Hallways in an office are odd places. They require their own rules of behavior. The break room is often treated as an extension of the hallway, and most hallway rules are observed in there as well.

Hallways and Presidents

The president of the company makes 10 times what you make. He drives a car that costs more than your house. He plays golf at a country club where you couldn't afford to eat lunch. At no point do your two worlds intersect in any meaningful way. Except the hallway. And you can almost see the struggle on his face. You guys are going to walk right past each other. No one else in sight. He knows that if he doesn't say anything, he's an arrogant prick. But he doesn't really remember anything about you. You are just a cog in the big money machine he rides on top of. So what to do? It's interesting to see the various solutions they come up with. There is the curt nod, which recognizes your existence, but does not invite further conversation. There is the quick, "Hey, how you doing?" This one is used by the fun owner type. Depending on how fast he's moving, you may get off a "Not too bad" before he disappears. Then there is the worst of them all. The stop in the middle of the hallway, "How are things going?" with the serious look on the face. What does he mean? Has he heard bad things about me? About my department? Does he want the inside scoop? Is he just being friendly? If I say, "Not to bad" will he think I'm lackadaisical? Not taking it seriously? If I dump on him some of the problems in my department, am I a whiner? There is no good solution to the stop in the hallway conversation. You're usually doomed. The only time I ever got out of this was at Musician's Friend. The owner (who I was certain had no idea who I was) did a hallway stop on me. He asked me how things were going. I said, "Not too bad. How are things up on the top floor?" To my amazement, he chatted for a couple minutes about some business development stuff, then asked me to drop by his office later to look at something. You takes your chances with my solution though. It's the Kobiyashi Maru of office interactions.

First, all your bodily wastes and fluids go into the white porcelain things. They are called toilets. They use complex hydrodynamics designed to carry those wastes away without contaminating everything around them.

Places your wastes do not belong: The floor, the toilet seat, urinal stall walls, (and lord I should not have to say this) the trash can. If you are putting your wastes into or onto one of these other things, then you are not using the toilet correctly. Perhaps a refresher course is in order.

Most of the offices in our building do not have private restrooms. So, when you are pissed at your attorney, and decide the way to get back at him is to spread feces all over the toilet next to his office, be aware that people other than your attorney will have to deal with it. You are far better off spreading your feces on his car, if feces spreading you must do. Or, keep your pants on and just slash his tires.

Don't talk to me when you drop trou in the stall next to me. Please. I don't know you, and I am in the middle of evacuating my bowels, a very private experience. I don't want to know why you are in the building, what interesting thing you read in the paper, or what the weather outside is like. I just want to shit in peace. If you need toilet paper, that's different, I am more than happy to help out. But please, god, do not begin a conversation that will be periodically punctuated by grunting and explosive flatulence. It wouldn't be cool out in the hallway, it's not cool in the bathroom either.

Wash your hands. I mean, how hard is it? As you come out of the toilet section of the restroom, you are forced to pass by all the sinks on your way out. There is a reason for that. It is generally accepted that civilized human beings will want to wash the poop and pee off their hands before reentering society. No one you know wants you touching them or their stuff with crap or urine on your hands. The only reason they don't recoil in horror when you shake their hand is because they didn't see you take a long leisurely crap, then walk out of the bathroom only pausing long enough to run one feces infected hand through your hair while looking in the mirror. What are you thinking? "Hmmmm.... white porcelain things. Wonder what those are for? Hey! A mirror! Damn... I look good!"

Next time, hallway ettiquette.

I love Joe Haldeman. The Forever War is one of my favorite books of all time. His short stories are brilliant. I will buy anything with his name on it without even reading the back cover (not even OSC has that kind of brand loyalty from me).

So a new company starts renting the offices across the hall from us. We share a break room. They are programmers, working on some new mapping software for the government. Terrain mapping or something. The guys are typical programmer types. Fat middle aged guys with t-shirts and pony tails.

