On Work and Buildings

I am finding it necessary to discuss the conditions in which I work in order to paint a very realistic picture of what it’s like to be employed at the administrative offices of a public school system. This is not me complaining, because Lord knows I’m happy to have a stable job that I enjoy (most of the time) in these economic times. Instead, this is an agenda-free glimpse into my daytime life.

Really what I want to discuss is the building that I work in. The more and more I think about it, the more ridiculous it is. I literally work in a two-story building with only one other person, who is often out shooting video at our schools, thus leaving me alone for a majority of the day. I used to work in a building across the street where there are at least one hundred employees. After a year and a half, everyone still thinks I work in that building. They are surprised when they see that my old desk is occupied by someone else and they often say how they are jealous that I am in my “new” building. If only they knew …

The building used to be a government bomb shelter/testing facility and I’ve heard rumors that unmarked cars still visit the site regularly to “take readings” and “acquire data” from the humongous radio tower infested with blackbirds next to the building. I was also informed when I moved over here that there is a room upstairs with a large shaft that connects to a tunnel that at one point splits into two tunnels and “goes on forever.” All of this was said in a, “Can you believe it’s now an office building that you’ll be working in permanently?” type of way. No, quite frankly … I can’t believe it. The previous occupant of the building was the manager of our school system’s Indian education program/museum, who was released from the system after it was discovered that she was using the building as her own personal daycare facility. There’s really no point to this fact, other than I thought it to be a humorous little tid-bit.

Sometimes we are graced by the presence of a large group that meets upstairs. Now, I’m not sure what this group of supposed school system employees actually meets about, but I am normally subject to frequent banging, raucous laughter and the occasional echoed belch whenever they are here. Occasionally, people stumble into the office and ask if this is where they “pick up their gun” or “get their uniform.” I know you all are logically thinking that maybe they have this building confused with the police barracks close by, but I assure you, that is not the case. When my co-worker is here, we often just look at each other in sheer disbelief.

Lately, we’ve had the pleasure of having to walk to a different building to go to the bathroom because they are replacing all of the toilets and stalls in the building. I’m actually not too upset about this seeing as how our toilets were a puke/mustard/brown color with permanent brown “stains” smeared on the stall walls. But, it’s no picnic walking outside to go to the bathroom in 20-degree windy weather.

The whole reason why I moved over into this building was because the school system put money into converting several rooms into a television studio. That’s all well and good, but when I told the maintenance guys that studios are usually dark, they took me way too literally and painted every possible nook and cranny black. They also gave me only two extremely dim lights to light the entire room, failing to realize that its not customary behavior to always keep big, hot studio lights on for everyday lighting needs, like say when you’re trying to position a set piece or just tidy up the space. So I’m often left with massive pit stains in my nice shirt and tie and an attractive sweaty forehead when I need to do work in the pitch black, windowless studio. And I can’t imagine what the electricity bill is like over here.

I used to have coffee every morning in my old office. It wasn’t the greatest, but it did the trick. Someone from the old office was nice enough to give me a coffee pot when I moved over to this building. It was a very nice gesture, but in reality the coffee pot is a constant reminder that we can’t make coffee over here because the water has an orangish tint to it and tastes like what I think volcano mist would taste like. They also don’t deliver cases of Dasani bottled water over here like they do in my old office. But that’s ok, occasionally the soda machine that takes dollars only – no change – decides to work properly.

Like I said, I’m not complaining, simply stating the facts of my glamorous work conditions. If you ever catch yourself thinking, “I can’t take this cube for one more minute,” just remember your old pal Steven and try to imagine me sitting alone in this pitch-black former bomb shelter drinking water that I brought from home denying someone their right to pick up their gun.