"My First Day at the Galactic Office"

My First Day at the Galactic Office

If you had told me yesterday that today I’d be navigating the bureaucracy of a galactic government staffed by creatures that look like they crawled out of a fever dream, I would have laughed in your face. Yet, here I am — a nervous Earthling in an ill-fitting uniform, standing in a corridor that seems to stretch forever, surrounded by beings who make no attempt to hide their amusement at my human awkwardness.

I’m Jack, newly recruited as a Junior Liaison Officer for the Interstellar Coalition. Basically, I’m the “human representative” — a title that sounds impressive until you realize it mostly means translating alien paperwork and trying not to offend anyone’s tentacles.

The morning began with a welcome briefing led by Zorblat, a six-eyed gelatinous blob with a fondness for gloppy handshakes that leave a suspicious slime residue on my sleeve. “Welcome to the Galactic Office,” he boomed in a voice that sounded like a cross between a foghorn and a karaoke singer. “Your first task: understand the protocols. Or else.” The “or else” hung in the air like a threat, or maybe just a bad translation. Either way, I nodded vigorously.

My first stop was the Department of Temporal Paperwork — a place where forms arrive before you even file them. I handed over my “Form 23-B” and was promptly asked to complete “Form 42-Q, Version Xyloo-7” before the afternoon quantum reset. Translation: fill out a form that changes every ten minutes because time here is apparently more of a suggestion than a rule.

As I struggled to make sense of a form that required me to declare my mood at multiple points in time simultaneously, I was approached by my assigned mentor — Glibb, a creature resembling a walking pile of neon spaghetti with googly eyes stuck randomly on her “body.”

“Don’t worry, newbie,” she said, slithering beside me. “The Galactic Office is a labyrinth designed to confuse and exhaust. If you survive your first day without losing your mind, you’ll fit right in.”

I thanked her nervously and followed her to my cubicle — or, as they call it here, a “multi-dimensional work nexus.” It was a transparent bubble floating about three feet off the floor, filled with blinking holographic screens and at least one confused-looking small alien that kept trying to hand me a glowing orb labeled “mandatory snack.”

Attempting to sit on the bubble’s floating chair, I instead fell through to the floor, earning a chorus of chortles from passing colleagues. “Gravity’s optional here,” Glibb called from across the room, as if that explained everything.

The first real challenge came when I had to submit my “Daily Status Report” via the office’s communication device, a translucent cube that translated thoughts into bureaucratic jargon. Easy, right? Except it decided to broadcast my unfiltered thoughts instead. So instead of reporting, “I completed three forms,” the entire office heard, “I’m hopeless and have no idea what I’m doing.” The ensuing laughter echoed through the hallways for what felt like lightyears.

Lunch was an experience all its own. The cafeteria was a swirling vortex of smell and color, with foods that pulsated, sang, or, in one case, winked at me. I bravely chose something called “Zyglon Platter,” which turned out to be a plate of microscopic creatures that rearranged themselves into rude words before dissolving in my mouth. The nearest alien chuckled and said, “It’s a rite of passage. You’ve been marked now.”

After lunch, I attended a mandatory “Inter-Species Communication Workshop.” The instructor was a three-headed alien who simultaneously lectured, argued with herself, and scribbled notes on her forearms. The session ended with me accidentally insulting an entire species because I confused their greeting ritual with a threat dance. I’m now on thin ice with the Glorphtians.

At one point, a fire alarm went off — or what I thought was a fire alarm. Turns out, it was the “Emergency Dance Protocol.” Suddenly, every employee dropped their paperwork and started an intricate dance involving tentacle twirls, holographic finger snaps, and loud squeaks. I tried to follow, flailing like a puppet with cut strings. Glibb just smiled and said, “You’ll get the hang of it by next year.”

The final test of my patience was the “Galactic Coffee Machine,” a device so complex it requires a PhD in astrophysics to operate. I pressed a button, and a steaming liquid sprayed across my face, leaving a smell suspiciously like burnt rubber. One helpful alien handed me a tiny towel — or what looked like a thumb-sized piece of fabric — and said, “It’s an acquired taste.”

By the end of the day, I was exhausted, slightly sticky, and mentally exhausted from deciphering endless protocols written in at least five different languages and several dialects I never knew existed. As I prepared to leave, Glibb came by with a congratulatory slime pat on my shoulder.

“Survived your first day. Not bad for a human.”

“Thanks,” I replied, wiping a drop of something unknown off my cheek. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

She winked one of her googly eyes. “Tomorrow you get to meet the Ethics Committee. They’re… special.”

I shuddered but smiled. Somehow, I was already addicted to this chaotic, absurd, and wildly entertaining galactic bureaucracy. Maybe I was exactly where I was meant to be.