On Cubicle Relations

As many of us have the misfortune to know, office life is humdrum and mundane. Cubicles are reminiscent of a beehive, a beehive that has the ability to take one’s soul. Sounds usually permeate theair: keyboards clacking, people talking during the course of their work, multiple American Idol rejects giving us their renditions, a capella, of R & B hits. A noisy hum one can use to zone out and achieve that ultimate of goals—the ability to sleep with one’s eyes open. Every so often, one snaps out of their fugue state. For instance, two weeks ago I needed a project. My formative years left me with agaping hole in the education of any red-blooded American male; I do not have the knowledge of how to make a paper-football. I set about rectifying this grievous of faults with the aid of my trusty smartphone. After reading a plethora of how-to articles I became a master at the art of making paper footballs. To say I am the equivalent of a Van Gogh or a Degas in making paper footballs is an understatement

Surprisingly I found this could not contain my youthful exuberance and quickly began looking for other entertainments. And then lo, my cubicle neighbor deposits a hand-wrapped present. “How are you doing today Michael?” I look around. Surely I misheard. I know no one named Michael. In fact, the only time I even think the name Michael is when I am praying to that ArchAngle of the same name before I vanquish my roomates in horseshoes. “I’m doing great Mark,” I say. “How are you?” “Doing well Michael.” There it is again. These vowels and consonants form out of Mark’s luscious lips, giving me a moniker I’ve never responded to before. I’m confused. We’ve been neighbors for nie on two weeks now. Is he doing this on purpose? Have I offended him? Could that pedestrian hit and run I was involved in have finally caught up with me? I had thought we were going to become chums. I could see myself being invited to meet his, what appear to be charming, children in the Navy one day when they come back on leave. I’m hurt. There is a welling in my eye, and a tremble to my lip. He starts again with this vitriol. “Have you had your coffee yet this morning Michael?” I shake my head no, too afraid to speak least my voice betray me. “You should go and get yourself a cup, it’ll get you through the day no problem Mike,” he says in a voice with the faint hints of an African dialect in his soulful timbre. I reply sotto voice, “I don’t drink coffee,” my eyes downcast, unwilling to let him see the hurt in them. “Oh,” he says, “I see,” and ambles away. I gaze after, knowing things will never be the same.

And then something happened, as I watch him pour another cup of black stimulant. I feel a hardening in my heart. My gut clenches. I realize something. What could have been a friendship to be exemplified throughout the ages has turned to something else, something darker. I realize Mark is going to be the Professor Moriarity to my Holmes, the Cyclops to my Oddessius, the mayonnaise and cheese sandwich to my P B & J. I begin plotting my revenge. It will not be fast Mark, this I guarantee. You have wounded me to the quick, and for this you must pay. Several days pass as I bide my time. There is planning to be done you see. The day arrives when my first sortie against my neighbor to the West is to occur. I notice, out of the corner of my eye, as he leaves his cubicle none too quickly, but not laggardly either. He must be going to the restroom. How’s that coffee treating you now Mark? I realize there is but little time to waste. I quickly pass into his cubicle and tarry but several moments going about my nefarious deed. I return to my lair undetected. I can’t but help feel the tinniest bit of satisfaction as I await Mark’s return.

What ho! I spy Mark. He sits down and reaches for his mouse as his rheumy eyes gaze into the computer screen. He moves his hand, and in the doing so, a puzzled frown mars his ebony brow. He moves his mouse faster. Why isn’t my mouse working, he probably muses to himself. I don’t know Mark, I don’t know. I wonder if my mouse came unplugged, he thinks and checks on. Nope, not that. I wonder what it could be. Mark continues moving his mouse faster and faster. Yeah Mark, what doesn’t work once will surely work a second, third, or fourth time around. Mark is clearly getting agitated. Thankfully the faces of his loved one’s are but pictures and cannot see the raving beast he is becoming. “Dammit!” “What’s wrong with this cursed thing?” He utters in extreme annoyance. I might know Mark. He continues along in this same vein for a while and finally calls IT. They come and check over everything. Rummaging in files on the computer, etc.. Finally, this wise soul turns over the mouse. “Well Mark, it seems someone has played a prank on you,” this bearded defender of the technological realm muses. “Someone has placed a piece of paper from a hole punch over your sensor.” TAKE THAT YOU VILE WRETCH!! SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS! I think victoriously. This has been but the first skirmish in a war of attrition Mark. I shall celebrate properly anon, but I must confess, I did have the slightest of Chesire cat grins curling my lips as I strode purposefully down the hall. There is more to come Mark, much more.