Combat Zone

As if working in law enforcement isn't toxic enough, I have recently been assigned more cases than my file cabinet can contain. Not just "some" more. A LOT more.

And thus my cubicle became a combat zone.

I had files stacked on every available surface, including the floor. Files looming over me in sinister poses, stacks curving gracefully and ominously toward my solitary chair, manila folders rubber-banded together in a malevolent camaraderie that appeared focused and intent upon the hunched oppression that became my body at work.

The files shouted,

"Open me!! Stare at me intensely and develop a case plan!! Review my contents and make decisions!! DO IT NOW!!!"

And I, blatantly and foolishly refusing to exercise the better part of valor, held them at bay with short shanking motions from my blue and leaking pen and muttered,

"Not now."

Soon, the files allied with unfiled notes from meetings, solicitations from wannabe community partners, forgotten Court missives, and tasks deemed "unimportant at this time" and strengthened their position to an extent that was unknown to my intelligence until this morning, when in an unprecedented and completely unexpected post-dawn sortie, they attacked.

With a ferocity borne of several bad hair days and yesterday's misguided reprimand from my erstwhile and frighteningly grandmotherlike Supervisor, my counterattack was launched without any significant preparation and with a simplicity that guaranteed success: Armed only with a suddenly available extra filing cabinet, the files were subdued and summarily incarcerated. All ancillary insurgents were tracked, located, and eliminated. Tactical Dust-Off was liberally stationed and all quadrants were sealed with swipes of disinfectant solution.

I've taken back my cubicle. La Victoire de l'Harrison.