written inaction

I think we’re going to have to start delving inside soon.  It’s not that strange things don’t happen during my day, but since I’m cooped up in an office now, what seems funny to me probably isn’t.  It’s operationally funny. 

The disarming thing about office life is that the Dilbert cartoons are right on the money.  In just my three days there I’ve experienced almost all of what Scott Adams is drawing about.  Awkward elevator rides, endless conversations about nothing, office supply theft—they’re all there, and that’s great.  For now. 

After I finished my work for the day, my supervisor took me around to meet the rest of the company.  I assumed she meant the rest of the area in the legal department, but I was off by about three floors.  We were running the gauntlet, and only halfway through did I realize that she actually meant every person in the three-floor company. 

When we started, we did so with flare—the CEO who keeps three offices in the various parts of the country.  I’d give the man the keys to my company too if I’d been greeted with a handshake like that.  Strong, confident, meaty—this was the hand of a man who generated profits.  We worked down the line, floor by floor, and I began to realize the futility of this exercise.  It was a wonderful gesture, but I would be lucky if I remembered 10% of these names.  My attempts at choreographed small talk were challenging.  Silence after an introduction is uncomfortable. Shooting the shit for 5 minutes while your supervisor waits to introduce you to the next 400 people isn’t much better.  And trying to engage everyone without using the same tired lines in front of your supervisor is no easy task either.  Half an hour later I am back in my office with a hand that would be a microbiologist’s wet dream.  I don my hat and head to the men’s room to wash my hands and get down the elevator before anyone whose name I’ve already forgotten tries to talk to me.  My ears pop on the way down.