The End of Cube 19

The coattails of free lunches, pressed flesh and good-byes ended late this afternoon. All through the office my co-workers sent me off with mounds of encouragement and confidence.

Today was my last day in Cube 19

Last week I signed an internal job offer for an outside position in San Diego and my first day is tomorrow.

The promotion means an end to wardrobe malfunctions, cube Nerf football, cone shuttle drills, putting contests and olive discussions. Spaghetti pot luck dramas and desk thefts have no impact on me.

The first promotion yields a raise, a cell phone, an expense card and a laptop. I’ve graduated from casual to formal business attire. Every day I must wear a coat, tie and shoes that hurt. I’m no longer a desk jockey that reports eight hours a day.

This is big time.

I always wanted to get out of Cube 19. Earlier this month I turned down a Texas transfer for monetary reasons. For 30 months I hacked through the branch, the man, the quotas and the computer systems. The experience would not be shortchanged and I gambled for the next open slot.

The promotion is welcomed but bittersweet. I signed a lease and am set to move next week. My co-workers loved my antics and some of them are renegade readers. Cube 19 was my first job out of school and was a harsh reality slap. Together we have lot of fond memories but I must move on.

This blog was meant as a humor release for me. It took a couple cracks at tracking down its identity because it was never to be a glorified diary. The readers could take pleasure in seeing the hardships of a struggling young professional fighting the corporate world metamorphosis.

But there is no time for frivolous rants, games or blogs. I am now one step closer to the man on the ladder.

Tomorrow marks the new segment of my life. I amnever going back to college or to frat boy mischief. My life now is my job. I am a slave to the paycheck and a sellout with no soul.

And I’m fine with all of that.

Cube 19, out.

The Unlisted Boss

The boss oversees my daily activities. She is the next rung on the corporate ladder that separates me and the new man.

The company organization chart is our Bible and is easily accessible to all employees who want to check out the pecking order.

But there is a major flaw.

The building elevator is not listed above me.

The cube is on the top floor, the eighth one, of a large building that houses over 500 employees. In the first month of the new digs I’ve been introduced to the unlisted boss.

Four elevators roam throughout the floors, meaning there is always a wait between one to two minutes. At least once a day I miss one due to timing issues or it is filled to maximum capacity.

Every morning I must wait a least a minute for one of the four elevators to make it down. Then I cram into the box with a few other co-workers, shuffle towards the back of it and wait for everyone to clear out.

My commute time on each trip averages between one to three minutes depending on traffic behavior. I comb the top and bottom of the building and am subject to inter-floor travels (I visit at least three others before I reach mine).

During the trip the elevator turns into a greenhouse as body heat bakes the aromas of take-out food, heavy perfume, putrid hair gel and poor hygiene. I nearly faint and stumble onto my floor.

“Benders” annoy me the most. These are people who require extra assistance or care to bend around their needs at others’ cost. We are all headed to work; there’s no need to bring an armload of stuff that needs someone else to punch your floor. The desk with a landline will be reached in two minutes so the cell phone conversation can resume later.

Then there are the “loafers”, who have business on an adjacent floor but refuse to use the stairs. These people pick up the ride in the middle of the building and take their spot directly in front of the doors clutching a dollar bill and ready to pounce on the different vending machine (The fifth floor has diet coke and Dasani bottled water, unlike the sixth floor which has diet Pepsi and Arrowhead bottled water).

Somehow a separate culture embedded itself among these elevators. If a co-worker is at least 10 steps from the entrance the “open door” button must be held as a sign of common courtesy. Even if I’ve waited three minutes for the arrival, I must hang for an additional 15 seconds to prevent becoming a labeled jackass.

Small talk usually ensues with pointless comments. People seem compelled to say something since we’re forced to share 48 square feet. Anything (jackets, food, clothing, rain droplets, coffee, me pressing the 8th floor button) is eligible for comment and the recipient must volley a return.

To prevent these chats I wear my sunglasses through the building. No one wants to call out Joe Cool in the back.

