Office Space
The irony of being short of breath in an open air office wasn’t lost on me. Still no amount of twisted humor could save me from this suffocating feeling. How was I supposed to distinguish this familiar sensation from the numerous times I’d felt it before? Was it the same or had it grown and evolved the way I had since graduating? What was I so anxious about anyway? I had a job, a “real” one for the first time in my life. I had a desk, a hand-me-down mouse, a chair that swiveled, seemingly endless amounts of drip coffee waiting for me in the form of tiny Nespresso pods. Bad for the environment, great for sustaining my anxiety disguised as productivity. Was this what I had studied endlessly for? Staying in on Friday nights to prep for the SATs, cramming for my Chemistry exams at 6:30am while sitting in the senior parking lot, receiving a perfect attendance award for all four years of high school? Who was that award for really, my parents? Even they didn’t give a shit. The list of sacrifices outweighed what was waiting for me on the other side. But maybe I was the problem. It felt that way in this office at least.
Everyone seated around me seemed to care about the job they were doing. Inserting data into spreadsheets until their eyes bled. They’d skip lunch, or eat theirs while hovering over their keyboards. Horny for overtime. Lunch was for the weak. I ate raw almonds until my TMJ acted up or until the taste of the paste they created in my mouth turned me off from food altogether. It was a strategy I’d developed within this strange post graduate environment. There was no time for enjoying actual food. Plus who was eating great food in LA anyway?
My desk faced the enormous glass windows looking out to the vastness of North Hollywood, which up until now I wasn’t sure even existed. It was perhaps a region I’d skimmed over on a map, back when I relied heavily on the Garmin clipped to my dashboard. A dinosaur by now, technology wise. I didn’t think North Hollywood was an actual place, let alone a destination. Were we still in LA? If you had told me we were in Nevada, I would have believed you. Hills and mountains filling the landscape view from the 23rd floor. It didn’t matter where I was though. I never left my desk. And on the rare occasion that I did, that I was permitted to, like when my bladder finally gave way to the endless drip coffee consumed, I’d try to use as little time as possible. Allowing myself the bare minimum in the bathroom, I moved as quickly as my business casual attire would permit. And on most occasions, no matter how swiftly I made it back to my desk, there was a sticky note waiting for me upon my return, stuck to the side of my desktop.
“Where Are You?” Wet ink on a fresh yellow square clinging to my computer’s edge. “I need these scripts faxed over to our New York office ASAP.” My boss’s follow up would echo from his office, positioned just a few feet over from my cubicle. He had but trace amounts of awareness. Of himself, of the space he took up. Of my hummingbird sized bladder.
Somehow in 2012, we were still sending faxes. Or perhaps it was only my boss who clung to this medium. Fixated with this form of medieval communication. But sending a fax gave me the chance to stand which was a rare and beautiful occasion. Reason to celebrate even. I’d take my stack of scripts, sometimes travel itineraries, or expense reports or nondescript yet confidential documents over to our enormous fax and copy machine down the hall. Past hot-Charlie-from-the-web-team’s cave-like office. Around the corner from resting-bitch-face-office-manager-Nicole and right next to new-guy-Brad, who looked uncomfortably similar to Joseph Gordon Levitt. Sending a fax was a reason to move my body, take a tour of the office. I seized the opportunity, despite the task at hand. Carefully curating a route through rows of desks and spacious offices sealed behind glass doors, I took full advantage of this fleeting freedom. Perhaps moving and making small pauses and pit stops in an attempt to fill the void. Calculated albeit brief encounters with humans, some of which were attractive young people. An attempt to fill the gaping hole where perhaps a kind, non threatening type of attractive man could live for a while. Talk to me or listen. A kind of interpersonal communication that didn’t take place via Skype or Gchat or anything else that demanded my eyes remain captive to various forms of screens. If I could find anyone, even just for a few moments amongst the remarkably young and moderately professional group of people taking up real estate on the 23rd floor, I’d welcome them with open arms. Communication IRL. I thought about this while stacking my documents and sliding them gently into a manila envelope for travel purposes. Me, draped in a mal fitting J Crew cardigan and a pair of pants that fit significantly looser when I had started this job 6 months ago. I followed the sound, the warm buzz of the copy machine, the distinct tone created by warm paper slicing through the air. Papers quietly threatening to become airborne if given the chance. Still despite their aerodynamics they did what they were designed to do. Falling one after another, obediently into each other. I stood listening to the song of the machinery. A hymn radiating from behind its plastic insides. It was here where I could loiter and daydream safely for a few minutes. Of a life outside of North Hollywood. Which once again, from where I was standing, staring through the east facing sky high windows I thought, “I truly could be in Nevada right now.”
