Monday, October 07, 2002
Here we go - Much better.... Hi colgan :)
English 015
September 29, 2002
View From The Desk
The room where I sit everyday for hours is usually just the right temperature. I'm never cold and I'm never hot, however, its flickering fluorescent lights don't do much for my throbbing headache. The buzz of the computer monitors in the next room creates a surreal calmness in the back of my mind. The stern shapes surrounding me, the reservation books, the ancient gray type writer, and the endless rows of room keys, set the attitude for the work day.
I like sitting behind a desk, especially when my knees hurt, it gives me a break from standing. Seeing people rock back and forth in indecision in front of the counter may be somewhat of a power trip for me. The neat and tidy cabinet of board games and cards is intimidating for them, and I hold the key.
Every day hundreds of people file through the front office. Some are fat, some are skinny, some are old, and some are even older, but each has to come to terms with the tall registration desk. It leers at guests making the pilgrimage, despite the pretty violet flowers on its edge. The tall, flat screen monitors sit like sentinels on the right and the left sides, and every paper pamphlet that lines its side seems to shout superiority.
There are small squares of couches and chairs arranged in an uninviting manner. Each square has a high backed chair and a long couch. The couch has hard, pointed, 70's reminiscent, wooden corners. In the square is a table as well - just far enough out of reach to prove useless and just big enough to take up all the floor space. When people sit they hit their knees and curl up in pain. And when they sit, the burnt orange plaid cushions fall under them displaying their age. I often regret the age and atmosphere of this place. Its as if it eats up everything bright and individual.
At the opposite end of the lobby are the handicap doors. "Handicap" meaning that they are the ones with the disability and in no way can help others who are legitimately disabled. The button to activate these mechanical mammoths is located near the bottom of a wooden bulletin board. On this board is located every unnecessary bit of information on the local wildlife you'd ever want to, or be afraid to ask. The pictures of little black bears gnawing on someone's hand and large swarms of hornets draw the line of sight upwards and away from the button. Instead of reaching down to open the door the affect is to stand instead and read about the Yellow-Bellied Sap Sucker. When the doors open they take their time, as if knowing you are standing there reading about birds.
My chair is behind the desk. From there I can see each guest walking about. Their cautious pacing in and out of the adjoining rooms echoes the graveness and edge of the office. It is just in reach of the long corded phone, just out of reach of the cash box, and high enough that I have to jump to get up onto it. To my left is the box of 945 data entry sheets to be processed. To my right is the list of bills yet to be paid, all written out on pink slips of paper. I hate pink. Those are stacked according to type and location and placed in a box to be counted and sorter further. "Numbers Day" is recognizable from a distance as are the grimaced faces of the employees. Each statistic is stapled to a sheet which sits under the pink slips on my right.
The handwriting on those slips is only legible to the select few - the master breed of secretary. Those are the ones who can glance at a detail sheet and know the guest like a sister or brother. Or run their hand through the file drawer and come up with the right dark blue, white labeled folder instantly. They scream at the cluttered walls in frustration because of empty people and ooze a smile when the pale beige phone is pressed against their head. They smell of perfume and shampoo and their neat blouses always represent the best of the company. Initiation into their kind involves mastering the seven-line phone in each office and the call signs for every individual who talks on the radio by the copier.
The men who clean the office usually look as stern as the design on the letterhead. As if his responsibility is to the atmosphere of the building. When they replace bulbs they bronze and hang the old ones like the dollar bills that line the first wall inside the office door. They leave, however, the brightest thing in the room intact. Kind of like the last hope of help. When everything else becomes another man's treasure, the soft red rose petals get to stay on the edge of the desk, next to the computer, right in front of me.
English 015
September 29, 2002
View From The Desk
The room where I sit everyday for hours is usually just the right temperature. I'm never cold and I'm never hot, however, its flickering fluorescent lights don't do much for my throbbing headache. The buzz of the computer monitors in the next room creates a surreal calmness in the back of my mind. The stern shapes surrounding me, the reservation books, the ancient gray type writer, and the endless rows of room keys, set the attitude for the work day.
I like sitting behind a desk, especially when my knees hurt, it gives me a break from standing. Seeing people rock back and forth in indecision in front of the counter may be somewhat of a power trip for me. The neat and tidy cabinet of board games and cards is intimidating for them, and I hold the key.
Every day hundreds of people file through the front office. Some are fat, some are skinny, some are old, and some are even older, but each has to come to terms with the tall registration desk. It leers at guests making the pilgrimage, despite the pretty violet flowers on its edge. The tall, flat screen monitors sit like sentinels on the right and the left sides, and every paper pamphlet that lines its side seems to shout superiority.
There are small squares of couches and chairs arranged in an uninviting manner. Each square has a high backed chair and a long couch. The couch has hard, pointed, 70's reminiscent, wooden corners. In the square is a table as well - just far enough out of reach to prove useless and just big enough to take up all the floor space. When people sit they hit their knees and curl up in pain. And when they sit, the burnt orange plaid cushions fall under them displaying their age. I often regret the age and atmosphere of this place. Its as if it eats up everything bright and individual.
At the opposite end of the lobby are the handicap doors. "Handicap" meaning that they are the ones with the disability and in no way can help others who are legitimately disabled. The button to activate these mechanical mammoths is located near the bottom of a wooden bulletin board. On this board is located every unnecessary bit of information on the local wildlife you'd ever want to, or be afraid to ask. The pictures of little black bears gnawing on someone's hand and large swarms of hornets draw the line of sight upwards and away from the button. Instead of reaching down to open the door the affect is to stand instead and read about the Yellow-Bellied Sap Sucker. When the doors open they take their time, as if knowing you are standing there reading about birds.
My chair is behind the desk. From there I can see each guest walking about. Their cautious pacing in and out of the adjoining rooms echoes the graveness and edge of the office. It is just in reach of the long corded phone, just out of reach of the cash box, and high enough that I have to jump to get up onto it. To my left is the box of 945 data entry sheets to be processed. To my right is the list of bills yet to be paid, all written out on pink slips of paper. I hate pink. Those are stacked according to type and location and placed in a box to be counted and sorter further. "Numbers Day" is recognizable from a distance as are the grimaced faces of the employees. Each statistic is stapled to a sheet which sits under the pink slips on my right.
The handwriting on those slips is only legible to the select few - the master breed of secretary. Those are the ones who can glance at a detail sheet and know the guest like a sister or brother. Or run their hand through the file drawer and come up with the right dark blue, white labeled folder instantly. They scream at the cluttered walls in frustration because of empty people and ooze a smile when the pale beige phone is pressed against their head. They smell of perfume and shampoo and their neat blouses always represent the best of the company. Initiation into their kind involves mastering the seven-line phone in each office and the call signs for every individual who talks on the radio by the copier.
The men who clean the office usually look as stern as the design on the letterhead. As if his responsibility is to the atmosphere of the building. When they replace bulbs they bronze and hang the old ones like the dollar bills that line the first wall inside the office door. They leave, however, the brightest thing in the room intact. Kind of like the last hope of help. When everything else becomes another man's treasure, the soft red rose petals get to stay on the edge of the desk, next to the computer, right in front of me.
Chicklette 5:46 PM
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