The Cubicle Next Door (3 page)

“No, but we don’t need them.”

“Sure we do.”

“No, we don’t. Technically, you don’t
need
a straw or a lid to drink from a cup. You only think you do.”

“It’s easier.”

“It’s lazier. If you can bring yourself to raise the cup all the way to your mouth, then the environment wins. Do you know how many straws Americans use and throw away each year? It’d be one thing if they were biodegradable, but most restaurants don’t buy that kind.”

“What would a straw have to be made of to be biodegradable?”

“Potato starch and corn starch.”

He stood there looking at me for a moment. “That’s just gross. And you’re strange.” He slid back toward the straw dispenser. “But I’m putting them back, see? Everything’s going to be okay. You do realize that even if I don’t use this straw, somebody else will. In the big picture of all the straws in America…”

“If you save a hundred straws a year and I save a hundred straws a year…”

“Then that’s only two hundred straws. There are still millions left over.”

“But the point is, you don’t need one and I don’t need one. And a huge straw industry has convinced us all that we do.”

“You’re not really a communist, are you? You’re one of those conspiracy theory people.”

“I’m one of those environmental people.”

“Are you sure? Because those people drive me crazy.”

“Don’t worry. You can be reformed.”

“Don’t count on it.”

We returned to the large dining area. Joe steered us toward a table in the middle of the room. “This okay?”

I nodded. If I were choosing, I’d select one of the small tables in the back corner. But normally I never ate lunch out. Today, for instance, I had a perfectly good grilled chicken breast and a container of tab-bouleh waiting for me in the department refrigerator.

Joe grinned at me before attacking the first of his tacos. After he was finished, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, collected stray pieces of cheese and lettuce, and wrapped them into the next one. “So. Tell me about you.”

“You already know my name.”

“But I don’t know…what you’re really good at doing.”

“Anything with computers. I’m a geek.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I can make crepes.”

“So you’re a good person to know if my computer ever gets disabled by a hungry Frenchman.”

I smiled. Just to be polite. Took a drink.

“Tell me something you’re not good at.”

“Making snowflakes.” I cannot now, nor have I ever been able to, make snowflakes. The ones you fold and cut with scissors in preschool. I have visions in my head of beautiful, geometric, shimmering flakes. But when I unfold my creations, they fall apart. Literally. “And I can’t cut my own hair.” It’s amazing how often I forget.

Right now, my black hair had been cut in a Christiane Amanpour I-have-better-things-to-do-than-fool-with-my-hair wedge. It dries by itself and mostly falls into place. Sometimes when my hair gets shaggy and if I know I’m going to be crawling on the floor stringing cables around the department, I put it up in ponytails. I save the rubber bands that hold bunches of herbs together in the grocery store. Most of the time they’re blue. Most of the time I wear jeans. I figure everything matches well enough.

“Neither can I.”

“So…you’re a pilot, right?”

“I hope so.”

“Then why are you here? What did you do? Wreck a plane?”

As he looked at me, his eyes went dark. “Wrecked my head. I started getting migraines. Haven’t had one in two months, but I still have twenty-two months left until they’ll consider putting me back on flight status.”

Migraines? I doubted it. Lots of people said they had migraines and didn’t really know what they were talking about. But I did. “Are you okay?”

“Just peachy…or I will be when I can start flying again.” He tried to smile. “How long have you been working here?”

“Ten years. And I would really like to have the rest of my office back, but I’ll let you stay on one condition.”

He froze mid-chew and asked the question with his eyebrows.

“I’m the department’s systems administrator. When you’re working on your computer, could you not eat or drink at your desk?”

He swallowed the taco. Drank half of his liter of Coke. Smiled. “Sure.”

Sure
. That’s what they all said.

“If you can do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“In the morning, first thing, I like a strong cup of coffee. No milk or sugar. But it’s got to be hot. I usually try to get to work around seven.”

It was only the twinkle in his eye that kept me from flipping the contents of his tray onto his lap.

