Professional sap — as in, a professional currently experiencing exploitation as a result of career-related desperation — is unwittingly assigned to mine, identify and categorize digitized mortgage papers, and to prep them for online auction rooms circa 2005. It is a temp job, paid by the hour, and lowly. He executes badly, and he knows it, because what he does know is nothing of mortgage papers, having received no training whatsoever before being stationed at a desk on a floor of windows in the middle of a big city skyscraper round about State Street by a few jean-wearing forty-somethings who managed to accumulate responsibility for a lot of office space and a lot of paper, despite their casual willingness to turn it all over to a perfect novice who would simply guess at what’s what, mix and match to while away time, and throw things together only because something had to appear as though it were being done. The space is empty for its size, and street sounds can be heard below. The sun bowls through a yellow tint.
From across the floor, “Did you catch that?”
“What, no — I mean yes.”
“I said we’re going to lunch. We’ll be back tomorrow.”