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EVERY PERSON I HAVE EVER MET

by Colleen Corcoran



I.



“MY JOB WAS TO TAKE THE ESCALADE OUT AND BUY CHAMPAGNE,” says one former employee. “Well, not every day, but that was memorable.”
Before the law stands a doorkeeper. Before an escalator stands a guard. Before the guard, an entrance hall, and before the entrance hall, the world.

He had been working as an executive assistant to the CEO of Bechtel, one of the world’s largest engineering companies. Bechtel built the Hoover Dam, the Alaska Pipeline, the Hong Kong International Airport, the mass transit systems of several cities, and the first commercial nuclear power reactor in America. It is responsible for one of the world’s largest copper mines in New Guinea and was named by the United Nations as a supplier of weapons of mass destruction to Saddam Hussein. It has, also, been targeted for war profiteering and environmental degradation. The Bechtel office building lies in the dark heart of San Francisco’s financial district at the corner of Mission and Beale. The building: brown and unadorned, and everything about the place anonymous. In front of it, every weekday morning, the woman running in tall black boots with tall black heels will be running late to work, this just past the person handing out Examiner newspapers and the homeless man standing with his back to a brick wall selling Street Sheet for $1. “Have an absolutely magnificent day,” the homeless man will be saying.
“There’s always some Bechtel protestor wandering around wondering where to stand,” or so they say.
“I worked there for a year,” according to the former employee. “I left when I decided I had enough of being completely miserable every single day of my life… I didn’t do anything interesting. I was there to like pat him on the back and stroke his ego.”
“I used to work on a farm, and one day I was birthing a calf and suddenly thought, ‘This is disgusting,’” someone else says of the day he decided to seek out alternate employment.
Or the job might be sent to countries whose citizens are willing to work for a bowl of rice a day, where airports dance to the hum of mechanical ceiling fans. The inner workings of the place are sometimes erratic – communications breakdowns, system failures – a fractured existence limping along in last place, a cascade of desperation, inconsistency, and lies. Dealings are in tragedies and poor timing, remoteness and misinformation. The common language is gibberish. A dusty yellow haze settles over all things, and wild boars walk the unpaved streets. There is nobody rational at the wheel.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” management says upon dismissing an employee from the crumbling empire. “If you didn’t have a good time, well you could have had a good time but you chose to focus on the negative things instead of on the positive things.”




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About Colleen Corcoran


My writing has appeared in a number of magazines, journals, and newspapers. I have worked as a travel writer for Rough Guides, and recently completed a book about adventure sports titled Play: Voices of Adventure. I currently live in San Francisco, and more of my work is available online at www.colleencorcoran.com.

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