Stepping off the elevator, the smell of microwave popcorn hangs thick in the air, recycled for hours by the so-called HVAC system. Eventually the entire floor reeks of Orville Redenbocker. Each arriving elevator opens to capture a few cubic yards of popcorn air and take it on a journey up or down to share with other floors in the building. Until finally, in a day or so, the smell will dissipate.
The source of the smell can be traced to the microwave in the breakroom, the underbelly of the law firm. A gritty, filthy, behind-the-scenes hangout for support staff.
This is the office of our biggest client. I’ve been coming here off and on, but mostly on, for the past eleven years. Employed by four different messenger companies over that span. My paychecks have changed, at least the return address printed on them has changed although my net pay has stayed the same.
In eleven years I’ve seen numerous receptionists come and go, countless legal secretaries as well as support staff and mailroom employees. Attorneys come and go too, but that does not affect me. A rookie in receiving or a temp at the front desk, those are the people that really affect me.
I’ve seen the office remodeled once. I saw the dot com boom. I saw big tobacco litigation. I’ve seen a few things in the legal messenger world. These people have seen me, the old-timers here know my name and say hello. I say hello back and sometimes I smile. One day years ago it was cold and raining and someone invited me into the break room for coffee and it has since become part of my routine.
The coffee here is bad, but it’s free. And free is free. It’s Folgers in individually wrapped filter packs. No measuring. No mess. You just toss one in and press the red button. I don’t actually work here and I think I’m the only person that drinks this shit, except maybe James in office services.
I prefer to drink my coffee from light colored mugs so I can see what I’m drinking. But today my choices are limited so I’m using a dark blue pharmaceutical company mug and gazing up at the ceiling.
Fluorescent lights behind large plastic panels among acoustic tiles in a drop ceiling give everyone and everything here a sickly pale sheen. The lights give off an audible hum that nobody notices. This hum paired with the drone of the ventilation system creates a dull white noise that forms the background to a workday filled with beeps, chirps, squeals, whines, murmurs and buzzes. Computers, phones, printers, copiers and elevator bells. Muffled conversations among the workers blend together. Inane chit chat and jibber jabber. Some say ten percent of the workday is spent on personal matters. But I think ten percent or less of the workday is actually work, the rest is personal shit. I’m not sure what these people do for 8 hours.
A large round table dominates the room with mismatched chairs scattered around. All of them cast off from the conference room or various offices. When an attorney gets a new chair their old one is adopted by a secretary or paralegal. And the hand-me-down trickle down continues on. A chair that nobody wants ends up here in the break room. There is a sizable magazine collection, heavily weighted to women’s fashion, home decor and Hollywood gossip, with a few outliers being golf and fly fishing.
Taped to the microwave is a sign that reads COVER FOODS COOKING MICROWAVE This sign bothers me, as I continually read it, rearranging the words in my mind. I imagine the author’s voice and motivation. Was it carelessness, or their sense of humor? Their choice of fonts was all wrong and the way they chose to tape across the corners instead of creating neat tape loops on the back of the sign. Rumpled and splattered with various liquids, this sign should be replaced. But it’s been there for years and I’m just visiting.
The refrigerator is the unofficial bulletin board for the office and features flyers about a blood drive, a lunchtime concert series from last summer and a memo about the company holiday party. I haven’t ever opened the fridge and do not plan on it. By the time left over food is that left over, I’m not interested.
The floor is covered in industrial strength linoleum squares, as boring as a government job. The hallway just outside features brown low-profile carpet, crushed down, years past its prime, traffic patterns clearly visible, threadbare in spots. I imagine the worn out carpet being mentioned at a staff meeting and the office manager laughing and changing the subject. Then one day I overheard her telling the receptionist that they’d already signed a lease on office space in a South Lake Union spot. So the lame ass ugly old carpet is the least of her worries.
Add Comment