in medias res

American Dreamz

My thoughts of an office rebellion began on a subtle July Monday morning. I was sitting in the copy room, listening to the clunk-clink-whiirrr of the copying machine with the 100 page double-sided “Production Specifications Guide” I was copying for just because. It was 10:15 and hot, and suit jackets and cardigans were already being shed and manila folders serving as makeshift fans.

In the copy room, I found a plastic seat where I was eye-level with the top of the blue-green cabinets, each with a ripped sticky note, denoting the type of paper housed behind each door. I notice the layering of neutral colors in a puke-ish haze. Blue-green cabinets, taupe walls, burgundy-cushioned chairs, charcoal desktops. If I sit still too long, the sensor decides that I don’t exist and the light turns off; I flail wildly to get the lights back on.

Flailing fit over, I eye the post office boxes – a sturdy, thick translucent material with a wire rim. They would be useful in my upcoming move. Initially, I have no intention of stealing the boxes. Then, I see the black print at the bottom:

“Maximum penalty for theft or misuse of postal property $1,000 fine and 3 years imprisonment.”

I want to load up as many as I can carry and run for the stairs. If I get five boxes, does that mean $5,000 and fifteen years in the slammer? What type of “misuse” could I get into that would warrant such penalties? Stealing mail? Carting stolen money from a bank? Beating someone until they develop a faint bruise? Sledding down the stairs?

I’m slightly satisfied by this thought. The diplomacy and non-abrasiveness of everything here can make you a little crazy. I wonder if I’m alone in this – if this is just a cosmic sign that this isn’t where I need to spend the next 25 years, slowly developing a hunched back and bad eyes.

I’m also increasingly annoyed by all of the signs in the copy room. Over the mail bins and recycling tubs are torn and faded, and often handwritten notes with thinly veiled frustration.

No personal mail – take your letters down to the bin in B1!!

No Xerox wrappers in the Recycling Container.

Use only the Quick Copy paper in the copiers.

Load the paper according to the arrows on the OUTSIDE of the package.


If you use the copier in the afternoon, load more paper. Do not load it on top of the old paper, but move it to the top. If you don’t, the paper will misfeed [and everyone will hate you.]

Please don’t make a mess in here and if you do______ clean it up!! (This self-proclaimed “Friendly Reminder” was posted and dated October 15, 1998 by someone named Jenn or Tenn or Venn or Lenn – I can’t tell.)

At some point, someone decided to make these pretty by “matting” them on construction paper, but the mats have separated from their documents and both have been given a healthy pat to stay on the wall.

I’m frustrated by the rules and procedures and processes. That’s when I start to notice the signs of rebellion. Under “The Wrappers Contain a Plastic which is Not Recyclable!! Thank You!!” someone has written [You’re welcome!!]

Above the copier, the sign reads,
“To save toner, please leave[!!]

lid down when copying.”
I’m tempted to comply.

Someone has dumped the rubber bands and drawn a smiley face on the bottom of the container.

Someone else has written “SICK” three times in the dust on the wall.

Another one of my coworkers has adjusted his cubicle so one wall becomes a makeshift door. When he wants to be left alone, his cubicle just fades in with the rest of the walls. He’s safe.

Yes, the rebellion starts slowly. It will probably maintain that pace and only move as quickly as the herd ambling from the cafeteria and dispersing among all eighteen floors of our building. After all, this is an ROTC (Running Out The Clock) job for many people.

It’s not all bad. I get a sick satisfaction from finding copy errors or inconsistencies. It justifies my years of nerdiness. I also kind of like the fake spat I have with another office person. My camera phone has been helpful in sending threatening pictures to her work email address.

And, if I’m going to do the office thing, I don’t know that I could have a better group of people to work with. I get souvenirs from other people’s vacations, and hugs when I return from my own. My boss takes the time to say, “So, really, how are you doing, Tara?” at least once a day. The other part-time editor has become a close friend and advisor. In thirty years, if I can be half as cute and sexy and wise as these women, I’ll be thrilled. They make my future not seem so daunting. I like watching the copy boy mature from a party boy to a committed and loving young man. I love the occasion poems and racy stories that come from the last person I would have expected. And there’s the office hippie who continually surprises me with the places he has been and the things he has done. (I think I’ve mentioned these people before, but they deserve another mention.)

Despite all of these good things, I’m still going a little stir-crazy. Maybe that will push me to be more productive in my non-office hours? Right now, that involves reading Anna Karenina (Tolstoy’s brilliant) and planning a trip to NYC to research for my thesis and to PA to visit Mike. TWO MONTHS since I’ve seen that guy – he has been working and we didn’t think we could swing a visit. I leave this coming Thursday.

Originally, I was to be leaving for UF and my Ph.D. right now. I’m slowing down to enjoy the inevitable changes that will occur over the next year.

Blow out the candles, make a wish.

posted by tara @ 10:09 AM