“Come on, Jackie. I’m not a cadet. I know how to take care of a computer. Relax. I’ll be your best customer and your biggest fan. Trust me.”

If only I’d known.

After lunch, I got him up and running on the network. Showed him all the important department folders, such as the events calendar which no one ever bothered to look at, and the FYI folder holding “important” information dating back to 1995.

“In case I might want to…?”

“…sign up for the 1995 First Annual Christmas Potluck?”

“Good idea. What should I bring?”

“Squeeze cheese?”

He glanced from the computer screen up to my eyes. “Squeeze cheese.” His eyes flicked again to the computer screen. “No problem. It’s my favorite. I’ll bring two.”

It’s my favorite too. Not that I’d ever tell anyone.

I also like Bugles.

“Need anything else?”

“Nope.” He was navigating his way through the department website. Clicking at a fast enough rate to make me dizzy.

“If you need anything—” I slipped away behind the wall and into my own cubicle. Immersed myself in work. If nothing else, he made for a quiet cubicle mate.

Several hours later, I almost jumped out of my skin when he poked his head around the wall.

“I’m heading out. You leaving?”

I shook my head, looking back toward the monitor.

“What’s wrong?”

“Still backing up the system.”

“Oh. Well, see you next week.”

Next week? It was only Monday. I turned to look at him across my shoulder.

“I’m still on leave. House hunting.”

Oh. “Good luck.”

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Sad day on the cubicle farm

My office for one has been turned into cubicles for two. Of all the indignities of modern life, this is one of the worst. Not only have I been subjected to life contained between fake, padded “walls,” not only has the original poorly designed air circulation system been blocked by those “walls,” not only do I have to freeze in the winter and broil in the summer from the blockage, but now I also have to do it in the presence of someone else. And in a bizarre mathematical equation, dividing the space in two has made the injustice twice as bad.

The only appeal I have is to Che Guevara, champion of the oppressed and powerless masses. I have to wonder how my boss would look upon such an austere work environment. Whether or not, in fact,
he’d
like life as one of the proletariat. Office space should be allotted on the basis of who does the most work.

My new cubicle mate is not a bad guy, but he’s not good either. Let’s call him “John Smith.” He’s one of those types I’ve always secretly despised. One of those guys who’s done such a good job of figuring life out that he wants to do it for everyone else too. Tall, confident. Good-looking. To some people, maybe.

Posted on June 5 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Amen, sister. Workers of the world, unite!

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | June 5 at 08:09 PM

Not as bad as it might have been.

Posted by:
philosophie | June 5 at 07:30 AM

Three

J
oe cruised into work the next Monday with a large paper bag trailing cinnamon roll fumes and a superlarge cup of coffee.

He stopped suddenly, midway between our cubicles, and sent a raised eyebrow greeting as he held the paper bag between his teeth and the coffee in a hand while he zipped and unzipped various pockets on his flight suit.

“Ants in your pants? Oops, I forgot. My mistake. You’re still wearing your pajamas.”

He set the paper bag down on my desk. “Ha-ha.” He wore a look of both offense and condescension. “These are not pajamas. I happen to be wearing my purse.”

My lips turned up at the corners. I couldn’t help myself; it was too early in the morning to exert the required level of self-control. To call the flight suit a uniform is a misnomer. Uniform implies that a person needs to exhibit some sort of grooming in order to wear it. Flight suits are the military equivalent of sweat suits. They never have to be ironed, never have to be starched. You could hypothetically just roll out of bed, hop into one, and zip it up. They look like something a garbage collector would wear. An olive green coverall garment with elastic at the back of the waist meant to protect whatever is worn underneath. In fact, pilots call the suits “bags.”

And they are in every sense of the word.

When Joe said he was wearing his purse, he wasn’t kidding. There are pockets of assorted sizes running up and down the suit. Pockets on the arms, on the chest, on the legs. People hide their hats in there. Pens, pencils, wallets.

“I hate to tell you this, Joe, but it’s summer. You might want to change purses. I’m thinking white. Then you could moonlight as a hazardous waste collector.”

