Confesions of an Office Boy: Episode 2 of 5

For a few years in my "mid to late twenties" I worked at a Legal Services company. Frequently, I emailed little quips and blurbs about my job to my mother. She kept them all. Many years after when I decided to start writing I put a bunch of them together in the hopes of making a story. I cleaned them up, adding bits here and there, but I could never quite make them into anything I felt "publishable." The writing style and tone were fine at the time, but changing them to any sort of "literary standard" drastically lost the sincerity in which they were written. So, I gave up on them... until now!!! I hate that I just did that, said "until now" prefaced by an ellipsis. Anyway, I'm going to "release" what I had put together on Facebook and on my shitty blog that I pay no attention to. This is "Episode 2 of 5" of Confessions of an Office Boy.

Confession of an Office Boy 2 of 5

Email #7:

When I’m bored I look at the recycling bin under my desk. Someone empties it every night because it’s always bare in the morning. Yesterday, before I left work, on a blank piece of paper I wrote, “Hi there” in big black marker and placed it on top of the pile of used paper. The cleaner must have seen it and I’m left to wonder if this may have made an impact on his or her life: a smile, a chuckle, confusion, anger at a perceived demeaning act? Today I’ve left a new note that says, “BOO.”

Email #8:

Previously, I wrote that I was leaving messages in my recycling box for the office cleaner. It all came to an end a few minutes ago as I was heading to the toilet. There was a woman in the hall bagging garbage. She stopped what she was doing when she noticed me coming. She said, “Your ponies have lost their food.”

The fact that Windsor and Palmeras had lost their food- precisely cut yellow work-order forms made to resemble hay- was only discovered about an hour ago. I put two-and-two together and deduced that she was the office cleaner. This completely ruined all the preconceptions I’d developed about this person: she wasn't young, or an immigrant, or an old man with a hunched back. She was like anyone else in my office. In fact, she is friends with half the office staff and is in here frequently. She often goes for lunch with Bella, my boss. I see this person at least ten times a day. Her name is Flo.

Anyway, I'm off to make more hay.

Email #9:

Bella is my favourite person in the office. Most people don’t say that about their boss. She’s about sixty-four, about to retire. You can see it in her eyes, how she just doesn’t care, is going through the motions. She just pulled me into the office- a client complained about the hole in my jeans. She closed the door, poured us some tea, and offered me a Girl Guide cookie. We talked about Austria for a bit- where she’s from- and our plans for the weekend- she’s going para-sailing with her son. In regards to the jeans she told me not worry, the client that complained owes the company for three months of services. I gave her a high-five when I left.

Email #10:

On a sad note, I think I may have to put my stapler down. It’s a Swingtime Optima, silver in colour, ergonomically designed to maximize handheld performance- the warranty has expired. I’ve had it since the beginning, passed down from Darren like an heirloom. But it can't get its teeth into more than three sheets of paper these days and in this business that isn't acceptable. I thought of a stapler retirement home where they do small things, like stapling phone bills or letters to Grandmothers, but after the big time it just wouldn't be fair. I made an appointment at three with the Products Manager.

Email #11:

There is a woman who comes and collects our opened envelopes so she can steam off the stamps. She’s eighty. Sometimes she finds things in the envelopes. Today she found a cheque for $12.84 and phoned to tell us about it. Bella bought her flowers and I had to drive to her place with the flowers and a new bag of envelopes. It was a quaint house, quite possibly within my budget if I work at Dyke and Howard for the next fifty years.

I rang the doorbell and Hazel came to the door. She had gray teeth, moved with a walker, and seemed barely surprised to see me. I could have handed her a grenade and got the same response. She wore an apron and looked like she’d been baking. I guess that’s what old women do when they take breaks from steaming envelopes. I was expecting tears or an invitation for tea, which I would have had to deny because I was working. But, no, Hazel just gave me the cheque for $12.84 and explained how sometimes the cheques get “stuck to the sticky.” I assumed that meant the licking part of an envelope. I accepted the cheque and gave her the bag of new envelopes and the flowers. She shuffled away and closed the door. I walked to the car, drove to the courthouse, and filed a Statement of Claim for a case involving a botched taxidermied halibut and the pain and suffering incurred from said botched taxidermied halibut.

Email #12:

I was in the court line up waiting for the Registrar's attention when I heard a woman talking. She said she was from Deep Cove, and then some guy said, “Deep Cove is nice,” and then the woman said she lives at the bottom of Madrona Road, and then I said, “I grew up around the corner on Cromar Road.” The woman said that’s really close to her, and then the other guy asked me if I know Greg and Elaine Cooper, and I said, “Yes, they were my neighbours,” and all the people in the line, and a few at the counter, said things like, “small world,” and “that’s neat,” and “such a great little neighbourhood,” and then it got silent and I filed someone's divorce.

"Stay tuned for Episode 3" coming next Thursday!

William Farrant