The Cubicle Next Door Read online

  I couldn’t blame him for asking the question. There was no uniform for civilians at the Air Force Academy, and keeping with Colorado culture, most of us were casual. Some of us, to a fault. I was wearing my standard summer uniform: jeans, T-shirt, and Converse low-tops. My standard winter uniform was a variation on that theme: jeans, T-shirt, wool sweater, and Converse low-tops. I buy Levi’s 501s and shrink them to fit. And I buy men’s extra large sweaters. I pick them up at thrift stores. Shetland wool are my favorites. No patterns, just solid colors. When I get them home, I throw them in the washing machine and shrink them too. Maybe some of them have shorter sleeves than wrist-length, but if you shove your sleeves up anyway, what does it matter?

  Levi’s, shrunken sweaters, and colorful Converse shoes. Did you know you can throw Converse low-tops in the washing machine too? That’s why I buy them. I have them in every solid color ever made, plus the flame print. I couldn’t resist. Converse shoes are my thing.

  And they were my thing long before they became everybody else’s thing.

  Along with snide remarks and a dry sense of humor.

  I bent down, picked up my backpack from under the desk, and grabbed my wallet. I fished out my driver’s license and handed it to him.

  He looked at it. Looked at me. Looked at the license again. “Jackie Pert Harrison. After Kennedy?”

  “After Gleason.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Was that nice?”

  “No.” But then leaving the decision of naming me up to Grandmother’s best friend was not nice either. Adele’s all-time favorite TV show was The Honeymooners. But my name had turned out to be a misnomer. Jackie Gleason was round and jolly. I am not, thank you, God. I’m small, dark, and intense. Which is appealing to trolls. And maybe muskrats.

  “Pert, huh?” He handed it back to me with a shadow of that dazzling grin. Then he pulled his wallet out of his jeans and handed his license to me. It was of interest mostly because I’d never seen a driver’s license from Idaho before. Potato boy. Figured. I almost forgot to look at his name before I handed it back. Glad I didn’t. “Joseph Gallagher. You’re Lt. Col. Gallagher.”

  Life as I had known it had ended. This was him. In the flesh.

  His plane hadn’t gone down on the way to Colorado Springs; his car hadn’t been driven off the road. He hadn’t gotten hit by a bus. How come God never answers my prayers? Isn’t he supposed to know the thoughts we think in private?

  He grinned again. Were those dimples? “I’m Joe. Thirty-seven.” Joe, age 37, had clear blue eyes and curly auburn hair, cut Air Force short on the sides but left long enough on top to curl. See, that was another pilot thing. Pilots follow most of the rules most of the time, but in letter only. Never in spirit.

  “Well, Joe, good for you. Your office is over there. On the other side of the wall.”

  “Hey. If you like Che, do you salsa?”

  “Dance? No.” Not unless someone’s holding a gun to my head.

  “Cuban food?”

  “French.”

  “Cigars?”

  “Only if you want it stuffed into your nostril.”

  “So you’re one of those trendy Che fans?”

  “No, I’m one of those political Che fans. I’m protesting the elitist distribution of resources. At least the kind that takes all its resources from the most impoverished of society.”

  His face went blank. He blinked. Thank goodness. It was a little unnerving to be stared at. “What elite distribution of resources?”

  “The cubicles. This used to be an office and it used to all be mine.”

  “Oh.” At least he didn’t seem too put out. “So how did a nice communist girl like you end up working in a place like this?”

  I blushed. Sat down in my chair. “Consider me a communist mercenary.”

  “Which is also an ideological impossibility. Either you’re lying about being a communist or lying about being a mercenary.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I did my graduate studies in Russian history.”

  “Oh. Well…I never said I was a communist.”

  “Ah.” He turned around and walked over to his side of our space. I heard him opening and closing the drawers of his desk. “What do you have to do to get a decent pen around here?”

  “Bring it from home.”

  I heard a snicker and looked over to find his face peering at me from around the side of the wall. “Spoken like a true government worker. As good a reason to foment revolution as I’ve ever heard.”

  Foment? He was a pilot, wasn’t he? Pilots weren’t smart enough to go around talking about “fomenting” revolutions.

  He emerged from his cubicle and stood close to my chair. Too close. The hair on the back of my neck started to prickle. He glanced at his watch. “Hey, time for lunch. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t normally do lunch.”

  “And you don’t normally have to share your cubicle—office—either, right? So it’s my treat.”

  And before I could say yes or no, I found myself outside in the middle of the terrazzo.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in uniform to be out here?”

  He gave me a curious look. “I’m with you.”

  True.

  The only people allowed on the terrazzo, the quadrangle bordered by the chapel to the west, Vandenberg Hall to the north, Sijan and Mitchell Halls to the south, and the academic areas to the east, were cadets and other military and civilians employed in that area of the base. I carried my civilian ID and Proximity card around my neck at all times.

  They used to allow almost anyone on the terrazzo as long as they were escorted by a cadet, but 9/11 changed everything. So while Joe in uniform might have been welcomed to walk where he pleased, Joe in jeans was getting a few glances.

