The Cubicle Next Door (10 page)

Posted on June 29 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Utopia now!

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | June 29 at 10:05 PM

Maybe the wish is also a part of who we are.

Posted by:
philosopie | June 30 at 11:51 AM

Wish I may, wish I might…be the CEO of the company. Then I’d fire the current one. That would be sweet.

Posted by:
onlyagofer | June 30 at 04:13 PM

Ten

T
wo weeks later, all the faculty had returned from vacation. And after that, the dreaded practice teaching sessions had begun. Or practice hazing, depending on your point of view. All the new instructors in the department taught a practice lesson. And the rest of the staff and faculty filled the classroom, pretending to be cadets. Afterward, we were supposed to give them feedback on how well they’d done.

It was kind of fun.

Our department taught in several permanently assigned rooms. It allowed the instructors to keep equipment in the closets and charts on the walls. The rooms were configured with long stretches of desks and swivel chairs attached to the floor.

The idea of practice teaching was to put some pressure on the new instructors so they could get a feel for classroom teaching. We all had assigned roles to play. The department deputy for personnel came in with his uniform on wrong. The colonel was carrying a cup of coffee. One of the civilian instructors was chewing gum. Another was reading a magazine.

Two of the military instructors were supposed to keep up a running conversation throughout the practice teaching session. Another would ask all kinds of stupid questions. Estelle even joined in, showing up late for class.

The trick was for the new instructors to notice and comment on all the bad behavior and still teach the lesson in the allotted time with good explanations and enough attention to detail and moderation in the voice to entice the class into paying attention. At least enough to keep them from falling asleep.

Military academy instructors don’t just have all the normal disruptions to handle, they also have rules such as “No food or drink in the classroom.” They have an “on time attendance or demerits” policy. Cadets must wear the uniform of the day properly or get a Form 10. Stuff like that.

As one of six new instructors, Joe was in the spotlight. And he was the instructor scheduled to teach first.

He ambled over to Colonel Webster, who was nursing his cup of coffee. “What’s that you’ve got there, Cadet Webster?”

“Coffee, sir.”

“Can I see that for a moment?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe took the mug from the colonel, walked to the door, opened it, and set the cup in the hall. Then he walked back to the front of the classroom. “You can pick it up on your way out.”

He scanned the rows of cadets for a moment, and then he picked up the trash can and walked down the aisles. He took the magazine from the civilian instructor, dropped it in the trash can, and then he walked over to the other civilian, held the trash can up in front of her while he clapped her on the back. “No gum.”

At that moment, Estelle walked into class late.

“Cadet Thompson, report in!”

Estelle shot him a confused glance and then turned and scurried right out the door.

Joe smiled. “Know why there are rules at this academy? Is there a purpose to all of this?”

There was complete silence in the room.

“Cadet Morris, what is the purpose of the fourth class system? Why are you condemned to life in purgatory when you’re a freshman?”

“Sir, the purpose of the Fourth Class System at the United States Air Force Academy is to lay the foundation early in the cadet’s career for the development of those qualities of character and discipline which will be expected of an officer. These qualities must be so deeply instilled in the individual’s personality that no stress or strain will erase them, sir!”

Lt. Col. Miller raised his hand.

“Cadet Miller?”

“How do you spell character? Is it with a ‘c’ or a ‘k’?”

“With a ‘c’ me after class.”

I was supposed to be the “staring off into space” cadet. And I was. Only the space I was staring into happened to be right in front of Joe.

The topic was premodern civilizations. And the way he taught it was interesting. I wish I’d had a history teacher like him in high school. He filled up most of the time with his lecture. He seemed perfectly at ease using PowerPoint slides. He was so at ease, in fact, that the end of the lecture caught everyone off guard.

“That’s all I’ve got. Any questions? Any comments?”

“Will any of this be on the exam?”

“Everything I say, everything in the book, and everything on the syllabus is exam fodder. Any other questions?” He glared around the room. Dared anyone to raise a hand.

No one did. His practice session was officially over. Joe walked over and slouched into a seat behind mine.

The only comment came from another new instructor. A civilian who used to teach at West Point. “In a situation where a cadet brings coffee into the classroom or chews gum, wouldn’t a Form 10 be appropriate?”

“Leadership by Form 10?” Joe didn’t bother to keep the scorn out of his voice. “That sure worked well when I was a cadet.”

Colonel Webster stood up and cleared his throat. “Yes, a Form 10
can be
given for violations like those, but we usually prefer to save them for gross violations of the rules. Skipping class, being out of uniform, belligerence, that sort of thing. Captain Finney? You’re up.”

Captain Finney stood up. Grabbed a sheaf of papers and walked to the front of the room. His eyes darted around the class. “Um…Colonel—Cadet Webster, what is the rule about food and drink in the classroom.”

“I missed breakfast.”

“That may be the case, but you’re not allowed to drink coffee here.”

“I stayed up all night working on a paper. If I don’t have caffeine, I’m going to fall asleep.”

Captain Finney’s eyes took another quick tour of the room, and then they suddenly fixated on a spot just behind my left shoulder.

I turned around and saw Joe making broad sweeps with his head toward the back of the room.

The captain’s face brightened. “Oh, yeah. Sir, if you think you’re going to fall asleep, then just stand up at the back of the room.”

Poor kid.

He was so relieved to have taken care of the colonel he forgot to chasten the deputy about wearing his hat inside, or Estelle for coming in late. I think the chatterers felt sorry for him because they stopped talking. And I saw the bubble-blower swallow her gum.

The captain lurched through the PowerPoint slides, read verbatim through his notes, and otherwise gave a poor performance.

Next up was a major. He came down hard on everyone. But you could tell he’d put a lot of time into the presentation; he sounded as though he was reciting a speech.

