The Office Chronicles

Have you ever been moved? Not like a department move, but just you. Maybe for a lighting or noise issue, maybe for a problem neighbor issue, or maybe you just thought the grass was greener over the cubicle wall.

Thing is though, that there is no happy cubicle. It’s a paradox. For example, I recently moved (not for this reason) from one cubicle with a radio-playing neighbor (something I think there should be office laws against) to another with a new radio-playing neighbor. I have a fan, which helps but makes me need a sweater in August.

Anyway, back to the cubicle-moving experience itself. Here’s my gripe: I can’t count the number of times people have stopped by to ask me how I like my new cube. Nice, on the one hand, I suppose, but relentlessly annoying on the other.

It’s a freekin’ cubicle, not a new house. It’s the same design, the same gray carpeted cubicle walls, the same gray steel overhead cabinet, the same fluorescent lights, the same chair, the same phone, the same, same, same and more of the same.

It makes Sunny D want to scream, “I love it, you moron. I’ve never been happier. It’s green and blue and sounds like the ocean at night and smells like freshly mowed grass and I’m going to plant a garden in the corner and I’m going to bring my butterfly net…….to capture you and lock you in the fucking closet for being so daft.”

But thanks for asking, I mean it. Now get the hell away from me before I catch whatever it is that you have.

There was a man in the house, and it seemed good. — Picnic, 1955

A boy would come around. They’d compare their travels to Europe, mostly. She was single, he was married. Odd, eh? NOT.

One day, he showed up at lunchtime. With a white sheet blanket and a picnic basket. I sat across the 4-foot-wide hall from her. I watched in awe as he laid the white blanket out in the middle of the hall. And then wine glasses and a sparkling something. Followed by olives and cheese and bread in little containers.

They sat down in the middle of this spot in the hall and began to chat and eat. They clinked glasses to start and, by the end, he was laying on his side with his palm against his head like a 15-year-old boy in a field of love.

They saw me looking at them, but they didn’t seem to care. So I pointed my chair at them, leaned back and just stared. 30 minutes out of my day. But it had to be done. Time well spent? Of course not. But I couldn’t ignore them and I couldn’t leave. They’d win. Something.

They didn’t blink or look or move or ask or think or speak to me or apologize or offer to move to a conference room or..NOTHIN.

I listened to their conversation. He couldn’t travel as much as he liked to anymore, because his wife didn’t like to leave the kids. His wife didn’t like this, she didn’t like that. Picnic gal loved everything and giggled. I shook my head a few times in futile disgust.

They never offered me so much as a bread crumb or an olive pit.

To this day, I have no explanation. How does something like this happen? Why does something like this happen? All I can remotely come up with is that she was the secretary to an HR Director. 

I applaud your efforts to maintain good hygiene. I truly do. I like to see men taking care of themselves. I especially like to see well-groomed nose hair.

But it is a little disturbing for me, as your neighbor, to listen to your personal morning routine. The buzz of the electric razor, the splashing of after-shave, the nail clipping (how fast do your nails grow, by the way?), the aerosol (I don’t know what body part you’re spraying), something that’s I hope is an electric toothbrush, and then the gargling and spitting.

You may not know this, but most folks do these sorts of things in the privacy of their own bathrooms.

Rumor has it that you’re recently divorced and temporarily staying at a friend’s house. The gossipers seem to think that using your office space as a bathroom is acceptable under these circumstances.

“Aw, give him a break. He’s sort of homeless.”

I do not understand this giving of breaks. I think you’re a freak. Your friend has no bathroom? Even if you have to share one bathroom, I’m sure it could work.

Or, better yet, there are bathrooms here at work! Oh, my gosh, you could use one of those!! How ingenious of me to think of that!

But, I’ve been around neighboring freaks long enough to know that if you knew how bothered I was by your freakish behavior, you’d figure out a way to start showering next door. Then I’d end up getting hit by the stray sprinkles and lose my mind.

I’ve worked here for three months. I’ve had minimal interaction with you in the workplace before your recent move into this cubicle neighborhood. What I’m trying to say is this: I don’t know you.

Therefore, interactions like the one we had today shouldn’t happen:

YOU: Did you hear my conversation on the telephone?

ME: No.

YOU: Good, I was trying to talk softly. I didn’t want anyone to hear what I was talking about. You didn’t hear, you’re sure, right?

ME: No.

YOU: Good. Because people really don’t need to know that I had sex last night finally after two years without any.

ME: (holding fingers in ears and singing the na na na song) I didn’t hear, and I don’t need to know this information.

YOU: HA HA HA HA. You’re so funny. It was incredible. I had forgotten how great sex is. He came over after work and…

And you kept talking. And I kept singing. And turned my chair around to face my monitor. And never looked at you again. And you didn’t stop until you were finished.

Now, I must say that a person can’t help but like you a little bit. You’re very personable. But here’s the thing: Shut the F-Heck up.

I hope you understand and appreciate your cooperation.

Now, go have happy sex and never, ever tell me about it again.

Sunny!

Sometimes contractors sit in rooms with other contractors. Sometimes we even get our own desks! And sometimes, our desks have a few inches of space between ours and the desk of our neighbor’s. 

But then there are the other times.

My desk was in the corner of the room up against the wall. I had a beautiful view of the wall, too. Or really a view of the whiteboard someone had hung on the wall. I never understood why, but I thought the person who had the desk before me may have requested it. It had been used a lot at one time because it had smudgy words all over it, which were barely legible now. I thought of it as art. I had to really. That or look for Canadian meds on the Internet.

Another desk was directly behind me in the other corner of the room. A mirror of a set up, but it was unoccupied while I was there.

