Better than smoke signals.
A thought on work--
This morning I watched the world piece together while walking from the parking garage to the office. Lisa passed me in her red SUV, simultaneously waving and looking for a space. I imagined us walking to work together and chatting, like we were equals, like we were the same age and had applied for these jobs together. I looked down to the street and saw the two bankers who process my work's deposits daily, one a mousy pale girl with long bleached hair, the other a tall, tan-skinned woman I always think looks so beautiful, confident, and in charge. They looked like they might have carpooled. Seeing the businesses of Downtown come to life because of people like me is somehow comforting. It reminds me that these people have normal lives outside of Wachovia Bank and Scott/Kroner Law Firm. This will keep me sane one day longer.
Work teaches you the most useless things about yourself--like the fact that you prefer large paperclips to small ones. That while you thought you were a people-person, you find yourself hiding out in the corners of the file room. Drama is inescapable, even in the work world. That 2:29-2:30 is the longest minute of your life. Little coincidences pump enough adrenaline through you to call your whole phonebook over something no one cares about. Shortly after reading an email about JMU parking passes sent by Tara Armentrout, director of parking services, I filed a payment from a debtor with the last name Armentrout from Staunton. Husband, perhaps? Relative of some sort? I felt a rush.
Walking to the Charlottesville District Court to deliver a Notice of Satisfaction, I read that it was the payment of a 3,000 dollar debt from MCAM--the secretive patent business located in the Omni that Sam's mom used to work for. Holy Hell, suddenly I wanted to be a spy.
Then there are the simple outings to the bank that put a peculiar smile on your face. You question the sanity of the man walking down the mall and playing his flute, like a trucker version of the pied piper. You saw him at Bodos ordering bagels the day after he told you how poor he was and you gave him a couple of dollars. You admire the enthusiasm posted on the Eppie's specials board (that you pass at least four times a day, five times a week): "Eppie's fiesta bowl--better than a party in your pants!" You also notice they rotate between only three specials. Chicken and dumplings, fiesta bowl, and turkey chili. Mmmmm. No matter how much I complain, I think I'll miss fitting somewhere like an essential puzzle piece. I'll miss knowing all the bankers by name and what hours they work. I'll miss the papercuts and the receptionist's sugary southern drawl collapsing into an "ohhhhh crap". We hope she doesn't say that when people are in the waiting room--it might reflect badly on us. And yes, I'll even miss sitting in Margaret's office and listening to the chaotic drama being thrown every which way amongst everyone but me. They don't think I hear it, but ohhhh I hear it. I am the eyes and ears of the collections office, a quiet piggy bank of knowledge. Piecing together all their drama, I think I might know more about it than they do. It's funny how much you can love and hate work at the same time.
Work teaches you the most useless things about yourself--like the fact that you prefer large paperclips to small ones. That while you thought you were a people-person, you find yourself hiding out in the corners of the file room. Drama is inescapable, even in the work world. That 2:29-2:30 is the longest minute of your life. Little coincidences pump enough adrenaline through you to call your whole phonebook over something no one cares about. Shortly after reading an email about JMU parking passes sent by Tara Armentrout, director of parking services, I filed a payment from a debtor with the last name Armentrout from Staunton. Husband, perhaps? Relative of some sort? I felt a rush.
Walking to the Charlottesville District Court to deliver a Notice of Satisfaction, I read that it was the payment of a 3,000 dollar debt from MCAM--the secretive patent business located in the Omni that Sam's mom used to work for. Holy Hell, suddenly I wanted to be a spy.
Then there are the simple outings to the bank that put a peculiar smile on your face. You question the sanity of the man walking down the mall and playing his flute, like a trucker version of the pied piper. You saw him at Bodos ordering bagels the day after he told you how poor he was and you gave him a couple of dollars. You admire the enthusiasm posted on the Eppie's specials board (that you pass at least four times a day, five times a week): "Eppie's fiesta bowl--better than a party in your pants!" You also notice they rotate between only three specials. Chicken and dumplings, fiesta bowl, and turkey chili. Mmmmm. No matter how much I complain, I think I'll miss fitting somewhere like an essential puzzle piece. I'll miss knowing all the bankers by name and what hours they work. I'll miss the papercuts and the receptionist's sugary southern drawl collapsing into an "ohhhhh crap". We hope she doesn't say that when people are in the waiting room--it might reflect badly on us. And yes, I'll even miss sitting in Margaret's office and listening to the chaotic drama being thrown every which way amongst everyone but me. They don't think I hear it, but ohhhh I hear it. I am the eyes and ears of the collections office, a quiet piggy bank of knowledge. Piecing together all their drama, I think I might know more about it than they do. It's funny how much you can love and hate work at the same time.
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Comment by Andy Brunelle on August 15, 2008 at 7:37pm
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wow! great writing,Jone! Gram
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