Weeks prior my roommates had generously bought me a wax at the place down the block. They thought it might help be a catalyst for positive change. Though when I Googled it and talked to other people, it seemed like if anything getting a wax down there could jinx me somehow. Getting everything perfectly manicured only to enter a new season of celibacy. A taste of cruel irony I’d experienced before. Still it was a risk I was willing to take. Technically I’d never waxed, only shaved. A rookie mistake and now my entire area was littered with ingrown hairs and itchy patches growing in from parts of my skin I didn’t remember even having hair to begin with. $60 for a bikini wax? I guess by not getting waxes for all of these years I’d been inadvertently saving money. For my future apartment in New York City one day, maybe. Or for a chance to be financially free from the burden of thankless twelve hour days via my small sliver above an intern-status job.
I made an appointment at a safe time. Directly after work on a Friday. The day of the week I, at least in theory, was released at a reasonable hour. I knew if I didn’t time it right when I was released from work, I’d never go. This scheduling left me no excuse. And so on this first Friday of September, a hot and sticky day that felt much closer to the thick of summer than it did the beginnings of fall, I walked into a salon. One I’d only just learned existed right down the block from my enormous office building. I must have walked by it dozens of times without truly seeing it. Perhaps this was a metaphor for how I’d been living, blind to my surroundings. A bit numb even. Though I hoped not.
Nondescript from the outside, softly chic on the inside. Pale shades of purple decorated the walls and the surfaces. Candles lined the front desk and the table in the waiting area, though none were actually lit. Still the air smelled like a freshly bathed rich woman. Everyone working behind the desk and floating in and out of the back rooms seemed like maybe they were extras at Coachella. Not there by choice, but rather hired to be. Planted in order to make the rest of the crowd look better by association. Bringing the average BMI down and the average height up. Why did it feel like these females were judging me already? Or was it just me, projecting? Did they somehow know just by looking at me that I had sensitive skin and a low threshold for pain? I wasn’t even naked yet. Finally I was acknowledged by a wafy brunette stationed behind the counter named Chloe. Did I want the bikini or the brazillian? She wanted to know. Was the difference really that significant? Was Chloe going to help me with the decision making or just stare past me, through the window facing the steady flow of cars racing toward the 101? Also, how long did it take her to commit to all of those hand tattoos? I wondered.
Jen, who sat to my right in our vast open air office, had recommended a landing strip. But once again, in order to save myself the embarrassment, I had to Google it. Was the landing strip something I should want on my own? Or was it for the other person? How come no guy up until now had mentioned any of this? Did they even care? I stood there, eyeing the wax bar menu. “Bejeweled pussy art.” Were they for real? A diamond encrusted labia? What for? And wouldn’t those crystals, in theory, fall off, if all went according to plan?
I looked up and saw that Chloe’s mouth was moving but I couldn’t comprehend what she was saying. The tone of her voice didn’t travel well through the sound of early 90s R&B blasting through the salon’s sound system. Aaliyah. Then Brandy. Then Natalie Imbruglia? For good measure perhaps. It was almost like I was back in my parents’ house again. Contemplating which shade of eyeshadow to pair with my Michael Stars tee. A sad yet pure attempt at a visual mating call I’d been trained to think could prove successful though technically I had zero first hand evidence of this.
