it's too late

I have been working at my current job at a South Jersey commercial printer for three and a half years. Every morning, I leave my house at the same time. I drive the same route... mostly... unless there is a scheduled opening at the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, in which case, I take the far less traveled Betsy Ross Bridge that eventually takes me to the same place on Route 130 in Pennsauken, New Jersey. I drive into the nearly-empty parking lot at work around 7 AM, just in time to see the small night shift climbing into their cars. I punch my entrance code into the keypad at the door and enter. I walk through the cavernous printing plant, a building roughly the size of an airplane hangar. The printing presses are whirring madly and spitting out stacks and stacks of full-color advertisements for supermarkets up and down the East coast. Some of the presses are a little smaller than a football field, allowing the operator to actually enter the press to fix a paper jam or check the flow of ink. I follow a designated walkway, cordoned off from the bustling "print floor" by a series of guard rails. I am kept safe from a potential run-in with one of the many forklifts arranging and rearranging wrapped pallets stacked with printed circulars. Just before I punch another code into another keypad allowing me access to the pre-press area where my computer sits on my desk, I wave "hello" to a guy in the Shipping Department.

Since Day One, this guy — a pleasant looking fellow always sporting a backwards baseball cap with the company logo emblazoned across the front... er... back — is hunched over his computer screen, diligently striking the keyboard and checking his entry against an LED readout on a nearby scale, piled high with taped cardboard boxes. But, he always raises his glance and pauses his work to offer a "good morning" to me, usually accompanied by a single, friendly wave of his open hand. I, of course, return the greeting with a "how you doin'?," consciously changing my words, so as not to sound like an unimaginative parrot. I open the door to my department and that's the last he'll see of me until I have determined that all my work for the day has been completed and I decide to head home.

I shut down the internet and all open programs on my computer, grab my cellphone from its charging pad and start towards to door. When I open the door, there's the guy. Right where I left him, Still hunched over his computer screen and still check the corresponding weight of a different stack of boxes on the scale. As I pass, I wave and say, "See ya! Have a good night!" He replies, "Have a good night. See you tomorrow." Except on Fridays, when his parting message includes a direct request for me to have a good weekend.

And that's it. This has gone on every single working day since May 4, 2021. Over the course of time, our conversation has briefly — briefly — included short discussions about the various t-shirt designs I have worn to work and a couple of times we talked about the previous night's Phillies game. Aside from that, it's been just "Good morning" and "good evening." and that is all.

Oh... did I mention that I don't know this guy's name?

Hey!

In the late 90s, there was a sitcom on ABC called Spin City. It was a fictional and comedic portrayal of everyday activities in the office of the Mayor of New York City. The show first starred Michael J. Fox, until the ravages of Parkinson's Disease affected his physical and vocal abilities. He was replaced in the show's final seasons by Charlie Sheen. The show featured an ensemble cast, filling the various roles of the Mayor's staff. Among the characters was the Mayor's timid and gullible speech writer James, played by actor Alexander Chaplin. In one episode, James was strolling down the hall while conversing with press secretary Paul Lassiter (Our first exposure to ubiquitous character actor Richard Kind). As they talked, they passed a guy carrying a stack of papers. James says, "Hey!" to the guy and the guy says "Hey!" back. Paul interrupts himself to ask James "Who was that?" to which James replied, "Oh! That's my 'Hey!' guy." Paul is confused, even after James offers a lengthy explanation about how he sees this guy everyday. He doesn't know his name or where in City Hall he works or what he does or who he works for. But, when they see each other in the hall, they heartily exchange "'Hey's." The explanation doesn't really satisfy Paul's inquiry, but he lets it go because James is decidedly on the quirky side. At the episode's conclusion, I believe that James becomes upset because his "Hey!" guy got another job.

I believe that the guy in the shipping department has been working for my employer for many years. I never asked his name, though. Nor will I. I will just continue to say "good morning" in the morning and "good evening" in the evening.

I think 42 months is too much time passed for me ask his name now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

walk right in, sit right down

I have worked in offices for over thirty years. I have worked in small offices, just a single room with two co-workers in a cinder block building in the middle of a nondescript industrial park (now known as the more-important sounding "business campus"). I have worked in big, multi-story, corporate headquarters of major corporations. There are a lot of things I like about working in an office. I like the structure. I like the uniformity. I like that coworkers (with a few exceptions) know their place and (again, with a few exceptions) know what is expected of them. I also like the free coffee.

Of all of the things I don't like about working in an office, one thing in particular bugs me more than anything. More than undecipherable corporate jargon. More than unresponsive coworkers. More than personal matters blasted through company email.

I hate when things are left for me on the seat of my office chair.

I don't know when this practice started. This phenomena has followed me and has been kept alive across several employers, so, obviously, it's not indigenous to one place nor is it one company's policy. The first time I came into work in the morning and discovered an assignment on the seat of my office chair, I assumed that it had just fallen off of my desk or, perhaps a breeze from a passing worker in a hurry rustled it up from its original position across my computer keyboard. But then, day after day, I would be greeted in the morning by several pages — from different co-workers or superiors — stacked every which way on the seat of my office chair. 

I don't understand the motivation or the rationale. I have a perfectly good, sturdy desk, able to accommodate reams of paper — in addition to my computer, some pens, a stapler, a container of paper clips and a couple of PVC figurines of Mickey Mouse — without fear of collapsing. I am apt to see something of importance if it is impeding upon my ability to operate my keyboard or propped up and blocking my view of my monitor, than if it is lying on the place where I sit when I actually do the work that you are trying to get me to do. Leaving work on my desk along with an accompanying email, or even a Post-It, quickly noting "Hey Josh, I put the edits to the ad on your desk." would offer a better chance of me seeing what you left than placing it where I park my ass. Leaving work on my chair says to me: "I nearly missed the trashcan with this, but if you see it before your butt does, could you make these corrections?" If I'm not paying attention, there's a good chance I'm going to sit down on that crucial piece of work-related business and wrinkle it to the point where it needs to be reprinted. Placing it on my desk shows me that you hold your work at an esteemed level, that you have pride in what you produce and respect for your job.

The office is the only place that this practice exists. At least I hope it is. Face it, you wouldn't want the grill guy at McDonald's coming in to find a stack of hamburgers on the seat of his office chair. Although, the food there tastes like that's the case.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com