Remember when I said last week that I was going to be doing a week-long sampling of Downtown happy hour joints and report back to you on all the hilarity? Well, that didn’t happen. Haven’t had that many happy hours this week, been too busy.
Now I know what you’re saying, “Dave, there’s always time for Happy Hour. I don’t care if you have to pull out the flask at 5:01pm and start boozing right in the middle of that conference call!” To which I’ll say, “Grandpa, we both know you’re right, but there just hasn’t been the time.”
In lieu of rubbing elbows with all manner of seersucker, tweed and silk clad bottom feeding salesmen (which I’ve got planned to do all next week), I’ve decided this week to give you a tour of my new home.
I’m sure most of you have at one time or another worked in a big office building. Shit, you may be reading this from one of them right now. But not me. No, I’ve had the good fortune of working in lofts, apartments, garages and back alleys for most of my adult life, so this is all new to me.
The first thing that weirded me upon moving to the new place was the security checkpoint right beyond the revolving doors. Wait, let’s back up, revolving doors, they definitely weirded me out first. On some weekday mornings I have a hard enough time dealing with my apartment door, let alone a constantly rotating death cage of steel and glass. People jump through this thing like it’s the last portal out of the Necronomicon. Sometimes I just wait until everyone’s through and I can take my sweet time.
Now, the front desk: This is apparently a three person job, the description of which reads like this:
Talk amongst yourselves.
I’ve never gotten stopped walking into the building and I go to great lengths not to fit in around here. Today I have a stubbly, dirty mustache, bed-head, a slight dust cloud of alcohol sweat hanging over me and a tee shirt that reads “Breakfast of Champions” above a silk screened depiction of a cigarette and glass of whiskey. Dave’s all class, baby.
I guess what my friend Rod said last night is true, “The more you look like a terrorist, the less people assume you are one.” Which would explain why he gets to globe-hop without molestation, and why everyone thinks I’m the junior senator from Kansas.
Once you pass Sloman’s shield you’re greeted by a bank of elevators. Now, these are reaaaally useful. I haven’t used an elevator since college. In our old office we had a four flight walk up, which, after three years of use has forged my calves into idols fit for Hebrew worship. Since the only exercise I’m doing now a days is pressing the 15 button, I’m guessing my shocker skill is going to go through the roof. *High Fives dude sitting next to me*
You know how every sitcom ever made in America has to have one episode where they make the keen observation that no one talks in elevators? Well it’s true! Oh man, talk about something being funny because it’s true!
Anyway, just beyond the elevator is the real treat this building has to offer: Literally. A snack stand. INSIDE the building.
It’s like a mini-vice enabling, spirit crushing enslave-o-matic. It’s got Coffee, candy, cigarettes, celebrity magazines and a Lottery machine. You could, in theory never leave this building, it’s got an ATM so if you work out a direct deposit, you could just go downstairs and blow your entire paycheck on all this crap and then go right back to work, secure in the knowledge you made it through another bi-weekly billing period or whatever these automatons do around here.
I’ve started buying little scratch off tickets whenever I get the chance. I’ve joined their very exclusive “Coffee Club” which grants me free coffee whenever I so desire by forging their stamp ten times on my personally issued membership card.
Alright, so now that I’ve got my nutritious breakfast of Reese’s Pieces, three cups of free coffee, a copy of Us Weekly and a wrist-thick roll of “Win for Life’s”, it’s time to head upstairs, quietly. Oh the hilarity.
The first thing you notice when you get to my floor is the carpet, oh the hideous carpeting. It’s a little known fact that during the Oil Crisis in the 70’s, business leaders in the financial district hoped to harness the alternative energy of Static cling and use it to drive the smallest cars you’ve ever imagined. Some people blame it on the Upholstery-industrial complex that had most of Congress in its pocket at the time, but that’s neither here nor there.
This hideous knit carpet is everywhere. You can see slight discolorations that very subtley tell you which office goes to the bathroom the most. Which is another thing: We SHARE a bathroom. This creeps me out, the whole public restroom thing. I mean, I’m sure some people are really comfortable with this, but Jesus H. do I really need to hear someone enact a personal vendetta against their colon and hernia simultaneously when I’m trying to have a thoughtful moment on the can? Pinch it off for at least two seconds while I get out of your way, thunderpants. Have a little scatological courtesy.
Now, we share the 15th floor with a few other offices, I grabbed a picture of the floor sign:
Now, I’ve done a little research and come up with whom we’re co-existing.
Great American Insurance Group
This company provides insurance to Great Americans. Qualifications for being great include the following: Having great hair. Having a great car. Having a great big mole on your chin that you refuse to have lasered off, you scary freakish ogre.
These guys are actually a branch office for the planet Protax in the Centauri quadrant. They do mainly anal probing.
A&M Logos blah blah
I talked to these guys, that was a misprint, it’s actually supposed to read S&M Logos etc. I left after that.
This is where they do closed captioning captioning, for the illiterate deaf.
She-He-Champs New York, this is a sports agency for transgendered kickboxers.
So, that’s my building, from foyer to floor fifteen. We’re still moving in, so everytime we open the door and someone sees all the boxes and the mess, they faint. They’re as astonished as we are that we didn’t hire professional movers.
Anyway, back to work, the She-He-Champs secretary dudette and I are on our way to grab a bite to eat. Til next week!