The Office

When her office door is open she can hear the sounds of the people moving in the hallway and the idle chitter-chatter of her coworkers as they talk about their weekend or their children. Noises, made by her on the phone or talking to a staff member, seem to stream out the door and be carried away. She is usually able to tell who is coming by the sounds of shoes on carpet as they travel to her, the last office on the left. A body appears in the doorway temporarily blocking the view to the main room with a cheery, “Hey.” Some times the visitors sit in the chair next to the bookshelf that is crammed with professional publications, boring books and binders full of workshop notebooks. She wonders if they notice the boxes of hardware stuffed quietly in the corners and under her desk, or if the several paintings of calla lilies draw their eyes to the white walls, where if you look down to the ground, you can see scuffs from previous tenants.

Today however, her office door is closed. She sits looking out at the ducks swimming in the man-made pond in the courtyard. Sounds of typing of the keyboard do not stream away as they do when the door is open, but are held, bouncing off the walls, making the office seem smaller, enclosed - private. It is funny to think that on the other side of the door are 20 people sitting in cubicles, most with no view of the outside, working away, talking away. She can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, so she gets up and walks to the switch by the door and flips them off. Walking back to her desk, she turns on the floor lamp, and a softer, quieter light comes over the room. It is almost like a living room now, except for the standard issue office furniture. Ugly stuff, she thinks, as she gets the phone number from her purse on top of the filing cabinet.

Sitting back down she picks up the phone and punches in her doctor’s phone number with the back of her pen. She tucks the phone between her ear and her neck, as she slides a blank piece of paper out of the drawer to the top of the desk. She can see her reflection in the monitor of her computer. She waits for the receptionist to answer. She looks at the picture of her husband next to the phone, the small statue of Buddha and the jar of Happy Pills. Happy Pills, what a gimmick! She wishes they would work.

When her son was small he used to sit in the visitor chair, his feet dangling. He would look so young and fresh and out of place – his summer tan appearing yellowish in the gloom of the office. He was so fascinated by his mommy’s office – all the grown up stuff: staplers, scissors, holders filled with pens and highlighters. He’d count how many of the pictures were of him on the big bulletin board on the wall behind her. There were never enough, in his mind. “More Mommy. You need more of me.”

“Dr. William’s office,” the receptionist says in her ear.