During our trip, those not engaged in conversation must stare at the floor lineup monitoring the crawl. I guess there’s nothing else to entertain us because eye contact generally sparks conversation.

All because the new boss directly imposes these regulations.

Outside the Office

Time spent away from the office is good. It is extremely rare during an outside event to wish I was in the Cube. Therefore all activities (like teeth cleanings or training classes) are better than work.

So goes the personal coined saying, “Any day out of the office is a good one.”

But what happens on those off days that include weekend, vacation or sick days?

The main goal is to strip any remembrance of the weekday job. I go out of the way to do so by these self imposed rules.

Time does not exist during outside life. I refuse to don a watch and I keep track of the day based on sunlight. My apartment is devoid of clocks that pushes guests on the brink of insanity. There is no alarm on the weekend to allow a possible but welcomed oversleep. (Slept through the first quarter of Cowboys/Giants; wish I kept on through that one.)

Personal hygiene takes a nosedive because there is no routine on idle days. The morning shower, the oral brush, the hair product and the deodorant are all scrapped in favor of 20 more minutes of television, sleep or anything else.

Bed-head is strongly encouraged and sported at 24 Hour Fitness (to much female reaction) for weekend workouts. If there a semi-important activity, a hat and Listerine are a quick fix. Unfortunately this rule is broken for all dates with the lady.

Boxers are not worn because undergarment signifies work attire. This cuts down laundry.

The bed is made every off day. This isn’t a daily chore for time-saving measures. Out of spite I tuck in the sheets and fluff the pillows. Take that, angry new director man.

A massive breakfast is consumed. Omelets, breakfast burritos, pancakes, Belgian waffles or hash browns fuel me for the day’s events. These are consumed on the coffee table in front of the morning slate of sports.

Sandwiches are banned. I eat four of them a week while watching firefighter amateur hockey league games.

Laundry or grocery store runs are prohibited. These two combine to over three hours of work and I can’t devout precious time to them. Weekends with out boxers and sandwiches sponsor this rule.

“It’s 5 p.m. somewhere” meaning cocktail hour reigns. Alcohol encourages rebellious behavior plus it multiplies the fun factor.

Sunday evening fun is a must to combat the weekend blues. When 2 p.m. rolls around I used get depressed about starting the new week. Now I look forward to the evening because I renamed it “Movie and Gin Night.”

Haggard

My head hurts. The computer monitor sways a little. The Jack In the Box breakfast burrito isn’t sitting well and I have a severe case of cotton mouth.

I ditched the branch PC party in favor of my lady’s company gathering at the Ritz Carlton hotel last night. It had a free open wet bar, something much needed after this treacherous week.

Today’s wardrobe malfunction: no company badge, no lunch, a splitting headache, dehydration, dragon breath, remnants of last night’s hair product, nausea and leg cramps.

And I'm rolling commando.

Office Scrooge

My office bitterness peaks around the holiday season. I don’t have anything against the holidays; I absolutely refuse to embrace the imported office culture.

All forms of holiday cheer (seasonal cell phone ringers, audio emails, red or green candy, posted cube cards or winter outfits) annoy me. These people drag in the spirit to workforce that yields dire consequences for failure to embrace it.

I hate this time of year.

My reluctance to participate is a lightning rod for peer criticism. Unfortunately it melds with my bitterness and I become the office Scrooge all month. It’s a tough job to be the hate man but I have a big problem with imposed office activities.

I’m here to earn money, not shed it. (This is why I hope the Anaheim City council dies from monoxide poisoning.) So when our team hosts a secret Santa drawing, I remove my name and head to the bathroom. No one disturbs me there.

As the days pass, small gifts pop up on my desk in the mornings. A few co-workers hand out office-wide presents and buzz around the cubes for praise:

“Thank you. This $5 Starbucks card is completely worth my time to stand in the five minute line for a small latte that adds 10 more minutes to my commute.”