They like to drink our coffee. And, I mean, we're pretty cool about it. We don't mind. What pisses *me* off is when they drink the last of it and don't make another pot. It was happening a lot, so I started spying. When one of them would go into the breakroom, I would listen for the distinctive spitting sound of a coffeepot going empty.

A couple days ago I heard it, and rushed in triumphantly to engage the enemy. Somehow, when I saw the short, dumpy, gray haired pony tail dude putting sugar in his coffee, I lost my will for the fight. I just said, "How's it going?" He said hi and didn't flee, so I chatted him up.

It turns out that he was an assistant teacher at MIT. He is one of the world's foremost experts on satellite terrain mapping, or somesuch. He is working with an old pal (also from MIT) to start this company that is revolutionizing terrain mapping software for military applications.

Joe Haldeman teaches writing at MIT. This guy knows Joe. He calls him 'Joe'. If Joe ever comes to town (he comes out to Portland from time to time) this guy is going to see that I get an introduction.

Sometimes you get cool stuff by being nice I guess. Also, the guy said he would tell all his coworkers to refill the coffee pot.

Because I am cool, I have a window office. One entire wall of my office is giant windows looking down on one of the outdoor parking lots. I even have some trees. It's pretty sweet.

Unfortunately, it's kind of distracting. So many interesting things happen in the parking lot, if you're paying attention...

The lovers:

A car pulls into the parking lot not too far from my window. A nice looking girl of about 20 jumps out. I notice a guy of about the same age running from the door below me out to her. It's like one of those movie scenes where they run together and slam into a huge hug. Seconds later they are making out with an intensity that leads me to believe "he's going to pork her, Rusty". But, just when I am starting to think they are actually trying to swallow each other, they just stop, and start hugging. Full on, body to body, rib crushing hugs. For a very long time. Like, several minutes. It made smile. Anyone can be horny enough to make out in a parking lot. You have to really like the other person a lot to give up the lip lock and just squeeze them instead.

I have a theory. She had been gone for a while. College maybe? They kept in touch. She came back to town, but she couldn't wait to see him. She drove to his office building. She calls from her cell phone "I am pulling into your parking lot right now." He runs down the stairs (elevator is too slow), and they have that amazing reunion right there in the parking lot. That's what I want to believe is true. I want to think that there are still people who just like each other that much. When the hug ended, they walked arm in arm into the building, never taking their eyes off each other. I suspected they hit the Italian cafe for lunch, and almost went down to see.

But I'd spied on them enough. I just went back to my desk and smiled a lot that day.

Bad mommy:

Everyone has watched someone whack their kid and felt uncomfortable. I saw a woman that gave me chills.

She was dragging a little boy behind her out to a mini-van. He was trotting as fast as his little legs could take him (he looked about 4), but was having a hard time keeping up. She looked pissed in general (bad meeting with her attorney?).

He falls down, and from where I was sitting, it looked like maybe he tore his pants. He started poking at the knees anyway. She yanks him back to his feet, and lays a stupendous whack across his back. I mean, she looked like she wound up for it. I stood up, like, "Holy crap!"

What happened next is what chilled my blood. She looks around the parking lot, clearly checking to see if anyone is looking at her. I mean, it was so obvious. When she sees the coast is clear, she winds up and whacks this kid again, so hard he falls on his face. Then she yanks him back to his feet, throws him into the van, and takes off.

It's the looking around that got me. So obviously aware that she was doing something wrong. Then, when the coast is clear, doing it anyway. That's not losing your temper, that's evil.

Man. I still think about that kid. What is life like when your mom is evil?

The Dancing DHL Dude:

I call him that. He must be the coolest guy alive. He drives up every day in his bright yellow DHL truck. He gets out, opens the side door, and starts loading his handtruck with packages. He must have music playing in the truck (I can't hear anything through the windows), because he dances the whole time. I mean, this guys can really shake his groove thang. He shimies and shakes while he throws boxes onto the cart, then with a hip thrust slides the door shut. He struts up to the side door, high fiving the people in the smoking area (No kidding! Actual high fives! I suspect there are members of the smoking crowd who make sure to be out when he arrives, for just this reason.).

