Life in my cube - Short Story

Literary Review, Summer, 2002 by Bino A. Realuyo

I. The Cubicle

Cubicles: I've known them for a little more than ten years now. Or perhaps longer, for I was a certified Manhattan Temp during my summer months away from college. I've worked in all kinds of offices, from downtown investment firms to uptown hospitals. But always in a cubicle, box-shaped, rib-high fences made of plastic and cloth, sometimes gray, sometimes black, but always in dark colors, to contrast the light shades of the office walls. My cubicle right now has these nice little cushiony walls on which I can stick pins or scotchtape pictures, memos, or travel souvenirs in form of tchotchkas (hooked on carefully stretched-out paper clips) from my co-workers' vacations. Yesterday, I taped on it a group picture of my co-workers from our last Christmas party, which gets them smiling whenever they see it. Nothing like a cubicle that makes people smile. We always return favors. Smiles are good favors to return. Everyone has hanged on their cushiony walls all the little gifts I have brought them from the countries I've hidden in during my vacation. The latest ones were the variety of key chains from my San Francisco trip, purchased on a post-quake sale, a dozen for $6.00. A generic souvenir for all is the best souvenir, and the easier they are to pack in brown bags, the better. The little wall displays are a testament that we all somehow manage to get out of the office at least once a year; and whether we like it or not, we have to buy something for everyone to prove it. I remember bringing back food from the Philippines. When the box of goodies was finished, the memory was lost. Not a good idea. Good thing I bought many hut-shaped key chains carved out of wood with bamboo leaves for rooftops, a work of art. They all found their way to my co-workers cubicle walls. Whether the souvenirs please the recipients is another story. I know that the next spring cleaning will find them all in the trash can. But for certain, they will be replaced by a new set of tchotchkas, all to make this wonder of the twentieth century called a cubicle a little more palatable during our daily dose of routine office life.

II. Stuff

On the C-shaped desk protruding out of the cubicle wall: a 19-inch computer monitor (the largest in my office), folders scattered all over, a green lamp that has a note stuck on it (says "finial," a missing lamp gadget which I have been trying to buy for years), supplies and more office supplies. My desk has been consistently voted the messiest in my office. I am not masterful in filing. I don't like the idea of putting anything away. So I leave paperwork on my desk. Paper grows on my desk like bad story ideas that visit me from 9 to 5. I have paper guilt. I store them on my desk until the day I realize I haven't looked at them for so long they must be useless. From time to time, I tell my co-workers I don't understand why we waste so much paper. Why we don't have a recycle bin. I don't understand why we send each other tons of memos, when interoffice e-mail is just as effective, or a more personal verbal reminder would probably suffice. They hand me the memos anyway. In the office, we don't have political convictions. Paper has become as necessary as paper clips. Without paper, we will not learn about our next staff meeting. We won't know we have to bring our own breakfast. The same principle goes with coffee. Everyone has coffee on his desk, when most of us don't even drink it. Coffee is an office necessity you see, a habit much like turning on the computer as soon as one walks into his space. It has to appear on desks in the morning in a brown bag before we hang our coats in the closet. We don't have to touch them, however. They just have to be there. A friendly support system (the way tchotchkas bring smiles). I have stains to prove my coffee habit. Cup stains crisscross my desk like viruses happily mating. Sometimes there are little concentric circles on my folders, sometimes in the middle of the desk, or my calendar, and some dried spill here and there on my keyboard. I clean them up at the end of the week before they take the form of a religious apparition. Sometimes I stare at them and am reminded that no matter what, life is not so bad after all.

III. Officewear

My income goes to the clothes I wear. I'm addicted to designer labels. They help my shattered writerly ego. I buy clothes to show off for the few minutes I'm out in the streets and for the hours I spend in the office. I'm especially conscious about my pants. They have to be the right cut. Most stores sell pants to men with waistlines of 40 and above. Two of me can fit in one. And they are so long so that getting them hemmed might mean getting an extra pair of shorts. For the right cut of pants, I go to boutiques. They shouldn't have pleats. They should be cut straight from the waist. And if they are bell-bottomed, the better. My legs need to breathe for the hours I spend sitting down. Anything tight will clog my leg pores. And whoever says hairy legs don't suffer from the daily wear and tear of pants. So my office pants need the space to breathe. The color is always dark. Everything I wear is dark. From my jacket to my dress shirts to my coats. Dark. If you wear something colorful in New York City, I can guarantee you the subway train won't stop for you. Fashion in Manhattan only comes in shades of gray. And I follow such rules. It's black, gray or brown, all tones, all shades. No overtly blinding colors of the State of Florida. No one wears colors in my office. It's the dictates of our fashionable inner child. She believes in darker shades of reality as much as we do. She worships in the religion of Prada, Calvin Klein, and DKNY. She knows that a tinge of color might just add too much excitement to our controlled eight-hour routine. From time to time, someone wears color, and that becomes the momentary topic of the day. Colors are so identifiable that you can't wear the same outfit again. I think people who had a bad breakfast or didn't sleep well wear colorful clothes. Colors don't hide illnesses. For insomniacs, wear black.