A workday in an alternate reality Earth
Wednesday, 7:15 a.m.: Just grabbed my usual coffee and a breakfast sandwich on my way to the portal station. It’s kind of funny how normal this has become for me—hopping across realities to get to work. My boss teased me early on, saying I’d clock in by teleportation if I could, but it’s really just a nondescript beige door in the basement of a strip mall. I swipe my ID, push a code into the keypad, and—poof—I’m stepping onto an alternate version of 4th Avenue, where the brand logos look the same except for the faint swirl behind each letter.
Travel time is next to nothing, but it’s enough to notice subtle differences. The sky has that slightly bluish-lavender hue, like it can’t decide which color it wants to be. The air smells almost like petrichor and coffee at the same time, and there are tiny floating micro-holograms near some of the bus stops advertising new donut flavors—stuff like “Citrus Smoke.” I still don’t know what “Smoke” is supposed to taste like, but my coworkers swear by it.
Once I get to the office (which, in this reality, sits in the same exact location as a vacant lot in our world), I do what every average IT guy does: I monitor software logs, fix broken code lines, and occasionally reset employees’ passwords. The systems here are bizarrely intuitive—like, if you type a line of code incorrectly, the screen will ripple slightly, showing you how to fix it by highlighting every key you have to press in ghostlike letters. It’s a big help, though it can feel a bit invasive when you’re just trying to think through a problem.
Lunchtime is routine in its own weird way. The canteen has typical options—sandwiches, soup, and salads—but there’s always something off by a fraction. The bread here has an almost elastic texture, and the lettuce tastes faintly salty, like it’s been grown in brine instead of water. It’s normal enough to be forgettable until you pause and go, “Wait, that’s not quite right.” Yet everyone around you acts like it’s the only lettuce that’s ever existed.
After I finish up, I do my afternoon tasks: push out new software updates, troubleshoot laptops, and help new hires set up their daily logs. The biggest difference from our world’s IT role is that half my job here involves training the company’s AI agents, who communicate through slight changes in my desktop interface. They’ll rearrange icons to show me something’s wrong, or tint the background mauve when they detect a bug. No chat windows or text prompts—just color-coded clues. It’s more intuitive, but it still trips me up when I forget to read the “signs.”
By 5:00 p.m., I’m back at the portal station. I key in my exit code, the door opens with a quiet hiss, and I’m standing, as always, in that same strip mall basement in our world, where the lights flicker like a 90s convenience store. It’s just another day at the office—almost. I grab takeout on my way home, type up a quick blog entry to record all the minor twists of my day, and promise myself I’ll finally try that Citrus Smoke donut tomorrow. For all the subtle differences on the other side, it’s comforting to realize that a long day at work still feels like, well, a long day at work—just with a bit of color-coded weirdness thrown in.