I hate my job — all I do is crush cans all day.

setup: I hate my job — all I do is crush cans all day.

[Therapist] qua chair, plant, framed degree, soft eyes Mr. Berger. You said this would come up.

[BILL] qua coveralls, work boots, hands still stained with aluminum I hate my job.

[Therapist] Tell me what you do.

[BILL] I crush cans. All day. Soda cans. Beer cans. Energy drink cans. Sometimes a tuna can.

[Therapist] What does the job involve, physically?

[BILL] A machine. I feed cans into the machine. The machine crushes them. I push the cans into the machine. That’s it.

[Therapist] And how long have you been —

[BILL] Fourteen years.

[Shakes] qua reception assistant, beaming This is the best of all possible vocations.

[Therapist] Fourteen years of crushing cans.

[BILL] Fourteen years.

[Therapist] How does that make you feel.

[BILL] ((PRESSING TEMPLES)) Flat.

[Therapist] Flat.

[BILL] The cans go in three-dimensional. They come out two-dimensional. I am the agent of dimensional reduction. Eight hours a day.

[Therapist] You feel —

[BILL] Compressed.

[Therapist] Compressed.

[BILL] Like the cans.

[Manyfeek] qua single flattened soda can on the therapist’s desk, edges sharp ((FROM THE DESK)) I was a Mountain Dew. I had three-quarters of a serving left. He didn’t even drink me first.

[Therapist] Mort.

[Manyfeek] He just pressed me. Without asking.

[BILL] I press hundreds a day.

[Manyfeek] That’s the problem.

[Therapist] Mr. Berger. What would help.

[BILL] ((SLOW)) I don’t know. I just feel so —

[Therapist] Yes?

[BILL] Pressing.

[Therapist] The job is pressing.

[BILL] I’m pressing. The job is pressing. The cans are pressed. Everyone is being pressed.

[Therapist] Same time next week?

[BILL] Press me into the slot.

punchline: It’s soda pressing.