  Joe paused once we stepped out of the shadow of Fairchild, his eyes sweeping across the static aircraft crouching at the four corners of the terrazzo. “The F-16, the F-105, F-15, and the—”

  “F-4 Phantom.”

  “You know your planes.”

  Only that one. The one my father flew.

  We walked north, past the airplane displays. We began the turn toward the edge of Harmon Hall’s courtyard, but then Joe stopped and turned toward the chapel. “Just a second.”

  I followed behind him as he walked toward the chapel wall.

  “Last time I was here, my class crest was front and center.” The lower chapel wall displays the crest of each graduating class. The current senior class, the firsties, have their crest displayed in the middle.

  “You haven’t been back since you graduated?”

  “It took a couple years after graduation for my guts to stop twisting when I thought of this place.”

  “So which one is yours?”

  Joe pointed. “Class of ’91. Bold Gold. Munus Primo, Semper Integritas. Duty first, integrity always.” He stood there for a minute, staring at the crest, and then he turned and gestured toward Harmon Hall with his chin. “That was a place I never wanted to visit if I could help it. It was never a good thing to be called up to the superintendent’s office.”

  It was a place I never wanted to visit if I could help it, either. Harmon Hall meant travel orders and travel vouchers. And since Estelle was so extraordinarily busy, I usually got to deliver them, by hand, to the travel office. Not, of course, that it couldn’t be routed through the Academy mail system, but somehow officers had a habit of requesting travel orders at the very last minute.

  We approached the back of Arnold Hall. I held my Prox card up to the automatic card reader. It clicked and I pushed the fence open. Repeated the procedure to open the door into the building.

  We walked past the box office for the Academy theater, through a dining area, and into the food court.

  “What sounds good? Taco Bell?” Joe had me standing in line before I’d even considered Subway or Anthony’s Pizza.

  He ordered some combination of tacos too numerous to count. I cast a longing glance at the
other restaurants before ordering the latest greatest item being advertised.

  I added a couple of packets of the hottest of the hot sauces to my tray.

  He picked up a couple of straws and lids.

  “Could you put those back?”

  Joe turned toward me. “Did you pick up some already?”

  “No, but we don’t need them.”

  “Sure we do.”

  “No, we don’t. Technically, you don’t need a straw or a lid to drink from a cup. You only think you do.”

  “It’s easier.”

  “It’s lazier. If you can bring yourself to raise the cup all the way to your mouth, then the environment wins. Do you know how many straws Americans use and throw away each year? It’d be one thing if they were biodegradable, but most restaurants don’t buy that kind.”

  “What would a straw have to be made of to be biodegradable?”

  “Potato starch and corn starch.”

  He stood there looking at me for a moment. “That’s just gross. And you’re strange.” He slid back toward the straw dispenser. “But I’m putting them back, see? Everything’s going to be okay. You do realize that even if I don’t use this straw, somebody else will. In the big picture of all the straws in America…”

  “If you save a hundred straws a year and I save a hundred straws a year…”

  “Then that’s only two hundred straws. There are still millions left over.”

  “But the point is, you don’t need one and I don’t need one. And a huge straw industry has convinced us all that we do.”

  “You’re not really a communist, are you? You’re one of those conspiracy theory people.”

  “I’m one of those environmental people.”

  “Are you sure? Because those people drive me crazy.”

  “Don’t worry. You can be reformed.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  We returned to the large dining area. Joe steered us toward a table in the middle of the room. “This okay?”

  I nodded. If I were choosing, I’d select one of the small tables in the back corner. But normally I never ate lunch out. Today, for instance, I had a perfectly good grilled chicken breast and a container of tab-bouleh waiting for me in the department refrigerator.

  Joe grinned at me before attacking the first of his tacos. After he was finished, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, collected stray pieces of cheese and lettuce, and wrapped them into the next one. “So. Tell me about you.”

  “You already know my name.”

  “But I don’t know…what you’re really good at doing.”

  “Anything with computers. I’m a geek.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And I can make crepes.”

  “So you’re a good person to know if my computer ever gets disabled by a hungry Frenchman.”

  I smiled. Just to be polite. Took a drink.

  “Tell me something you’re not good at.”

  “Making snowflakes.” I cannot now, nor have I ever been able to, make snowflakes. The ones you fold and cut with scissors in preschool. I have visions in my head of beautiful, geometric, shimmering flakes. But when I unfold my creations, they fall apart. Literally. “And I can’t cut my own hair.” It’s amazing how often I forget.

  Right now, my black hair had been cut in a Christiane Amanpour I-have-better-things-to-do-than-fool-with-my-hair wedge. It dries by itself and mostly falls into place. Sometimes when my hair gets shaggy and if I know I’m going to be crawling on the floor stringing cables around the department, I put it up in ponytails. I save the rubber bands that hold bunches of herbs together in the grocery store. Most of the time they’re blue. Most of the time I wear jeans. I figure everything matches well enough.

  “Neither can I.”

  “So…you’re a pilot, right?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Then why are you here? What did you do? Wreck a plane?”

  As he looked at me, his eyes went dark. “Wrecked my head. I started getting migraines. Haven’t had one in two months, but I still have twenty-two months left until they’ll consider putting me back on flight status.”

