alcala0001
06-13-2011, 07:18 PM
The past five minutes have been unusually productive. The office seems to be running smoothly and efficiently. If I were brought here blindfolded, unaware of the day or time, I would recognize 2:30 PM on Wednesday, just by the feel of it. Papers shuffle, bodies move quickly and with purpose up and down the rows of cubicles. This could be a Holywood office, an idealize, stylized representation of an ordinary, drab workplace. Actors and extras buzzing around like busy bees, trying to put forth their most convincing 'office drone' performance as the camera pans slowly. But no. It's just Wednesday, 2:30 PM.
Woodstock comes walking down the hall, a stack of manilla folders under his arm as he looks around the room, nodding at us. Computer programs are saved, purses are grabbed and papers are filed away until tomorrow. Woodstock. I like to give people nicknames. I would never tell anybody about their nickname, or anybody else's. It's just a little thing I've always done, and I've often wondered if other people secretly do this too. Woodstock got his name one night at The Lightning Lounge. A bunch of us went out after work to celebrate Slushy's birthday. Slushy got her nickname that night too (too many frozen margaritas). I remember Woodstock having a spirited conversation with one of the other office managers about how much fun he had in the 60s. Now whenever I look at him, I imagine him shirtless, dancing with flowers in his hair and tripping his balls off on acid.
We all make our way to the conference room, lining up, being courteous and waiting our turn. For a moment I'm reminded of cattle on their way to the death chute. I stifle a giggle as I think of Orca, the large sour-faced secretary, standing behind the doorway, popping my co-workers in the head with a nail gun as they enter. It's a strange thing. Nobody would openly admit to liking the Wednesday huddle - and why would they? We just sit around the conference room, eating donuts and listening while our bosses rattle on about policies, procedures and such. They also provide us five minutes to voice any concerns or complaints. It's usually the same people that take up those five minutes: Whiner, Scuzzball, and of course, Cry Baby Jane. But there was something about Wednesday huddle that we all looked forward to, whether we admitted it or not.
I enter and take a seat between Mr. Invisible and Frat Boy. Three large boxes of De Luca's donuts are in the middle of the table, hands are hovering, eyes searching for everybody's favorites. I snatch out a large frosted bear claw. It's warm and fresh. The outside crispy from the deep-fryer. I put it on a napkin and set a white disposable cup in front of me and wait for my turn with one of the insulated pots that are being passed around. Mr. Invisible offers to fill my cup. He gets his name because he is just so average and forgettable that I stopped asking him what his name was. If you think of a typical male in an office environment, your mind will conjur him up. He manages, by sheer un-remarkableness, to blend into this office. Almost like a type of camouflage. Frat Boy is on the other side of me, being loud and obnoxious as usual. I can just imagine him in a football jersey, drinking beer straight out of the keg tap - his nickname was a no-brainer.
Orca brings in a projector and a laptop, eyeing the donuts as she sets them down, briefly reminding me of a sumo wrestler the way her tight red bun is sitting on her head. It's not just her weight. It's her face. The set of her jaw, her beady little eyes. She looks mean, almost predatory, but in her defense, I've never said more than three words to her at one time. Hey, I'm the first to admit what a bastard I am. At Orca's request, Armpit gets up and hits the lights. He had a few rough weeks with the misses and had to crash on Frat Boy's couch. His personal hygiene was not very good during those times. Of course he's been fine since then, but it's too late - the name has been bestowed.
Mr. Awesome stands up in his tailored suit and I look around the room at all of the females. I can imagine them tousling their hair and ripping open blouses, crawling across the table at him. Mr. Awesome is one of those guys that's just too... awesome: perfect teeth, snappy dresser, cool car. I imagine him zipping out of work, changing into an Armani silk tux on the freeway while driving to the airport at reckless speeds, then hopping a private jet to Las Vegas for a weekend of wild debauchery. Sometimes I like to imagine awkward or embarrassing things happening to him, just to make myself feel better about his... awesomeness. He's prattling on about office policy and as I'm looking around, shoving donut into my face, I see that I'm not the only one that's not paying attention. Muppet is whispering to Peach Fuzz and Bubbles is slyly texting under the table, trying to hide the glare of her phone. Five minutes 'til. Scuzzball has an issue with people not putting paper into the fax machine tray. I can practically see the nicotine cloud waft out of his nose and mouth as he talks. His hair is greasy and thin. His grey bloodshot eyes are full of fire as he gestures wildly, hairy hands strangling the air as he recounts his struggles at the copy room.
