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OFFICE.
[AVAILABLE SINCE: 16 JUNE, 1999]
Today I was reminded why I quit my office job. I
was on a freelance job at the shiny-on-the-outside, beige on-the-inside
corporate offices of a large media company (large media companies
can often be identified by the strict front desk security and
the wall of televisions in the lobby playing all types of exciting
"media"). Aside from all of the slightly annoying trappings
of freelancing in a new building -- no computer, no desktop coke
mirrors, and a chair that has adjustable height controls that
confuse me into the sort of violence history books record -- this
office was filled with "office workers."
There are some people who are built for offices. They appreciate
the finer points of life, such as new mousepads and holiday cookies
at reception ("dear office staff: please thank Kathy for
the wonderful blondie bars"). They fill their bellies with
Cremora and they fill their pockets with corporate swag (pens,
keychains, sunglasses straps, etc.) procured from trade shows
and unexplained open cardboard boxes left in the middle of the
office.
Not every individual falls neatly into this (cardboard) box.
To rage against the machine would be hypocritical, exhausting
and short-sighted. Some of my best friends work for huge anonymous
companies! This i know. But there is a quiet, underground office
subculture, particularly in the 500+ employees variety of companies.
People who were forgotten somehow, whose names only surface during
monthly "employee birthdays" emails, etc. These are
the people for whom MINESWEEPER was developed. (Microsoft's prescience
is often marvelous.) They pretty much hide under their desks,
come out occasionally to fiddle around with the Xerox machine
or collect a paycheck, and then retire without fanfare. Or kill
everyone in the office. (with some fanfare, understandably.)
Today I was enjoying a nice long pee (i spent a very long time
thinking about another word to use there. urination seemed too
formalized and long. everything else seemed too vulgar. i'm sorry
if pee seems too insipid. secretion? that sounds like a venereal
disease. see what i mean?) in the men's bathroom on the 10th floor
of this media company. It was nice to use a "urinal",
as they called it. While I was peeing, i heard someone step out
of a bathroom stall, and head over to a sink (all of this was
occurring behind my back, mind you). The sink begins running.
it runs for a while, much longer than a standard post-evacuation
scrubbing. It runs for the length of my pee -- a pee which was
fortified by three 16 oz. bottles of water and an Orangina --
and begins to make me uncomfortable. Since my back is to the sink,
I can't figure out if I'm being made uncomfortable by a second
party -- if there is a sort of purposeful distraction in this
running water -- or if, as usual, I am simply making myself uncomfortable
with my own supercharged anxiety. Eventually I decide someone
must have left the water running -- animal! -- because it was
the only way I could explain the continuously running water.
After the long pee (elapsed time 2 hours, 13 minutes), I notice
that the water is running because Stall Man is still washing his
soft paws. In fact, he's hunched over the sink, his tie flipped
up over his shoulder (a gesture of intelligence and experience
which must have a pathetic story attached), and his hands appear
to be two giant lather hives. He is washing each finger, one knuckle
joint at a time, in rich, pink corporate soft-soap. I give my
hands the once-over and actually spend less time than usual doing
so, hoping to inspire a lesson or at least express, through physical
demonstration, my curiosity and disgust for Stall Man. He continues
to wash, his passion for hygiene unabated by my presence or example.
Each knuckle lovingly bathed in rich foam, then rinsed free of
residue and germs. I left Stall Man there. He made me feel incredibly
conflicted emotionally. I was sad for him, but I wanted to relieve
my sadness (and, hopefully, his) by beating him to death with
the hand dryer.
So, today I was reminded why I quit my office job. Not to avoid
creeps like Stall Man; but because in just a couple of days freelancing
at this media company, with my unrelenting obsessing over the
personal habits of my co-workers, I was already becoming Stall
Man.
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