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Timothy Reynolds was one of the invisible masses. You know the type – he worked a dead end job deep in the basement mailroom of a major corporation that didn’t even know he existed. The mailroom didn’t have any windows, the only air came in from the building’s central air conditioning and it smelled stale and old when it got there. The harsh fluorescent lighting in the mailroom didn’t help his outlook much either. Is it any wonder why he felt depressed and suffered from chronic headaches and a plethora of other aches and pains?

Coming home for Timothy was no reprieve from his tedious, dreary work life. Timothy would come home every night to a tiny efficiency apartment. Furnished with sparse second-hand furniture, he had carved out a meek and humble existence. He would take out a frozen TV dinner, pop it in the old microwave oven he had, and then sit down to eat his dinner in front of the only real luxury he possessed, a small color TV. The only one he had to share his pedestrian life with was his pet goldfish, Sylvia, who lived in her own little fishbowl.

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