He sent a half smile in my direction before he rounded the cubicle wall into his office. I heard the paper bag thunk down onto his desk.

“I know you’re not opening that bag anywhere near the computer.”

“Yours or mine?”

You know, it’s pretty disgusting to have to clean a keyboard. If people ever bothered to do it themselves, then I could almost guarantee they’d never eat hunched over their computer again.

If you really want to gross yourself out, take a computer mouse, the old kind with a tracking ball, open up the bottom and tap the ball into your hand. Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.

“Hey, your good luck wish worked. I found a house.”

“Where?”

“Manitou Springs.”

Luck or misfortune? Whatever it was, he had chosen my town to live in: Manitou Springs. With a population of 4500, we were practically neighbors.

“You can’t live in Manitou Springs!” In thinking about Joe, not that I had done it very often, I had pegged him as a Gleneagle or Black Forest kind of guy. Gleneagle, one of the more prestigious and pricey neighborhoods north of Colorado Springs, seemed just his style. I would have guessed he’d have bought into one of the proliferating townhome projects that kept sliding down the hill, ever-closer to the interstate.

I heard his fingers pause on his keyboard. They began typing again. “Why not?”

Because it’s my town! “Because.”

“You’re not my mother, so ‘because I said so’ is not an acceptable answer.”

“You’re not the type.”

“What? I’m not tall, dark, and handsome? No, wait. I am.”

“Manitou is eclectic. Artsy. It’s a very tight-knit community.” And I don’t want to have to worry I’ll run into you every time I turn a corner.

“Then I’ll just have to put on my beret and set up an easel in Memorial Park. Think I should buy a pipe too?”

“Not that kind of artsy. Hippie artsy.”

I heard his chair wheels cross the plastic floor mat and then squeak across the carpet. Joe stuck his head around the wall. “You’re talking tie-dye and Birkenstocks, not smoking jackets and Pavarotti?”

“Exactly. People who enjoy coffin races and public pajama parties and host festivals for professional bubble blowers. You don’t want to hang out with people like that.”

“Maybe I do…and maybe I don’t. But I have to do something with myself for the next two years until I can get back on flight status. And the house needs a lot of work. Don’t worry. I won’t crash your little party.”

Don’t worry? “But there’s all the New Age people, and crystal shops, and metaphysical bookstores. You don’t seem like you’re into that sort of thing.”

He looked at me, the twinkle absent from his eyes. “Listen, if I have to be here, then at least I can try to have some fun. Besides, in Manitou, I can stroll through the middle of town, which from my place I can actually walk to, and get a latte, buy a dulcimer, or talk to my neighborhood shaman. What could be better than that?”

“That’s it? That’s your reason?”

He smiled. The dimples flared. “And I like to hike.”

Okay. I could buy that. Divide was just up the road, and from there you could tramp, snowshoe, or cross-country ski in Mueller State Park.

His eyes were scanning my face. “So, am I in?”

“In what?”

“Your little club. Can I join the Residents of Manitou Springs, or is there some kind of probationary period?”

“You’re in. Just stop by Hazel’s Crystal Shop to pick up your broom. For ten bucks extra, you can get the wizard hat and cape set.”

“What is it with you guys, always trying to make another buck? I had to pay through the nose for the house, and then I found out ghosts weren’t even included.”

“They’re a dime a dozen in Manitou. In fact, here’s how you can pay off your mortgage. Just start advertising yourself as the only house in Manitou without a ghost. You’ll make a fortune.”

He winked at me and then rolled back into his cubicle. “Thanks for the tip.”

I worked through the morning in vague discomfort. I was sharing my office with Joe. Did I have to share my town with him too? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I wouldn’t run into him. Maybe I could wear headphones at work and dark sunglasses when I was at home. And maybe if I closed my eyes and moved into a bubble, I could pretend he didn’t exist.

As I was thinking all these thoughts, I had slouched down in my chair, rested my head on the back, and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Joe was grinning down at me. “Time for lunch.”