A long table. A wrinkled white tablecloth. Trendy eyeglasses. A smile.

7:30. Early morning. Central Tel Aviv.

I’m a visitor.

An interloper.

I registered a day before, paid my fee – my name is not on the list. A minor inconvenience. I click on the email, tilt my phone screen, a form of validation.

‘What would you like it to say on your name tag?’ he asks.

I begin listing my credentials.

‘Content creator,’ he decides – not me.

I sip my strong coffee, the flimsy paper cup barely containing the liquid, warming my fingertips. I step into the room. It is very bright – the kind of brightness found in operating theaters.

No clocks. Recycled air. Constant visibility.

Immediately, I am approached. Their eyes scan my tag – my job title becomes my name.

The woman dismisses me, moving on to the next person entering.

The young man stays.

‘Hi, how are you? Content creator? Nice.’

‘Yes.’ I straighten, then deliberately relax my posture – you’re comfortable here, my body is meant to project.

‘I’m a chartered surveyor,’ he says. Easy smile.

I smile back. I’ve never spoken to one. ‘What is it they do? They come into your house, inspect the property, and give an estimate. That’s it, right?’ I say none of this.

‘Is there an art to what you do?’ I do say. ‘Can you manipulate the numbers? Do you get interesting cases – something not cut and dry?’

What am I doing? This poor guy. So condescending – as if sitting at my computer at home, writing, wrestling with blank pages that judge me, is the essence of life.

A woman approaches him. Thank God.

‘We need more chairs,’ she says. He nods and leaves.

I scan the room. The long rectangular tables are arranged in a U-shape.

White chairs. A large screen. Plastic flowers in plastic vases.

You can only sit where a visitor card is placed.

I place my bag on a seat.

‘It’s taken,’ I hear from the left. I don’t look up. Too many unfamiliar faces. It takes time to bring them into focus.

Eyes down, I move my bag. I take out my computer. Notes. Impressions. Thoughts.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ I hear. Every person in the room takes a seat, an automatic response.

‘I’m not just the MC,’ she continues after a calculated pause, ‘but also a member.’ It reminds me of commercials for toupées.

She is young, comfortable with the attention. Hair slicked back. Skirt a bit too tight.

‘We each get thirty seconds to introduce ourselves.’ She points to a woman seated beside her. ‘I’m an interior designer.’ She smiles.

‘And I’m a physical therapist,’ the other woman replies as she stands.

They’ve done this before – like a vaudeville act.

‘I control the bell.’ The physical therapist taps it – a silver, half-round restaurant bell.

Ping.

I straighten.

I’m attuned to this shrill sound from my time in the service industry. Back then, I longed to be on the other side – a paying customer, not the paid servant – part of the machine that manufactures a good time. But even though my bartending days are over, that ring still chases me to every restaurant, bar, café.

Certain sounds are forever programmed in us. Like a siren.

Emerging out of the white noise, it sounds at a traffic light, while we wait not so patiently for the red light to change. In between bites at home, in the pause between ideas, while tucking in our children, willing them to relax – because we are not.

Always lurking. Our ears are trained to pick up the shift – that elongated tune that starts off as a hiss, until the final up and down, up and down melody. Our national anthem.

The bell and the siren.

There is no returning to silence once you’ve heard the first siren, the first ring of a bell.

Ping.

A practiced laugh from the crowd follows.

I type on my computer ‘bell vs. siren’ while looking for the designated bomb shelter sign, the red arrow printed on it calming me.

One by one, they stand. Some walk to the center, rehearsed confidence in their steps. Others remain at their seats. Chairs scrape back. Hands clutching printed notes. A woman in the corner throws comments. Sometimes she draws a laugh; mostly she doesn’t.

They introduce themselves, their job titles – a weekly ritual.

For us, the visitors, potential customers.

For them, the steady reduction of a life’s occupation into a pitch. Adjusted, refined, optimized. Life reduced to a line. What’s in a vocation?

A lawyer hands out mock eviction notices as a scare tactic.

Ping.

A beautician advocates permanent makeup – her promise is to save time. I’m insulted yet forced to acknowledge the logic. I spent ten minutes this morning on mascara alone. Ping.

An AI specialist plays a generated video showing his creativity. Isn’t the purpose of AI to eliminate the need for an AI specialist?

Ping.

An accountant reminds us that most people have no pension. I’m a freelancer – it depresses me.

Ping.

Monitored personal stories. Fears. Intimidation. Converted into money transactions.

Ping.

My turn.

I’m sweating.

Why did I wear this stupid sweater?

I introduce myself, repeat my qualifications. What do I offer? I tell stories.

Do they find me lacking? I sneer inwardly. This cult – here purely for job opportunities. Where is the art? The raw interior?

Yet you’re the one struggling. Burdened. They do this actively. Strategically. Money. They make money. I like money.

Ping.

‘Don’t forget to also schedule one-on-one meetings,’ the MC says into the microphone after the last person introduces themselves.

Thirty people plus four different rotating visitors. Two hours here in this auditorium – coffee meetings outside in the real world on top of that – to get to know each other’s occupations better. This is full-time, not a hobby.

The divorce lawyer beside me murmurs remarks to her partner – a mortgage consultant. I read it on his card. That’s what the popular boy becomes. They snicker, yet participate.

I study their faces. I imagine drama, love, friction. None of it belongs here.

They sustain themselves – each is assigned a role.

A sex therapist sits on the welcome committee. A social media manager organizes the snacks. A man who owns a printing company vets newcomers.

A number appears in bold on the screen.

‘This is how much we’ve made – since September,’ the MC declares.

‘We,’ she addresses them.

‘Us,’ not you yet, is implied to us.

‘Don’t be passive. Go to your WhatsApp. See who you haven’t contacted. Ask them: ‘Do you need a lawyer? I have one. A sex therapist? A coach? I have one for you.’

This is not a suggestion. It will be tallied by the end of the session.

She lists their occupations again and what they still need – mostly manual labor. A plumber. A gardener. An electrician. High-value commodities in a high-tech world.

A plastic trophy is passed around the room.

Each person holds cards – one for each referral they made this week.

One by one they announce the name, the shekel amounts they earned, and their referrals while dropping the cards into the mouth of the trophy.

The bell is gone. Now they clap.

And clap.

Even for those who only scheduled one coffee meeting. They don’t discriminate.

The trophy skips me.

For two hours, I measure my worth by the money I can generate.

The sex therapist’s husband stands up and proudly reports that her income has quadrupled because of the group.

I feel a sudden hunger for money. Because then I will be content. Relaxed. Secure.

Or maybe this is what happens when life outside is saturated with threat – bombs, Iran, the collapse of us as a state and as a body.

This fluorescent-lit space is where nothing leaks in.

Where money becomes a rope – a way out of what waits beyond the room.