“How kind of you to think of me with this $10 Blockbuster card that doesn’t apply to the newly released rental category.”

“Your so thoughtful for this mug of candy. It must have taken a lot of time to scoop out a handful from the Costco supply on your desk.”

No, I don’t have any reciprocating presents. Yes, I am the Grinch.

(Today’s wardrobe malfunction: forgot the packed lunch. Wish I had some Clorox and a pint glass.)

Our team has a small two-foot tree setup outside my cube due to space needs. It’s my job to turn off the lights every day when I leave. Now I can’t covertly sneak out.

It’s an innocent tree but I can’t resist an opportunity to spread around my crummy mood. “It’s a PC tree,” I inform the admirers. “We don’t know what everyone does on the 25th so we have to be politically correct.”

Tonight is our office “PC” party and I won’t be in attendance. I have big problems with doling out $30 to eat a re-heated burger and to wash it down with two Miller Lites. My failure to RSVP the day after Thanksgiving warrants month-long undercuts.

Last year I gutted out the cash but refused to drag along a date for an additional $30. I didn’t want her to endure the small talk and inside jokes. The party ended with a YMCA performance by the mangers in assigned costumes.

Never again.

The verdict is in

Inbound call 15 minutes before release time yesterday and it’s the boss in need of a diet Coke from the machine three floors below.

The verdict is in. This is bad.

Calls from the boss at the end of the are never good. Especially when she wants to talk on a different floor.

We meet at the elevator and small talk follows during the wait. If it was good news she would have informed me at my cube in public. But since it’s the two of us in a non-office or conference room setting, here comes the tidal wave.

“At least you’re still on my team,” she says, trailing off with a forced smile. I grimace and brace the support bar while the elevator slides down three floors. It might as well continue down to Hades.

The box stops and we shuffle towards the Plexiglas vending machine.

“All the managers met with the director and we sifted through the applicants and positions. Even though everyone had great things to say about you and your accomplishments, your age was discussed.”

The Diet Coke thuds in the tray, just like my heart in my shoes.

“And the director said that you’re just too green to for the outside position. The others had at least some other outside sales experience.”

“Too green,” I said. “How was I supposed to get that when I’m confined to my desk all day? This is my first job out of college. I asked you several times throughout the last 18 months to go out of the office but I was denied every time.”

“I know,” she said. “He just wanted to go with those with the experience. He said he liked you and thought you have a lot of potential.”

She popped the can and took a nervous sip.

“I told him that you were denied by paperwork four months ago; that you could do the job; that you constantly led the team and that I had a big problem with this decision. I also said that you would be crushed. Just…don’t get down on yourself. If there’s another opening I’m sure you’ll get it."

She paused to drain some more cola.

“I wanted to tell you privately so that when the other filled positions are reveled tomorrow, you will know why you weren’t picked even though you’re better than some of those people.”

Oh yea? Better than some of those people? How could one-dimensional sucks-ups who barely scrape by every month and shield off all possible upper management conformation have an edge over me?

I turned back to the vending machine and sighed.

I licked my lips.

My jaw clenched.

Suddenly, I power kicked the center of the Plexiglas and broke through it. My ankle was buried in the machine and I pulled it out with both hands as six cans rattled out of the tray.

My boss dropped the coke and her eyes widened.

“Too young, huh,” I said as I scooped up the cold bullets.

“Oh my god, you’ve gone postal,” she screamed as she ran towards the emergency exit.

I tried to sprint after her but didn’t get any traction due to the shatter plastic pieces that littered the carpet.

“Do you know what the best part of youth is,” I yelled at her while she neared the door.

My shoes finally gripped and I made two long strides after her.

“No arthritis,” I exclaimed. Then I winged a 12 oz. coke at her that clanged off the metal door frame.

She frantically pawed at the doorknob as I reloaded.

Another can missed wide left. She got the door open as another can whistled over her head. A third one embeded itself in the plaster wall as the door closed behind her.

