tell me about your childhood

It’s my fault. I chose this desk a year or so ago. You see, around here it is customary for everyone to reshuffle our locations at least annually so that our constantly “re-aligning” teams of minions can all sit in comforting proximity to one another. All of the analysts who perform tedious tasks should be lumped together in one row; executors of the mundane and menial all sit in another row. It’s a neat and efficient operation designed to enhance the communication between team members.

The last time this happened, I chose my own desk. It wasn't assigned. Since I am somewhat of a lone ranger and perform a unique function, it wasn’t imperative that I sit within spitting distance of anyone else. This cube seems bigger than the others because of the way it is laid out and it neatly accommodates my bike when I ride to work. There is one inherent problem with this cube: it sits right on the pathway that everyone must take at one time or another throughout the day. It’s an incessant parade. Actually, the parade isn’t so distracting because staring at a computer monitor all day long has destroyed the natural impulse for my eyes to follow motion.

If I were opportunistic, I would farm myself out to sociological studies and apply for grants, for if there was ever a watch post for monitoring behavior and attitudes in the workplace, this is it. People seem to take an odd interest in “what’s going on in Brian’s cube” and it strikes me as comical (sad?) that I might be a source of entertainment. I spend a good part of my day engaged in conversations with passersby who need a listening ear, a sounding board for their ideas, or an outlet for their rants. More than anything, they just feel sorry for me. I’m the guy with the stapler in Office Space. I’m the guy to whom everyone is cordial, but for whom they feel pity. “That poor bastard has had 5 managers in the past year!”
I’m a turd no one wants to put in their pocket and for that, I receive compassion.

Really, it’s enjoyable and without the visits, I would most likely slash my wrists or at the very least, staple my eyeballs. There’s the guy who comes up 5 or 6 times a day and flips me off & calls me “bitch”; the guy who makes fun of whatever I’m wearing; the gal who shares very much my same ideals and outlook; the nice guy who makes it a point to see how things are going with me; the smack talker who accuses me of stealing my paycheck on his way to go talk about football for the next 30 minutes……

….and then there are the bike conversations. When it’s cold and snowy and I don’t ride: “What – no bike today?!” Hardy har har, jackass. When I ride and my bike is propped up and gear is strewn all over my cube: “Why don’t you just buy a 2nd car?” Or “Did you ride in today?” Or six months after the fact, “Hey, I heard Lance retired – is it true?” I could go on all day about bikes though, so those conversations are always welcome. Especially around Tour time.

The best part about sitting here and being a part of all these conversations?
Blog fodder.