Once, I had an office. It was on the twenty-fourth floor and had a view of the Chicago River. On sunny days, the river sparkled like a diamond. In my quiet, private office I could gaze undisturbed at the cityscape for hours. And gazing is about all I did.
Unfortunately, river gazing was not my actual profession. If it had been, I would easily be Second Vice President of the Barge Division by now. My real-life profession discouraged river gazing in favor of document gazing followed by regurgitation of those documents into bland e-mails. My micro-managing boss insisted these e-mails end with “Regards.” Not “Kind regards” or “Warm regards.” Just “Regards”, the salutation that loosely translates to “screw you.”
Eventually, I gave my boss my “Regards” and left my beautiful jewel of an office for a new job. My new job offered greater freedom in many respect. But it did not offer an office with an amazing view. Instead, I sat in a tenth floor cubicle with a view of its own walls. Watching the river was no longer an option. The closest I could get to the outside world was to loiter around the window-adjacent copy machine. Even then, the best view available was an occasional glimpse of a passing El train.
My refuge in the sky was no more. There was nothing pretty or interesting to look at. The barges would have to make their way down the river without my careful observation. But there was a much greater adjustment than the sights. Visually, the cube operated like a sensory deprivation tank. If it wasn’t dingy grey faux-walls or my computer, I didn’t see it. Sounds, however, were quite a different story. Cube world was a field test of the old wives tale that the dampening of one sense leads to the awakening of all others. I can report that is actually true. My vision was compromised and, to make up for it, I could hear everything.
At any moment, I could overhear at least six conversations. Topics ranged, but I found myself in the middle of a substantial number of medical dramas. Someone was always willing to discuss the results of their recent blood test. In between diagnosis sessions, I studied passive-aggression. “No, I have nothing against her. She’s great. It’s not her fault she’s incompetent. “And just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, I would hear the sound of a nail clipper.
