The Cubicle Next Door Read Online Free

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 despised. 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
     
    J oe 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