I dropped the cans, flew open the door and bounded up the stairwell after her. My dress shirt snagged and ripped on the corner of a rail. I fell down face-first and rolled down a few steps.

A deep gash on my right temple streamed blood down my face as I tore off the rest of my dress and under shirt.

“I know your angry but you've got to calm down,” the boss shrieked as she fumbled up another flight in her heels.

She was two flights ahead of me but I leapt up the stairs four at a time. She slipped through our top floor entrance as I rounded the final corner towards the final six steps.

“Someone call security,” she yelled as I yanked the door open onto our floor. She ran around the corner and disappeared through the cubes.

I marched straight through the hall with thick blood rivers over my right eye and cheek that dripped off my chin.

My co-workers stared at me. I passed by a filing cabinet, picked up the large glass vase with a thick bouquet of flowers and smashed it against the wall.

“It was too green,” I explained. I continued along the filing cabinet and shoved a fax machine off it. The fax machine crashed on the floor as the ink cartridge bounded out from it.

“What’s gotten into you?” a female co-worker said

“Shut the hell up, Marie Callender,” I answered. “Be glad your crows feet yielded you an outside position.”

I reached my cube and tossed my chair over a row of cubes. Then I ripped the Nortel phone from the jack and slammed it two-handed into the trash can. The phone split into several pieces.
“Security, floor nine!” yelled a breathless male co-worker into his cell phone.

“Can’t do my desk job without my computer,” I said as I hurled my monitor through the eighth floor window.

Several male co-workers surrounded the cube to contain me but I kicked my shoes at them, jumped on my desk and hopped over the wall onto a woman’s desk. She screamed and fell over as I landed next to her. I dashed down the row towards the exit.

I motored down the stairs with a few-co-workers chasing me. My temple throbbed and blood crusted over my right eye. As I rounded another stair segment I noticed I had several gashes on my arm and chest. My lungs burned as I hopped down the final flight and pushed through the exit on the ground floor.

Two surprised security guards dropped their walkie-talkies and ran towards me.

“Stop right there, chief,” one yelled.

I panicked as I scanned around for a weapon. I reached for a nearby iron velvet rope post and hurled it at their knees. The post skipped off the marble floor and into their shins. They fell to the ground in pain as I headed towards the main entrance.

As I passed by the security desk, I pulled down a large Christmas bowl full of candy off the marble shelf. It broke and the candy scattered on the floor behind me.

“I HATE THIS PLACE,” I yelled as I ran through the main exit, down the street in my socks and business slacks.

Hail Mary

The new man, my boss and another manager will interview me for a few open positions Thursday.

I’m up against seven other people for multiple slots which means a finish in the top tier means a new job.

Oh please, let me out of here.

I strolled over to the boss’ new digs and started some small talk today. However she knew I was in need of a scouting report before the big day.

The new man has a pretty cool rep and won’t keep us tied to the stake 40 hours a week. He is an amiable guy, extremely professional but maintains a low-key environment.

I can do this.

We slowly waded towards the meat of the interview. She briefed me on duties, future adaptation and presentation. She also said to relax because her presence would ease any tension.

Anything else?

“If I were you I would not mention throwing footballs in the office,” she said. “Also, putting golf balls the length of the floor into my sandaled feet probably wouldn’t be a smart topic of conversation for you.”

Uh, o.k.

“And mentioning your clutch office free-throw shooting ability wouldn’t be smart.”

“Be sure to leave out those lengthy over the desk sports debates with a few male members of my team,” said the other ex-office manger over the shared cube wall.

Well it was more like a fireside chat.

“Except for the part it was more like 20 minutes, twice a day, for the last year,” she said.

Hmmm, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Also, don’t mention that you’re a team player,” the boss continued. “Because you aren’t attending the office Christmas party next week.”

“Oh, don’t mention olives either,” said the other manger over the wall again, referring to my code word for boobs.

“If you steer clear of those topics, I’m sure our new director will like you and the job is yours,” said the boss with an evil smile.

I have no shot.