Froda

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#1: Mrs. Roboto


Vanessa inhabits the cublet* beside me. Her car's license plate reads V-Vans. I will be referring to her as V, Vanessa , or Vanny.


We both began on the same day. 08/08/08. I remember stretching out my freshly tanned arm and shaking my boss’s hand, flashing her my crest whitened smile. I was full of hope and devoid of sense. Ten minutes later she shuffled V and I into the back storage room, ushering us to computers placed side by side.


And thus began the unnatural and somewhat terrifying twinship.


In the offices of WV, Vanny and I come as a set. We work in tandem on everything, completing one mundane task after another. We collaborate on grammar & text & changes & technicalities. When I take a swig of my tap water, she swallows. When I get up to pee, she follows.


Inevitably the old socks brand of comfort offered by this symbiotic relationship wears thin. It comes down to this: old V has more stamina than I... or any other human on this planet.


Whereas I leave not a minute past five, she stays for ten, twenty minutes extra to “check her changes.” She takes shorter breaks than I do, she doesn’t leave the office for lunch. I suspect she never leaves at all, and parks in a nearby parking lot to sleep in flashy V-Vans. She chats with duller than dirt coworkers and tries her best to hang with them outside the professional environment. I avoid eye contact and dodge facebook requests. She grins and nods and spouts positive statements. I say, “really?”


I am starting to suspect that Vanessa has a plug. This is the only explanation for her Olympian endurance. She keeps her generator in V-Vans and during one of her many bathroom breaks she heads outside for a recharging sesh. Or maybe she just eats batteries the way I scarf down candy from the secretary's jar. When I leave tonight, in 32 minutes, 20 seconds, I will scope out her car for evidence.


**not a typo. On my first day I erroneously referred to the grey cubicles as “cubes.” My boss informed me of my mistake: “Oh, you been the cublets? The creative development ghetto?” Her words, not mine.

sssssnake.

Yesterday there was a snake outside the office. In a blur of kakhi and ann taylor, the employees stormed the windows hoping to spot this slithering creature. It was like Santa Claus and the incredible hulk were strolling by arm in arm.

I, of course, didn't emerge from my cublet until most of the hoopla had died. Then I walked to Omar's office (yes, yes he has an office) and peered out his window(and yes, he has a window). I saw what looked like a brown leather belt slide into a bush. My response was to ask Omar if I could have a can of coke. He said no.

After the rejection, Matt and I went for a walk. We looked for the now famous amphibian, but all we saw were some rogue beetles and a few cigarette butts (probably mine from 9 days ago).

When I returned, two unread emails flashed in my inbox. Someone had taken photos of the thing and sent them company wide. here:


and guess what the email said? Disclaimer: I PROMISE I am not lying (Matt back me up).

It said:

RED ALERT WE HAVE SNAKES!

HAPPY HUNTING, YUMMY!

K#####

and who is this K###, might you ask? He's the creepy sales guy who walks by my desk and leers at me.

it's a small office after all.

dricky, dricky.

from the crossed cow.

player 2. Lets call him Drick, because his real name is just as senseless & funny sounding.

Drick wants to be a writer. Currently his away message reads:

read and write. it makes you right.

self explanatory?

My problem with him isn’t that he wants to pursue the literary arts. My problem is that he wants to be famous. He doesn’t want to be that noble writer toiling over a well crafted novel. He doesn’t want to write every day, or read every day, or agonize over words and sentences and the dreaded comma. He wants to be a famous writer, world renowned for his mind numbing intellectualism, awed for his intelligence and revered for his talent. TALENT.

what qualifies me to make this judgment? I wanted the exact same thing when I was 16.

Evidence: his 1980’s duct taped head phones, the gigantic black framed glasses – which I really don’t think are w/prescription – adding a “verily” and “as well” and “that would be splendid/lovely.” The list goes on, but this is really not about Drick and his big aspirations. This is about Drick’s girlfriend.

Back in January I attended one of Drick’s get together’s . I think the e-vite was titled “board games and fun.” This was back in the days of trying to get to know my coworkers, trying to make office life work. So I went. I endured the tour of Drick’s one bedroom apartment, wowwwed at the many, MANY photographs of him jumping – literally, him jumping up and down – and said “you have a lot of books” to his collection of classics and beat authors. (I actually opened Ulysses and the spine cracked, first sign it has never been opened).

But then I met Drick’s girlfriend, Jennifer. To my surprise, she was very… real? She was tall, sort of lanky, with a toothy smile, and an endearing band of freckles spread across her nose. We talked about literature, and what she studied, and what I studied, and how much we love to read. She was gracious and kind and funny. She reminded me of my best friend, Amanda, which automatically gives her top marks in my book.

Did Jennifer alter my office relations? Drick’s antics still bug the hell out of me, but I find it really hard to dislike him with the full force of my moodiness when I like his significant other so much.

Jennifer and Drick give me hope. If a doofus like Drick can find a good one, I can too.

Monday. 49 minutes until I go home!
**

a conversation (unedited) between me & the V.

robinamcintosh@gmail.com says:
what are you doing
vans says:
there were more changes when I finished my last batch I grabbed a couple
vans says:
I think there was one left
robinamcintosh@gmail.com says:
no i already grabbed it
vans says:
how efficient of you
vans says:
putting me to shame as usual :) :) :)
robinamcintosh@gmail.com says:
please.

office - place.

My day revolves around the candy jar at the front, the tea machine in the break room, and the random pages hanging from my cublet walls. Currently I have a Christopher David Ryan heart w/small text inside it: Get in here.

But now the creepy sales guy, who zips by my sunny cublet no less than 12 times a day, is staring it like it's a pin up from playboy. Maybe said sales guy would like to "get in" my heart and I should take it down. If I were him I would think the "Get in here" was a secret signal, or maybe an affront, seducing him in a coy & censored way.

But not everybody is as creative as I am.

I think I'm going to start writing about life at the 101 Innovation.

It's rich with material and a wasteland of intellect. Paradox at it's best.

Have WONDERFUL weekends, I know I will :)

taking a break at work. 11:00 AM - 11:15 AM.

could be worse.
source: christopher david ryan

I am standing outside of a beige office building. The building houses the company I work for, the cubicle I sit in, the colleagues I work with to produce writing I am not too proud of… with every line of text I edit I surrender some soul. Not because I am dramatic, or a drama queen, and yes, the thought has crossed my mind. But because I contribute to the defilement of the every day. Ad text. Ad title. Small bursts of bore mined by search engines, the hated and the loved king Google.

Everything is popping and sudden and quick, nothing takes it's time, slowly grows warmer, like a whitman poem.

Occasionally I let my mind wander to thoughts of next year, my next life. The term “entry level” withering in my memory.

But for now I keep editing and changing and conversing with the middle man. So many middle men that I don’t recognize people at the ends. Are they even there?