Fortress of Solitude

That’s what I call my office at The Job. A: because it’s friggin’ freezing, 24/7; and B: because I close the door, and I am in my own little world. I could go all day and not see another human if I only had a port-a-potty up in that mutha. Several times, I’ve been in there, working "late" (which, in gubment terms means, "after 4"), and when I come out, everybody’s gone. Split. Outta there.

I don’t have a lot of interaction with the support staff (mostly because I still can’t figure out what it is that they DO, exactly), and of the three other lawyuhs, there’s only one I regularly talk to. And even him I can go for days without seeing. Other than T-Bone, I’ve gotten four phone calls in the almost three months I’ve been there. And other than administrative BS and birthday/retirement/quinceanera/food-related announcements, I’ve gotten two substantive emails. TWO. And they were both replies to actual work-related issues I brought up. It's so bizarre. It’s like my office is some kind of timewarp/vacuum/CrissAngelMindFreak zone.

Not that I’m complaining. Not really. But I just feel like I get in there, and every time I come out, I have to get my bearings and remind myself, "Oh right. I’m at ‘work’. This is my ‘job.’" And it’s not like I go out of my way to avoid people or be ugly to them. It’s just that they’re all in their cubes, doing whateverthehell, and I’m just passing by on my way to the loo or to the Kick Ass Ice Machine in the breakroom (truly, one of the top two best things about The Job. That and the paycheck. Not the amount, per se, just the fact that there is one.). Several of them have little mirrors up on the shelf so they can see when people walk up behind them. They’re tiny little rearview-type mirrors, just big enough to see their eyes dart up at you as you pass by. It reminds me of the jails and prisons I’ve been to (as a visitor, not a resident), where the inmates fashion mirrors out of anything reflective and put them on the end of a toothbrush or chair leg or whatever and stick them out of their cells so they can chat with their neighbors or see who’s coming to shank them. It freaks me out, y’all. Seriously.

So I scurry back to The Fortress and decide which wall to stare at for a few hours. The grey one, the other grey one, or the other other grey one with the door. Behind me is a wall of windows, which would be lovely if they didn’t look out on the parking lot and the machine shop, with a nice view of the dumpster where old cake party stuffs go to die. And they have those GD vertical blinds. Which I loathe. I haven’t brought anything personal from home yet, not one picture or desk-sized Zen rock garden. Mostly because I’m still in denial that this is actually happening, but also because I’m supposedly getting "new" furniture that has been "ordered" and is being "constructed," as is all gubment office furniture, by some of the state’s finest "craftsmen," who just so happen to be "jailbirds" who have nothing but "time" on their hands and a great interest in being "busy" instead of being "dead" in a yard riot. Which means, I ain’t getting no furniture anytime soon. And when I do, dollars to donuts it’ll be missing some sharp metal components that were mysteriously lost in transit. I do think I’ll bring up my office chair from home though. My work chair is way too complicated, and it’s blue. Electric blue. So not my color.