He's gone for a while, then comes back out with an empty cart and a heart full of soul. He dances back out to the truck, throws his cart back inside, and slides over to the driver door to head on to his next groovy stop.

I want to be this guy. Who is this happy? Plus, I envy his mad skillz. The guy really has excellent rhythm. And he must have absolutely no fear about what others think of him. He has total body freedom. I believe it's possible he may be the coolest person alive.

I work with this old guy. He must be in his early 60's, though he looks no older than 50. He's in great shape, rides his bike to work every day. Is a pretty nice guy.

But he has a hard time doing his job. We work with some fairly complicated software, and our business model is kind of complex. This guy is our 'General Manager', or so his title says. In actuality, he is our bookkeeper and office manager. In practice, we treat him like a secretary. He has difficulty getting things done on time because his understanding of our processes and our software is kind of limited. He was hired because he was in desperate need of a job, and he had worked with one of my partners before.

I get frustrated with him. Our business moves fast, and client perceptions can shift in the blink of an eye. Sometimes I need materials purchased for delivery to a client site, and the turnaround time has to be fast fast fast. Sometimes this guy has trouble getting it done on time, and it drives me nuts.

I have had the following conversation. "Dude! What the hell?! I told you I needed those Cash Manager training books two days ago! Where are they?! The client is expecting them tomorrow!" He says, "I had a little trouble tracking down the right person at Microsoft for that order." Me, "What?! What does that even mean?! Is that what I'm supposed to tell the client when the books don't show up tomorrow? Why didn't you tell me you were having trouble two days ago?!"

Ok, so I'm a prick. But that's not the point of the story. I talk to this guy a lot. He's a nice guy, and like most older nice guys loves to talk about where he came from and what he's done before.

This guy was a ship captain in the navy. He was captain of a refit/resupply ship, the second largest ship in a carrier battlegroup. His first assignement was guiding south vietnamese gunships up rivers in 1966. He was shot at on many occasions. After leaving his last ship captain position, he was made vice commander of the pacific fleet sea lift command, typically a rear admiral level posting. He directly commanded 24 ships, and about 20,000 guys.

I regularly call this guy, 'dude'.

Fifteen years ago, some snot nosed kid calling him 'dude' would have spent a week in the brig. He was absolute ruler of his domain, second only to the President and God. He was inches from being an admiral when he decided to retire for family reasons.

And nothing has gone right since. A string of bad employment decisions and business failures had mostly wiped him out. He was a 60 year old guy without a job. He had to beg a friend for a chance. And now he is our bookkeeper/office slave.

How must that feel? I can't imagine. A lifetime of accomplishment and success, trashed in the last ten years.

I am not going to call him 'dude' anymore, even though it doesn't seem to make him mad.

Random quotes:

"I've got to get out of that thing. I'm down almost two mil already." Two mil? Holy crap. To have such problems!

"If you get caught, it's the end of the world." Shrug. "Sometimes it's worth it though." I was dying of curiosity about what is worth the end of the world.

"I'm not eating there again. I didn't sh*t right for a week last time." Is it rude to ask which restaurant he's talking about? Shocked

Two guys in business suits, not looking at each other:

Guy one: "F*ck you, prick. Just f*ck you."

Guy two: "You're lucky I'm kicking your ass in there, or I'd have to kick your ass for real." Whoa. Lawyers, maybe?

My personal favorite:

"I don't feel like I have enough protection."

"Yeah, but if you pull out, it'll get messy."

Investment advice, or contraception worries?

What is this guy up to:

So I pull into the parking garage and park. I'm running a little late (as usual), so I jump out of the car, grab my laptop, and head for the stairs. I have to dodge sideways to keep from being swiped by a gigantic dualie truck. He pulls up next to my car, and stops for a moment.

