Stay Out of My Space!

As the comic strip character, Dilbert, so succinctly put it, “Welcome to my cubicle hell.”

Work cubicles help companies recoup costs of expensively leased office buildings by cramming in more employees per square foot than “Cheeseheads” at a Green Bay Packer game.

A cubicle cannot be considered an office. An office cube’s drab blue or gray walls are only eye-high, doing little to preserve the privacy of the workers or to block out the sound of a neighboring employee’s annoying habit of snuffling his nose or clearing his throat every two minutes. Cubicle engineers favor the alphabet letters, “L” and “U,” and use them most often to design the interior configuration of cubes.

Most cubicles house two “cube-mates” in an 8’ x 10’ space. Each worker has the requisite computer consisting of a CPU (desktop or tower), over-sized monitor, extended keyboard, mouse, mouse pad, and wrist pad. Some computers also sport a woofer, usually placed on the floor, and two speakers located on either side of the monitor. The cubicle is already crowded, without even considering necessary workspace or other peripherals.

Next, employees need something to sit on. So now let’s squeeze in two ergonomically designed high-backed office chairs with arms. To avoid collisions, careful chair “dances” must be choreographed and executed by both cube occupants. Some reported chair crashes have been blamed for debilitating work-related whiplash, and consequently, days of lost work and sometimes temporary or long-term disability.

Two telephones per cubicle times 24 cubes per module equal 48 phones, all with the potential of jangling at once – cacophony to say the least. It’s like the close of a trading day on Wall Street. Attempting to hear the caller, trying to placate him coherently and courteously, and simultaneously dodging a cube-mate’s chair create an Indy 500 atmosphere filled with frustration, mental fatigue, and downright fear.

After installing the space-gobbling Computer & Co., desk space amounts to usually no more than two or three feet (if that!). Leg room is negligible. Gouged and bruised knees result from designers placing the regulation slide-out pencil drawer at the center of the “leg hole,” barely about knee level. Floor space beneath the work area diminishes by the addition of an adjustable footrest (optional). Add to the computer cables, telephone wires and power strips: now the floor becomes a minefield of potentially fatal jolts of electricity should the equipment ever short-circuit.

Counter space is also reduced by in/out baskets, desk organizers containing pens, pencils, scissors, rulers, paper clips, and the indispensable Post-It and telephone message pads. A plant, artificial or real, sometimes may be squeezed in for a touch of greenery to brighten the otherwise depressing décor. Behind and above the counter, attached to the walls by adjustable vertical metal rails, are padded, cloth-covered horizontal 15” strips for displaying company memos, holiday schedules, business cards, or personal photos, making the cube “homey.” Upper wall cabinets, resembling airplane overhead compartments, hang from the same metal rails, providing lockable storage space for each worker. When opened suddenly, these cabinets can cause serious bodily injury; notebook and files fly out with the deadliness and precision of Scud missiles.

A white board is usually installed on the only cube wall left and must be shared. Great anguish and resentment can result when one cube-mate demonstrates white-board hog-like behavior. Consider drawing a vertical line down the center of the white board; this sets boundaries and helps to prevent one cube-mate from writing an unusually long sentence or equation, imposing upon the white space allotted to cube-mate #2.

The opening to the cubicle is small: employees must enter or exit one at a time. Visitors to the cube gobble up precious oxygen; therefore, hyperventilation by one or all occupants may occur. Set a time limit when visitations must end. Brown paper bags are standard issue.

Outside the cube, nameplates are attached by Velcro. This allows interchangeability of workers should pressures become too much, causing the “going postal” syndrome – immediate grounds for termination. A nameplate comes down; a new one goes up.

Welcome to Corporate America.

To Tell the Truth

“No matter what you’ve done, if you tell the truth, we won’t punish you.” Our parents drilled this directive into my head from the moment I understood the English language. Telling a lie was like starving an animal or shooting Grandma. The promised retribution for lying (a willow switch hanging in the mudroom) instilled unmitigated fear in my brother, sister, and me. Therefore, when my mother unknowingly forced me to lie to protect my sister, Cookie, the act wracked me with terror and guilt, but not regret.

The middle child, (Cookie) it seems, oftentimes suffers from insecurities, a “where do I belong?” complex. She is too young to do grown-up things with an older child (me), and yet she is too big to be petted or coddled like the baby of the family (our brother). Cookie, desiring visibility in the family structure, continually “acted out” to gain favorable or negative responses. And she paid dearly for it.

At the end of a sauna-like summer day spent hauling hay from the fields to the barn on our farm in Wisconsin, tempers crackled like lightning. My mother’s favorite dime-store vase lay shattered on the hardwood kitchen floor.

“You did it, didn’t you?” screamed my mom, yanking my little sister’s spindly arm. “You’re such a klutz! I know it was you! Tell me the truth!”

“No, Mommy, I didn’t do it! I found it broke. Please don’t hit me!” Cookie’s sobs cut deep into my soul. I dearly loved my siblings, although as a budding teen, I sometimes resented the responsibility of their care.

Now, terrified of confrontations, I backed into the pantry and peeked through the crack in the door. I realized I was crying.

“You’re lying to me, I know you are! What have I told you children about lying? Tell me you broke it and I won’t spank you any more.”

Enormous teardrops spilled from Cookie’s wide blue eyes as she looked up at my mom. My little sister shook her head, her golden ringlets bouncing from side to side. With her stubby little hands, she tried in vain to ward off each new blow that was raining down on her shoulders and backside.

Then my mother, her eyes wild, kicked my baby sister; her small body crunched and crumbled on the floor. I could stand no more.

“I did it! I broke the vase. Punish me! Please don’t hit her any more!” My voice broke into the din of screams and cries as I fearfully stepped into our shabby kitchen. Bracing myself, my chin rose as I waited for the first slap.

It never came. Instead, my mother looked scornfully down at my sister who was whimpering, lying in a fetal position on the floor. Calmly, Mother said, “Why can’t you be more like Bonnie? She told the truth and I won’t punish her. She’s earned some chocolate ice cream.” Then she walked to the icebox as though nothing had happened.

My sister’s red-rimmed eyes beseeched me from across the room: her unspoken words sliced through my bruised heart. “I told the truth and she beat me. You lied and you get to eat ice cream. But thank you for saving me.”

As I choked down my once favorite treat that now had turned to dry, flaky sawdust in my mouth, our gawky, clumsy younger brother quietly slunk into his bedroom, his chin nearly resting on his chest.

A lie is a lie is a lie.