The third desk originally faced the same wall as mine, but was almost to the door. Our views were exactly the same, just separated by a couple of prime feet of real estate. 

Then, he came. He was a traveling IBM Rational Administrator – if you know what that is, god bless, if you don’t, just count your blessings. 

He was as pretentious as they come but was from rural Louisiana and said “supposebly” and “enzyne”. (I don’t remember how enzyme came into a conversation – probably an Internet article discussion.). He moved to Northern Indiana when he got out of the military. He had bought a car and, after aimlessly driving for a day or two, ended up at a rest stop in Indiana, ate a sandwich (he literally told threw the sandwich into the story – I didn’t understand its significance, but there it is), looked around and thought it was so beautiful, he decided to stay. Ever been to Northern Indiana? Beautiful doesn’t really capture it, but hey, to each his own. 

He eventually married a woman there and has lived there ever since, while traveling the Midwest as a consultant on IT projects. Lucky me that our paths crossed for six grueling weeks in this room.

He moved desk #3 so he could sit with his back to me and face the door. I had to step over his trash can to get to my desk. I didn’t complain because it paled in comparison to the bigger problem.

He moved the desk, which had a left-side opening for his chair, up against the wall. When he sat down, his chair touched the right side of my desk. Touched isn’t the right word (for the chair anyway), because he was actually scrunched between his desk and mine. And mind you, there was nothing in front of his desk to prevent a move forward (and yes, I did ask…many many times).

Well, he was a leaner, so you can imagine where this is headed. I don’t know if he had been hit in the back of the head a lot, but he didn’t seem to have a problem with it. Hitting my desk with his chair was one thing, but hitting his head on my monitor another. Every time he made contact (which was damn near constant), he would jump a little, turn around with a look of surprise and say, “Oh. Sorry!” 

E-v-e-r-y- s-i-n-g-l-e t-i-m-e. 

While he was leaning, he made phone calls to his wife back at home that were extremely personal. I think they were newly married – older, both been married before. But, she had it tough. She couldn’t do much on her own and called crying a lot. She would also pick fights with him, but it sounded to me like they were just more opportunities to end up in a possible cry. He’d say, “I don’t know what to do. Please stop crying. I miss you too, so very much. I love you with all my heart.” And she’d be fine for thirty minutes or so. 

He typed emails to her all the time (remember his monitor is almost as close to me as mine). Did I read them? Hell, yeah, I read them. You put it in my face, I’m going to read it. Besides, he used a font taller than he was. 

And they always started with “My Heart” and talked about his role as spiritual guide in the family and how he must make sacrifices as Christ did and how he strived to be a teacher and example to her every day. 

Yea, he’s the example. Here’s a thought, you freak: USE A SMALLER FONT.

Okay, all this aside. Here it comes. The worst part was when these phone calls turned sexual. This one sticks in my head to this day: 

“Really? You should’ve woken me up”. “I can’t wait to come home and hold you in my arms”. “I miss you so much, but we only have three hours.” “I know! The poor dog last night.”

Ga’ROSS, right? But, here’s the kicker, after these types of talks, he went to the bathroom. 

E-v-e-r-y- s-i-n-g-l-e t-i-m-e. 

Him, water pistol cocked, racing to climb over his own chair, with hands on his desk and mine to balance himself, to exit lickety split. Then repeating the process when he returned so he could shoot off an email to her about what she’d done to him. 

The thought of it now still gives me the willies.

 
I think I’d like my first post to be about a weirdo I still refer to as Southside Stupid. If only he knew about the hours of entertainment he’s provided me in passing along his story.

Southside Stupid is from the southside of Indianapolis. I know this, and shouldn’t, because he talked so proudly about his area’s school system (funny, they’re open to any kid who lives nearby), his neighborhood (full of above-ground pools and stray dogs), his disdain for anything northside, and the new mall (always a source of pride on the southside).

He sat across from me and played a radio all day every day at a volume level that was like a low-frequency hum. All day. Every day. Talk radio. I couldn’t understand a word. Just the hum. And a few moments of what I thought was laughter or music or commercials, but I couldn’t be sure. It really was just sporadic scratching or gurgling or braking.

I asked him if he could turn it down. Over. And. Over. I asked him if he might be willing to try headphones. Over. And. Over. He finally said he wasn’t going to spend the money on headphones. I asked him I could bring him a pair of headphones. He stared at me. I’m not sure he understood my offer.

I knew I’d been beaten when, in our last conversation – more accurately called my pleading session – he said, “Offices are full of people and noises. We just have to learn to live with them.” I’m not sure when a radio became office equipment, but whatever. I could do no more. (Besides at this time, a friend of his who sat next to him decided to teach me a lesson and started playing a CD at full volume. Little did he know that this was fine with me. It was the hum, but I couldn’t make anyone understand that to save my life.)

And then, came the moment that changed my attitude towards him. Ol’ Southside arrived one morning with four band-aids on his face. Full-size band-aids. One across his forehead. One on his chin. One across his nose. One vertically down his cheek. When asked by co-workers, the story went something like this:

“I had to get up in the middle of the night. I was walking down the hall to the bathroom and I tripped over an extension cord and went flying down the hall across the carpet. I have rug burn all over my face.”

I’m not kidding.

Let’s count the errors, shall we?

1. Extension cord across the hall?
2. Flying? How fast would one have to be going down the hall to fly across the carpet?
3. A face landing? Why wouldn’t one at least turn one’s head?
4. Band-aids? Seriously?

After re-telling the story a few times to anyone who would listen, he must have forgotten that he was injured. Or maybe he was healed, because after lunch, he had taken the band-aids off. From my safe distance, I didn’t see any marks on him at all.

Ah, Southside. You mystery, you. Thanks for the memories!!