I stop too, because I realize there is a parking space open next to my car. It's a teenie little spot, because it's right next to one of the big support columns. Now, if you were driving something small, you could scooch past my car at an angle, and still have room to open your door and get out. But there is no way in hell this big truck can get in there with more than a millimeter of space on either side.

But he sits there, and I just know. He's thinking about it. And I know, when he gets in there, the only way he will be able to get out is to shove his door about a foot into mine. It's happened before. I have the door dings to prove it.

So this time I way. I go stand near my car conspicuously and watch him. The guy in the truck notices me and stares back. I just put my laptop down and wait. If he stuffs his truck in there, he better not even love tap my car, or I am taking down his license plate number. And he knows it. He waits. I wait. This goes on for some ridiculous amount of time. Like, a minute or two. In this sort of a situation, 60 seconds is an eternity.

Finally, he seems to come to some sort of decision. He peels out, takes off, completely leaves the parking garage, and drives off down the street very fast.

Now, what is that all about?! What was he up to that made it important that he park in secrecy? There were many open spots not that far away. He could have easily parked in one of a hundred other places, and not been within 100 feet of my car. But no. If he couldn't have that tiny little spot next to me, to hell with the whole thing.

Weird.

We have a lot of parking space. There is tons of above ground parking all around the complex, and two underground lots. I usually park in the upper of the two underground lots, since it's protected from the weather, and it's close to my stairwell. I see all sorts of odd things in the lot.

The running lady:

I was heading out early one day, going home at about 1pm. I had just gotten to the lot, and was having a brain fart about where I had parked my car. As I stood at the entrance to the lot and looked around, a woman ran by me.

Now, this was not the first person I had seen in a big hurry, so that wasn't all that notable. What did grab my attention was the look on her face. Her expression was a mixture of panic and grief. Her eyes were red, and puffy. Her mouth was twisted in what I can only describe as panic. She raced past me into the lot making odd little mewling noises under her breath. I stood stunned and watched her go. She ran to a small SUV, fumbled for a minute with her purse to get her keys, getting increasingly panicked the longer it took. She finally got the keys out, popped the locks and jumped inside. Seconds later she peeled out of the lot and headed down the street at full speed.

All the way home I thought about that lady, and what she was doing. The only thing I can think of is that she got *that* call. You know the one. "I'm sorry Mrs. Smith, but your (husband/mother/child/sibling) is (dead/dying/horribly injured) and we need you to come down to the hospital right away." Yeah, that call. I've gotten that call and didn't know it. I got the 3am call where my brother in law says, "Your dad called, and your sister is in the hospital. She's had two seizures in a row and stopped breathing." I didn't know it was *that* call, because somewhere in my head I knew that people didn't die of epilepsy, so this was just an inconvenience where I would go to the hospital and sit around while they fixed her up. I was wrong, and less than five hours later she was dead. But when I got *that* call, I just didn't know what it was. No panic.

What is it like to get *that* call and know exactly what's happening? That your wife is dying or dead? Riding the elevator, running through the parking lot, finding your keys, having to drive, they must all be intolerable. Precious seconds ticking away while you can't find the alarm fob. People walking slow down the stairs in front of you. Having to actually drive in traffic with people who don't understand that your world is ending.

I can't imagine. But I think that lady knows. I hope she's ok.

I've been working in the same office building for about fifteen months now. It's the Lincoln Tower in Portland, and is considered high rent district in the area. Microsoft, several investment firms, and quite a few pricey lawyers have their digs here. My company rents about a quarter of the second floor.

Needless to say, I see a lot of people every day. I see the comings and goings of captains and kings. People who make million dollar deals every day sit at the table next to mine in the italian cafe in the lobby. People who are suing or being sued talk loudly to their lawyer on the elevator. All sorts of weird things happen in the parking garage.

I keep seeing things and thinking, "Man, I need to write that down." So, I have decided to keep a little log here on Sakeriver of my office building adventures.