Colonel Webster raised his hand.

“We’ll save questions until the end of the period, Cadet Webster.”

I had propped my head on my left hand and was staring off into space when I felt something wet ping my cheek. I saw it drop to the desk. I looked down.

A spit wad.

I was turning my head around to look over my shoulder when another one zinged off my nose.

I turned all the way around.

Joe was grinning at me.

“Cadet Harrison, is there a problem?”

I turned around to face the instructor. “No, sir.” But there would be later.

The last person that morning was the new civilian instructor, the one who had taught at West Point. You’d think she would have known what to expect. But then, she’d never had Joe in her class before.

Halfway into her lecture, a crumpled ball of paper landed by my right elbow.

I’d been falling asleep, and I blinked.

Sat up.

Looked behind me.

Joe was gesturing with his hand for me to open it up.

So I did.

“Dear Jackie, do you like me? Check one.” He’d drawn little checkboxes next to the choices. “No. Just as a friend. A little. Yes. Alot.”

Hadn’t he learned anything from spell-checker?

I heard a tap-tap-tap of shoes and looked up from the note to find Ms. West Point standing in front of me. She took the note from my hands.

“Why don’t we share this with the rest of the class? ‘Dear Jackie, do you like me?’” She faltered. Glanced at me. Frowned at Joe. Tried to figure out where to go from there.

I was blushing.

She was floundering.

Joe was grinning like a maniac.

The rest of the class was laughing.

It was as if I were reliving my worst junior high school memories. Even way back then, the people I had spent most of my day with had laughed at me. I’d been a target. But I had also learned to move with a purpose.

Moving with a purpose.

It became the story of my life. As long as I was doing something or going somewhere, I was a moving target and my peers at school were unlikely to focus on me. Unlikely to single me out from the crowd to pick on. I had found a group of kids as odd as I was. We sat together at lunch. Sat next to each other in classes. Tried to exert the minimum effort in phys. ed. We didn’t experience life together as much as we experienced it alongside each other. We each did our own thing, in the same general area, at the same general time. Which was a very roundabout way of saying I was a geek.

Am a geek. Not just a technie, but a real nerd. With a geeky job. Wearing geeky clothes.

Thanks, Joe, for reminding me
.

With Ms. West Point looking on, I slipped into my old habits, slid out of my chair, and left the room. Kept on walking.

“Jackie?”

I turned. Saw Joe standing in the doorway. “Thanks a lot! And by the way, it’s spelled separately. A. Lot.” I would have yelled more, but I was having logistical problems. It was hard to yell at someone you were trying to get away from.

He had one more thing to say before I turned the corner. “I was just kidding. Haven’t you ever gotten a love note before?”

I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt like crying.

I stalked down the hall and then climbed the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Took them two at a time. When I got to my desk I slouched into my seat and started running reports on the network.

Joe came in half an hour later. I heard him toss his bag into the corner. Then I heard him stand on his desk. Watched his head and shoulders emerge from his side of the cubicle. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to be funny.”

“You weren’t.”

“I know. You’ve probably gotten notes that were much more romantic. I should have taken more time. Thought of something really good to say. Maybe…Roses are red, violets are blue…”

“Just…leave it. I’m fine. It’s over.”

“Okay. Roses are red, violets are blue, Jackie’s a wet blanket and a spoilsport too.” He stuck his lower lip out and blinked puppy dog eyes at me.

“Now
you’re
sulking? Because
you
made fun of
me?
”

“No.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are so! I can’t believe this.”

“I was just having fun.”

“At my expense. It might have been nothing to you. You get laughed at every day. I don’t.”

“
I
laugh at you…”

I glared up at him.

He stared right back at me. “Because of you…” He grinned. “Lighten up. It’s not every day you get a love note from someone like me!” He disappeared before I could respond.

But he wasn’t too far off. It wasn’t every day. It wasn’t even every year. Joe’s love note had been my first. And all I wished I could do was wad it into a ball and throw it at his head.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Disregard

Casual disregard of other people has become endemic in America. It’s practically the defining motif of our culture. Particularly in the workplace. Disregard of people’s privacy has led to the proliferation of cubicle farms. Disregard of people’s job descriptions has led to poor task distribution. Disregard of people’s dignity has led to micromanagement. Disregard of people’s feelings has led to emotional isolation. No wonder no one likes being at work anymore.

Posted on July 17 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Exactly why I choose to work for myself.

Posted by:
philosophie | July 18 at 01:19 PM

I’m only working until I find a job I don’t have to work at.

Posted by:
mustsurftolive | July 18 at 03:51 PM

A little R-E-S-P-E-C-T would go a long way.

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | July 19 at 08:47 AM

Eleven

S
everal weeks later I rolled out of bed, took a shower, pulled on a red T-shirt and jeans, and laced up the flaming low-tops.

Saturday was my day at the store and Grandmother’s day to get things accomplished.

I had no idea what things there were to be accomplished and there was never much evidence of accomplishment, but she deserved every break I could give her.

I walked out the front door and headed for town. I passed a dozen turn-of-the-century houses, some built entirely of wood with curlicue trim and wide front porches. Others had been set atop foundations of the area’s iron-stained stones. Some of them were painted in crazy color combinations of pinks, purples, and yellows. Others in more sober dark blue, spruce green, or gray.

Many had large expanses of lawn fronting them. Even the least and smallest had a few large hulking trees. From this vantage point, I might have been living in Ohio or Illinois.

But if I raised my eyes to the horizon, I could see the other side of Manitou Springs. The side that edged up to the Garden of the Gods. And it was a view of a completely different world. One where trees had been reduced to midget size. A world gone Martian red, where ’70s-era dwellings had been strewn amid the house-sized boulders.