microwave popcorn
November 8, 2008
Stepping off the elevator, the smell of microwave popcorn hangs thick in the air, recycled for hours by the so-called ventilation system. Eventually the entire floor smells of Orville Redenbocker. Each arriving elevator opens to capture a few cubic yards of popcorn scented air and take it on 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 is the microwave in the break room, the underbelly of the law firm. A gritty, filthy behind the scenes location where the support staff hangs out. This is a place attorneys try to hide from clients, rushing them past the door on their way to the conference room, while the scrub support staffers are in here preparing coffee and muffin platters for them.
Attorneys are rarely seen here. They don’t take breaks they take 3 hour lunches. They take client meetings. They take depositions. The take extended vacations. Once in a while when they’re out of time, under the gun, up against a hard deadline, desperate attorneys will come in here looking for caffeine or sugar. But most of time they’ll walk to their favorite coffee shop and practice procrastinating. A practice they started back in law school.
This is the office of our biggest client, I’ve been coming here off and on, but mostly on, for the past 11 years. Employed by four different messenger companies over that span, my paychecks have changed, at least the return address on the checks has changed if my net pay hasn’t. In 11 years I’ve seen numerous receptionists come and go and countless legal secretaries, support staff and mail room employees. Attorneys come and go too but those shifts don’t affect me as much as a rookie in receiving or a temp at the front desk. I’ve seen the office remodeled once, I’ve seen the dot com boom, I’ve seen big tobacco litigation. I’ve seen a few things. And these people have seen me, the old timers here know my name and say hello I say hello back and smile. When it was cold and raining outside one day long ago they invited me into the break room for coffee and it has since become part of my daily 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 think I’m the only person here that drinks this stuff, except maybe James from Office Services. I prefer to drink my coffee from a light colored mug so I can see what I’m drinking, but choices are limited today so I’m drinking my Folgers from a dark blue pharmaceutical company mug and gazing up at the ceiling.
Florescent lights behind large plastic panels among acoustic tiles in the 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 create a dull white noise which is the background to a long work day filled with beeps, chirps, squeals, whines murmurs and buzzes. Computers, phones, fax machines, printers, copiers and elevator bells. Muffled conversations among the workers blend together. Sometimes the conversations actually concern work and phone calls and meetings in the conference room are punctuated by personal calls, chats on cell phones and long time-wasting chitchat about last night’s game, last night’s American Idol, or the new season of Survivor. They say ten percent of the work day is spent on personal matters. But it appears to me that ten percent of the work day is actually work, the rest is personal stuff. I’m not sure what these people actually do for 8 hours a day.
A large round table dominates the room with mismatched chairs scattered around. All of them castoffs from the conference room. When an attorney gets a new chair their old ones get adopted by secretaries or paralegals and the hand-me-down trickle down continues on. The chairs nobody wants end up here in the break room. There is a sizeable magazine collection that continues to grow, heavily weighted towards women’s fashion, home décor and Hollywood gossip, with a few outliers of fly fishing and golf.
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? And their choice of fonts and the way they chose to tape across the corners instead of creating neat tape loops on the back of the sign. Splattered with various liquids and rumpled, this sign should be replaced. But it’s been on 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 lunch time 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, a year or two past its prime, traffic patterns clearly visible, it’s threadbare in places. I imagine when the worn out carpet was mentioned at a staff meeting, the office manager laughed it off and quickly changed the subject. But in the break room one day I overheard her telling the receptionist that they’ve already signed a lease on office space in a new building near lake Union that’s still under construction, so this lame ass ugly old carpet is the least of her worries.
The break room occupies some unwanted real estate near the supply room and close to the photocopier. There are no windows here. The attorneys have offices around the perimeter of the floor and they have windows, but even those don’t open. None of the windows in this building open. The air conditioning system is the only source of air. Next on the totem pole are the secretaries, they have offices and cubicles near the attorneys they work for, but they don’t have any windows and most don’t even have actual walls. Their offices are defined by dividers and name plates. In this open field of beige drab cubicles, the low level workers attempt to set them selves apart with shrines to their children, spouses and glory days. Collections of small stuffed animals, photographs, children’s artwork, colorful calendars, neon clocks and pink flamingos. These shrines bring up a sadness inside of me, a lonely melancholy feeling that’s hard to identify. Mostly I feel sorry for these cubicle dwellers.
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Kirk R. Dungan
said...
Sir, you are brilliant. The image so vivid I can see the office in my mind and it starts blurring with the offices I've seen first hand. I want to hang up my cleats, I've got chronic pain in both shoulders, I take a spill on the ice I don't bounce back anymore. I could keep whining but at least I'm not working in that office.
Posted November 9, 2008 01:11 AM
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pilder
replied to Kirk R. Dungan...
Hey Kirk. It was good to see you in the 206, even though it was brief. I don't bounce back much anymore either, at least not like the kids I work with can and do. Cheers to you. And here's to not working in that office
Posted November 9, 2008 06:26 AM
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TreeBeard
said...
Wow Mark, that was some really good writing. I hope on day I am able to share my thoughts like you. I really enjoyed reading that (and nice cut).
Posted November 9, 2008 09:22 PM
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cat
said...
definitely brilliant.
Posted November 9, 2008 11:48 PM
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Kirk R. Dungan
replied to pilder...
Good to see you too, my only complaint about the 206 it's always hard to buy drinks for your buddies. When the heck is Shorties going to hire a waitress. I saw some guy I knew there and to celebrate the fact that my dentist isn't getting all my PFD this time I was going to pick-up a round for the table,it's an Alaska thing. I was way too lazy to take their orders and carry it over. Best I can ever do is pick-up a half-rack or two for the after work thing and I have to remind people they can drink it.
Posted November 10, 2008 03:39 PM
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