The second hand ticks slowly. We can all feel the last grains of time hit the bottom of the hourglass as Wednesday huddle comes to an end. 3 Pm and the office clock is forming an 'L' with the hands. Scuzzball finishes lamenting about his copy room ordeal. We all stand up and push in our chairs. Foam cups and napkins are snatched up to be tossed into the trash. Hands dig into the boxes for treats to take home to spouses or kids. Or to eat at midnight, sad and alone. Nobody wants to take the last donut, but somebody always grabs it anyway. We shuffle out the door.
Woodstock comes walking down the hall, a stack of manilla folders under his arm as he looks around the room, nodding at us. Computer programs are saved, purses are grabbed and papers are filed away until tomorrow. Woodstock. I like to give people nicknames. I would never tell anybody about their nickname, or anybody else's. It's just a little thing I've always done, and I've often wondered if other people secretly do this too. Woodstock got his name one night at The Lightning Lounge. A bunch of us went out after work to celebrate Slushy's birthday. Slushy got her nickname that night too (too many frozen margaritas). I remember Woodstock having a spirited conversation with one of the other office managers about how much fun he had in the 60s. Now whenever I look at him, I imagine him shirtless, dancing with flowers in his hair and tripping his balls off on acid.
We all make our way to the conference room, lining up, being courteous and waiting our turn. For a moment I'm reminded of cattle on their way to the death chute. I stifle a giggle as I think of Orca, the large sour-faced secretary, standing behind the doorway, popping my co-workers in the head with a nail gun as they enter. It's a strange thing. Nobody would openly admit to liking the Wednesday huddle - and why would they? We just sit around the conference room, eating donuts and listening while our bosses rattle on about policies, procedures and such. They also provide us five minutes to voice any concerns or complaints. It's usually the same people that take up those five minutes: Whiner, Scuzzball, and of course, Cry Baby Jane. But there was something about Wednesday huddle that we all looked forward to, whether we admitted it or not.
I enter and take a seat between Mr. Invisible and Frat Boy. Three large boxes of De Luca's donuts are in the middle of the table, hands are hovering, eyes searching for everybody's favorites. I snatch out a large frosted bear claw. It's warm and fresh. The outside crispy from the deep-fryer. I put it on a napkin and set a white disposable cup in front of me and wait for my turn with one of the insulated pots that are being passed around. Mr. Invisible offers to fill my cup. He gets his name because he is just so average and forgettable that I stopped asking him what his name was. If you think of a typical male in an office environment, your mind will conjur him up. He manages, by sheer un-remarkableness, to blend into this office. Almost like a type of camouflage. Frat Boy is on the other side of me, being loud and obnoxious as usual. I can just imagine him in a football jersey, drinking beer straight out of the keg tap - his nickname was a no-brainer.
Orca brings in a projector and a laptop, eyeing the donuts as she sets them down, briefly reminding me of a sumo wrestler the way her tight red bun is sitting on her head. It's not just her weight. It's her face. The set of her jaw, her beady little eyes. She looks mean, almost predatory, but in her defense, I've never said more than three words to her at one time. Hey, I'm the first to admit what a bastard I am. At Orca's request, Armpit gets up and hits the lights. He had a few rough weeks with the misses and had to crash on Frat Boy's couch. His personal hygiene was not very good during those times. Of course he's been fine since then, but it's too late - the name has been bestowed.
Mr. Awesome stands up in his tailored suit and I look around the room at all of the females. I can imagine them tousling their hair and ripping open blouses, crawling across the table at him. Mr. Awesome is one of those guys that's just too... awesome: perfect teeth, snappy dresser, cool car. I imagine him zipping out of work, changing into an Armani silk tux on the freeway while driving to the airport at reckless speeds, then hopping a private jet to Las Vegas for a weekend of wild debauchery. Sometimes I like to imagine awkward or embarrassing things happening to him, just to make myself feel better about his... awesomeness. He's prattling on about office policy and as I'm looking around, shoving donut into my face, I see that I'm not the only one that's not paying attention. Muppet is whispering to Peach Fuzz and Bubbles is slyly texting under the table, trying to hide the glare of her phone. Five minutes 'til. Scuzzball has an issue with people not putting paper into the fax machine tray. I can practically see the nicotine cloud waft out of his nose and mouth as he talks. His hair is greasy and thin. His grey bloodshot eyes are full of fire as he gestures wildly, hairy hands strangling the air as he recounts his struggles at the copy room.
The second hand ticks slowly. We can all feel the last grains of time hit the bottom of the hourglass as Wednesday huddle comes to an end. 3 Pm and the office clock is forming an 'L' with the hands. Scuzzball finishes lamenting about his copy room ordeal. We all stand up and push in our chairs. Foam cups and napkins are snatched up to be tossed into the trash. Hands dig into the boxes for treats to take home to spouses or kids. Or to eat at midnight, sad and alone. Nobody wants to take the last donut, but somebody always grabs it anyway. We shuffle out the door.