  Migraines? I doubted it. Lots of people said they had migraines and didn’t really know what they were talking about. But I did. “Are you okay?”

  “Just peachy…or I will be when I can start flying again.” He tried to smile. “How long have you been working here?”

  “Ten years. And I would really like to have the rest of my office back, but I’ll let you stay on one condition.”

  He froze mid-chew and asked the question with his eyebrows.

  “I’m the department’s systems administrator. When you’re working on your computer, could you not eat or drink at your desk?”

  He swallowed the taco. Drank half of his liter of Coke. Smiled. “Sure.”

  Sure. That’s what they all said.

  “If you can do one thing for me.”

  “What?”

  “In the morning, first thing, I like a strong cup of coffee. No milk or sugar. But it’s got to be hot. I usually try to get to work around seven.”

  It was only the twinkle in his eye that kept me from flipping the contents of his tray onto his lap.

  “Come on, Jackie. I’m not a cadet. I know how to take care of a computer. Relax. I’ll be your best customer and your biggest fan. Trust me.”

  If only I’d known.

  After lunch, I got him up and running on the network. Showed him all the important department folders, such as the events calendar which no one ever bothered to look at, and the FYI folder holding “important” information dating back to 1995.

  “In case I might want to…?”

  “…sign up for the 1995 First Annual Christmas Potluck?”

  “Good idea. What should I bring?”

  “Squeeze cheese?”

  He glanced from the computer screen up to my eyes. “Squeeze cheese.” His eyes flicked again to the computer screen. “No problem. It’s my favorite. I’ll bring two.”

  It’s my favorite too. Not that I’d ever tell anyone.

  I also like Bugles.

  “Need anything else?”

  “Nope.” He was navigating his way through the department website. Clicking at a fast enough rate to make me dizzy.

  “If you need anything—” I slipped away behind the wall and into my own cubicle. Immersed myself in work. If nothing else, he made for a quiet cubicle mate.

  Several hours later, I almost jumped out of my skin when he poked his head around the wall.

  “I’m heading out. You leaving?”

  I shook my head, looking back toward the monitor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Still backing up the system.”

  “Oh. Well, see you next week.”

  Next week? It was only Monday. I turned to look at him across my shoulder.

  “I’m still on leave. House hunting.”

  Oh. “Good luck.”

  THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

  Sad day on the cubicle farm

  My office for one has been turned into cubicles for two. Of all the indignities of modern life, this is one of the worst. Not only have I been subjected to life contained between fake, padded “walls,” not only has the original poorly designed air circulation system been blocked by those “walls,” not only do I have to freeze in the winter and broil in the summer from the blockage, but now I also have to do it in the presence of someone else. And in a bizarre mathematical equation, dividing the space in two has made the injustice twice as bad.

  The only appeal I have is to Che Guevara, champion of the oppressed and powerless masses. I have to wonder how my boss would look upon such an austere work environment. Whether or not, in fact, he’d like life as one of the proletariat. Office space should be allotted on the basis of who does the most work.

  My new cubicle mate is not a bad guy, but he’s not good either. Let’s call him “John Smith.” He’s one of those types I’ve always secretly des
pised. One of those guys who’s done such a good job of figuring life out that he wants to do it for everyone else too. Tall, confident. Good-looking. To some people, maybe.

  Posted on June 5 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

  Comments

  Amen, sister. Workers of the world, unite!

  Posted by: justluvmyjob | June 5 at 08:09 PM

  Not as bad as it might have been.

  Posted by: philosophie | June 5 at 07:30 AM

  Three

  Joe cruised into work the next Monday with a large paper bag trailing cinnamon roll fumes and a superlarge cup of coffee.

  He stopped suddenly, midway between our cubicles, and sent a raised eyebrow greeting as he held the paper bag between his teeth and the coffee in a hand while he zipped and unzipped various pockets on his flight suit.

  “Ants in your pants? Oops, I forgot. My mistake. You’re still wearing your pajamas.”

  He set the paper bag down on my desk. “Ha-ha.” He wore a look of both offense and condescension. “These are not pajamas. I happen to be wearing my purse.”

  My lips turned up at the corners. I couldn’t help myself; it was too early in the morning to exert the required level of self-control. To call the flight suit a uniform is a misnomer. Uniform implies that a person needs to exhibit some sort of grooming in order to wear it. Flight suits are the military equivalent of sweat suits. They never have to be ironed, never have to be starched. You could hypothetically just roll out of bed, hop into one, and zip it up. They look like something a garbage collector would wear. An olive green coverall garment with elastic at the back of the waist meant to protect whatever is worn underneath. In fact, pilots call the suits “bags.”

  And they are in every sense of the word.

  When Joe said he was wearing his purse, he wasn’t kidding. There are pockets of assorted sizes running up and down the suit. Pockets on the arms, on the chest, on the legs. People hide their hats in there. Pens, pencils, wallets.

  “I hate to tell you this, Joe, but it’s summer. You might want to change purses. I’m thinking white. Then you could moonlight as a hazardous waste collector.”