One Hour, and 14 Minutes
written by: D. Rolland Jr.
To say that time is relative is to be merciful to it. What happens in 74 minutes—if measured by heartbeats or sighs or hair follicles grown or brain cells deceased—is arguably beyond science, squarely within metaphysics or Kafka. But at precisely One Hour, and 14 Minutes, we sat through it: the quarterly virtual compliance training on Arizona Revised Statutes.
“…and with that,” the speaker intones like a paralegal reciting a eulogy for a cactus, “I’m only 14 minutes over, but I just want to reiterate the spring reassessment results are always published…”
Let’s pause here and examine this tableau:
Thirteen salaried humans and one intern (whose camera is always off and who may or may not be a fiction designed to meet diversity quotas) appear in a grid of faces not dissimilar to a morgue drawer layout. Each square box on Microsoft Teams represents a real person—sort of—though what remains of them has been reduced to slightly lagged expressions, glazed pupils, and a non-negligible delay between blinking and responding.
I am Box Seven.
I am muted.
I am nodding as my soul quietly bungee-jumps from my body, again.
On the screen, a new PowerPoint slide shudders into view like a dying PowerPoint transition effect coded in 2003: a majestic Arial Bold headline that reads simply “AUTHORITY,” juxtaposed with a watermarked dove perched on a branch at sunset, the symbol of both peace and, apparently, Arizona contracting law.
“…which brings us to Arizona Statute 32-1151,” our speaker drones, pausing to hydrate from a State-issued water bottle emblazoned with the slogan ‘Compliance is Caring’, “which gives you the legal authority to authorize and monetize contractor licensing requirements…”
There is a psychological phenomenon—unofficial, of course, as all truths are—that if a person hears the word “authority” more than six times in a 60-second span, they become physically incapable of standing up from their seat. Their limbs go slack. Their spine gelatinizes. Their dignity calcifies into dust.
This is known colloquially, and unofficially, as Regulatory Paralysis.
By Minute 47, someone’s dog barked in the background. The speaker pretended not to hear it, but we all silently hoped it would escalate into a full domestic dispute. Anything with emotion. Anything with action. A spat about unpaid vet bills. A lover screaming about who forgot to switch the laundry. A small fire.
Instead:
“…this ensures the confidentiality of personally identifiable information unless that information has been shared with third-party vendors who’ve been authorized by Section 12 Subsection F-2, which supersedes—but does not override—the interdepartmental eligibility clause…”
I begin to count the number of eyebrow twitches per minute on my coworker’s face, who I now think of exclusively as “Gail (Box Four).” I am unsure of Gail’s last name or if she speaks. But her eyebrows. They tell a story.
By Minute 61, the Zoom fatigue sets in. The posture decays. The micro-yawns. The silent screams behind eyelids. Someone accidentally whispers “Jesus Christ,” then mutes too quickly for anyone to laugh. It was the best moment of the meeting.
“…middle and high school students are very self-conscious,” says a secondary presenter (whose role is unclear and whose credentials are even murkier), “…that might be why they are whispering…”
What the hell are we talking about?
Have we pivoted to adolescent psychology?
Were we ever not talking about adolescent psychology?
“…so that’s why teaching them how to adjust their mic volume is essential. That’s called student voice training.”
The chat remains empty.
By Minute 68, someone tries to end the meeting:
“Any more questions? I hope we’ve—I’ve?—given you enough details and enough information and enough stuff from the laws that you are armed with all the information you need—”
But like in all tragic comedies, hope is a false ending.
He continues for six more minutes.
Only at One Hour, and 14 Minutes do we feel something like release. Like purgatory has ended not because we were saved, but because someone above forgot we were still there and unplugged the server.
The screen goes black.
No one says goodbye.
There is no follow-up email.
Only the fading ghost of a digital dove, perched eternally on a pixelated branch.
- One Hour, and 14 Minutes - July 10, 2026
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