The office’s older parts of the building, red orange stone arches and brick walls interplay with modern smoky blue grey glass facades, overlooking green rolling hills. I am at a new place of work, or a new company or a company that acquired us.
Read moreAnd I have a desk in Lesley’s office at the end of the building, only she does not look like Lesley. She is sporting a brown, almost bronzed, bob.
They need to reassign me as the location is temporary.
When one man comes in, and hangs out in an alcove formed by the stone arch in our office, and starts smoking a cigarette, I realize it is probably time to move on.
Another man has also been promoted and they are reallocating spaces. Outside on a grassy knoll there is a whole fanfare for him. I walk out to where a group of workers are gathered, and in the center of the circle, is one of the higher-ups.
She is dancing like a cheerleader with angular thrusts of hips and high energy fist pumps to welcome the new recruit to management. She is dressed in a gold bodysuit which spangles against a clear blue sky backdrop.
I could never get that enthusiastic about work. It must be exhausting.
Behind both her and the gathering, a few young men in aqua colored tunics who were going to a football game, join in.
They have plastic water spray bottles in their hands. They make a dance out of the sprayers, fist pumping them too.
“I come from a foreign state,” I explain, “so I never understood what you guys do.”
The jocks choreograph claps and sprays from their bottles. Their tunics remind me of the car wash guys over on Connecticut. Then one of the jocks aims his sprayer at me, and jets water at my hair.
Instead of joining the hoopla, I try to get my new place aligned. One of the watching crowd tells me to ask HR or building facilities, but I cannot use some-one’s influence.
“I shared an office,” I start to explain, but then I cannot remember Lesley’s name. Was it Pamela or Nicole?
How can I get an office if I cannot even remember who I shared the previous one with?
“No, you will not be able to get an office.”
“Well I need a window seat, next to a window. Bright sun.”
One of the jocks pulls out a silver pointer from his back pocket, then he points it south to show the best sun facing location.
“Yes, we may have something for you!” he shrieks.
“But it needs to have sun,” I repeat. Then I add hopefully, “and be a window seat.”
Main photo by Conrad Poirier, pioneer of photojournalism in Quebec, via Picryl. Miracle sign photo by Dayna Bateman via Flickr.