenrot staff deployed the traditional countermeasure:
“Guys, clear the hallway.”
Nobody moved.
DAY THREE
The hallway cats had established agriculture.
Nobody knew where they obtained seeds.
A small cactus appeared beside the vending machine.
Someone named it Gerald.
Gerald immediately demonstrated better situational awareness than half the building.
DAY FOUR
Gerald became SOD.
Nobody officially promoted him.
It simply happened.
A client approached Gerald.
“Can I go outside?”
Gerald remained silent.
“Thanks, Gerald.”
The client went outside.
Meanwhile, Mr. Germlin remained at home.
Not fired.
Not working.
Not receiving the Ulrics associated with working.
Simply existing in the mystical employment dimension known as:
PENDING.
This is a fascinating economic arrangement wherein the employee technically possesses a job while simultaneously being prohibited from performing the activity through which the job produces money.
Mr. Germlin checked his bank account.
The bank account offered no comment.
Mr. Germlin checked his phone.
Nothing.
He checked again.
Still nothing.
Apparently staring at a Samsung does not summon Human Resources.
Science continues to disappoint.
Eventually the message came:
You're not fired.
Oh!
Wonderful!
Come back?
Not exactly.
Instead, Haus Morgenrot had apparently decided that perhaps Mr. Germlin and the daytime hallway-cat ecosystem had experienced enough character development together.
There was talk of nights.
Medical.
Six PM to six AM.
Different environment.
Different responsibilities.
Potentially fewer hallway cats.
Mr. Germlin considered this.
He respected Medical.
Medical generally seemed to know what Medical was doing.
More importantly:
Medical had Ulrics.
Mr. Germlin therefore expressed interest.
Because despite what seven months of Bearblog evidence might suggest, Mr. Germlin is not philosophically opposed to employment.
Mr. Germlin enjoys employment.
Employment produces Ulrics.
Ulrics can be exchanged for goods and services.
The problem occurs when employment requires Mr. Germlin to participate in twelve consecutive hours of The Sims: Institutional Edition, except every Sim has free will and at least three of them are currently scratching at the Computer Club door.
Then came the truly beautiful part.
Mr. Germlin reached what should have been his regular days off.
After being involuntarily off.
For almost a week.
Imagine being kicked out of a restaurant for six days and then, on Day Seven, receiving a notification:
GOOD NEWS! TODAY YOU DON'T HAVE TO COME TO THE RESTAURANT.
Thank you.
Very generous.
Mr. Germlin had successfully unlocked:
DAYS OFF FROM BEING OFF.
No additional Ulrics were awarded.
So on the morning of September 21, Mr. Germlin did something radical.
He wrote an email.
Not an angry email.
Not:
SUBJECT: WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?
Not:
SUBJECT: HAVE THE HALLWAY CATS TAKEN CONTROL OF THE BUILDING?
Not even:
SUBJECT: PLEASE RETURN MY FUCKING ULrics
No.
Professional Mr. Clark appeared.
Good morning.
I remain interested in the night assignment.
I am available to return to work.
Please let me know when the assignment and start date are finalized.
Beautiful.
Boring.
Corporate.
Almost suspiciously employable.
Then Mr. Clark pressed Send.
And Mr. Germlin immediately returned.
Because now we wait.
Again.
But something has changed.
Seven months ago, Mr. Germlin might have been terrified of losing Haus Morgenrot.
Now?
There are fishing lines in the water.
Warehouse.
Shipping.
Receiving.
Distribution.
Assembly.
Places where the hallway cats are made of cardboard and can be restrained with industrial shrink wrap.
Places where a pallet cannot file an allegation.
Places where a box placed in the wrong location does not say:
“Mr. Germlin, I respect you. I've only got five days left.”
A box merely sits there.
Beautiful.
Magnificent.
Boring.
Maybe Night Germlin happens.
Maybe 6 PM–6 AM turns out surprisingly tolerable.
Maybe Medical becomes the bridge between Haus Morgenrot and whatever comes next.
Maybe another employer calls first.
Mr. Germlin doesn't know.
For once, he doesn't particularly need to.
The fishing lines are already in the water.
Haus Morgenrot can provide Ulrics until somebody else provides better Ulrics.
And if Haus Morgenrot wishes to spend another week determining whether Mr. Germlin is permitted to perform the job for which Haus Morgenrot hired Mr. Germlin, then Haus Morgenrot may continue conducting whatever sacred administrative ritual Haus Morgenrot requires.
Mr. Germlin has done his part.
He has emailed.
He has expressed availability.
He has expressed interest.
He has not resigned.
He has not rage-quit.
He has not planted Gerald beside the vending machine.
Yet.
Somewhere inside the facility, however, a hallway cat is almost certainly standing somewhere he isn't supposed to be.
Another is asking somebody a question whose answer is already no.
A third is wandering toward the front lobby with absolutely no discernible mission.
And for the first time in seven months...
Mr. Germlin isn't there to say:
“Sir. Where are you supposed to be?”
The hallway cat stops.
Looks around.
Nobody challenges him.
His eyes widen.
Freedom.
He takes another step.
Then another.
Behind him, seventeen more hallway cats emerge from their rooms.
Gerald watches silently from beside the vending machine.
The uprising has begun.
Mr. Germlin?
Mr. Germlin is at home.
Checking Indeed.
Waiting for his phone to ring.
And protecting what remains of his Ulrics.
Because somewhere between Month Seven and Month Eight, he finally learned the most important policy Haus Morgenrot never put in the employee handbook:
You cannot stabilize every hallway.
Sometimes you simply find another building.
And when that day arrives?
No argument.
No speech.
No investigation.
No final boss.
Clock out.
Badge down.
Throw the deuces. ✌️
And leave Gerald in charge. 🌵