Employment
The floor plan of the North Wing is the mirror image of the South Wing, a utilitarian grid devoid of landmarks or distinguishing features—no potted plants, no posters on the wall, just tiny numbered plaques next to each office entrance—door frames without doors, evenly spaced—and fire extinguishers behind glass every 75 feet.
The corridors are all painted a dim shade of landlord green, and under the unblinking fluorescent lights they fade to a vague almost-white that makes me want to clean my glasses.
The illuminated exit signs at the ends of the corridors point toward the stairwells, cold concrete shafts connecting 27 identical levels, and, theoretically, leading down to the outside world, but no one, as far as I know, uses them, preferring the elevators that are centered between the two wings, where there is a gray marble reception counter staffed by a neutral-faced woman of no particular age who quietly confirms appointments and directs visitors to the left or the right, as if it makes a difference.
Those visitors occasionally accost people in the corridor, asking how to get back to the elevator, but I am the wrong person to ask; after working here five—or is it seven—years, I still sometimes get lost on the way back from the toilet.
I recall seeing a lunchroom, if not on this level, then on the next one up or down, but I haven’t been there in at least eight—maybe ten—years, preferring the sandwiches that are delivered directly to my desk every day at just the right time, and I would know what time that is if there were any clocks here.
Like everyone else, I look forward to the weekend, which should be coming up soon, although in these challenging times I feel lucky to have a clean, safe job in a temperature-controlled environment, and I expect to miss it when I retire, now that I’m approaching my twentieth or twenty-fifth anniversary, as noted on the congratulatory card in the bouquet of paper roses that came with my lunch today or possibly yesterday.
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