Solitary: 8

Josh once more stood and made his trek to the break room. Rising from his seat was like breaking through the water’s surface. He could hear again. The convergence of plastic clacking emanating from the commons was white-noise. It made you unwittingly tired like the static of highway travel. Someone was sternly speaking into her phone. A howitzer-grade sneeze went unblessed.

He peered into the cubicles as he passed them. He watched programs minimize on screens as he walked down the corridor. The procession looked like a set of toppling dominos. Everyone has something to hide. The assistant clerical technicians, who populated the center of the fourteenth floor, snapped quickly to attention and began typing indiscriminately whenever they heard the shuffling sound of passers-by. A person never sits up and minimizes whatever he should not be working on fast enough. It’s physically impossible. First you hear footsteps, then you move your mouse, then you click your mouse, then the window shrinks to a close. The shrinking leaves a brief trail. You can’t hide fast enough. Then he recalled his response to Metcalf earlier. Judge not...

The caution was not baseless because tattling was not a practice limited to kindergarteners. Employees were vulnerable to being told on, too. Insecurity was a consequence of short walls. Josh observed this design element was a page straight out of a Soviet playbook. Turn the proletariat against itself and the avante garde can concern itself with other matters. Who needs to pay for secret police when the paranoid will do the job gratis? To avoid being surprised, self-interested employees relied upon strategically placed reflective surfaces. An engineeringly-minded clerical technician went so far as to affix a salvaged black 2002 Chevrolet Cavalier rear-view mirror to the side of his monitor (amazingly without damage done to First property). It was his conversation piece. Plus, he was never caught off guard.

One of the notable amenities of the fourteenth floor was the generous helping of artificial plants. They were not the grade of products that, by their verisimilitude, spurred a spectator to wonder and pinch petal or leaf between fingers to scrutinize. In nearly every corner stood a splotchy tan pole with fading green strips draped from its crown. There was no mistaking these tokens of office décor bargain bins for the real deal. Fake plants are to plants what clip art is to art. It appeared nothing could grow on the fourteenth floor.

When he arrived, Josh tipped the pot into his cup. An anemic stream was trailed by a modest flow of grounds. Figures Communal coffee drew free riders like ants to a picnic. There were ten drinkers for every brewer. The goal of the drinkers was to take enough for their fill without completely draining the pot and, therefore, being obligated to make a new one. This led to many scorched quarter cups of coffee and consequent frowns/grumbles. The intrigue was heightened by the stainless steel finish, which concealed the secrets of the selfish drink-only crowd. He discarded his portion of charred remnants down the nearby drain. He filled the maker’s reservoir with cold water as directed. He grabbed the red foil packet of Arabica grounds and tore it open below the seam. The tear was clean and smooth, nothing like paper. The earthy bouquet filled Josh’s head with an addict’s excitement. He emptied the contents into a carefully positioned 100% post-consumer product filter. With a flick of a lit orange toggle, the automatic dripping began. Josh meditated on the unfolding process: first a timid click, then a pause, two more, then five in short succession. The water was up to temperature and (presumably) was trickling through the grounds. Steam puffed from wherever it could above the dark brown filter basket. The machine made labored sounds reminiscent of respiration. It gurgled, hissed, and wheezed. Josh’s heart rate fell as he waited patiently. The practice calmed him in the sacred way rituals can.

His isolation was interrupted by the entrance of a towering figure into the break room. At 6’8”, Gary Osmond was easily the tallest First employee. Gary approached the sink and began rinsing his mug, which looked espresso-ish inside his walking-stick fingers. His ID badge, which limply dangled from his shirt pocket, was at Josh's eye level. Despite his stature, he was not imposing. His comparatively miniscule ears, tiny dark eyes, and prominent incisors lent him a sciurine quality.

When Josh witnessed the attention bestowed upon the vertically endowed Osmond, he was grateful for his averageness. An extreme height presented as a unique burden. For instance, while meekly hunched elbows on knees, fingers interlaced, in a restroom stall, Josh clearly saw (and was stricken with fear by) the neck and head of Gary Osmond over the divider. Should Gary have carelessly looked a little down and to the left as he passed, he and Josh could never have spoken again for obvious reasons. Height paradoxically entailed more was available for viewing and less could be tactfully viewed. Add to that, there was all of the ducking under thresholds and the contortionist acts required to enter and exit the backseat of coupes. Tragically, due to unconscious ratio metrics and old-fashioned practicality, a great swath of the female populace was lopped off for serious romantic  consideration. Then, there was the pigeon-holing. A third party never failed to make seemingly obligatory reference to his size. (‘How’s the weather up there?’ ‘Could you reach X for me?’ ‘Are you parents as tall as you are?’ ‘Must be a pain shopping.’ ‘Aren’t you a tall glass of water!” ‘Your feet must hang off the bed, poor thing.’ ‘Did you play basketball in high school?’ ‘What size shoe to do wear?’ ‘Do people always comment on how tall you are?’) Josh made a point of not saying anything that could be construed as one of those kinds of statements as if it were a disability. He merely tried to address Gary as a person like himself, probably bored and displeased.

“Good morning, Josh,” Osmond said after turning off the faucet.

“Mornin’, Gary. How’re you?”

“Fine. You?” Tiny squeaking sounds came from Osmond’s application of terry cloth to stoneware.

“I’m here.” Given that enough coffee was present, Josh grabbed the handle and poured. Liquid continued to stream unabated and sizzle on the surface below. Josh replaced the pot and the machine sounded peturbed.

“Didja have a good weekend?”

“I guess. Mostly stayed in one place. The radiator’s out and four layers of clothes are restrictive.”

Gary chuckled.

“You?”

Osmond moved forward and took what he wanted. “It was good. Went too fast, but it was good while it lasted.” Josh watched in disbelief at the amount of non-dairy creamer his tall peer used. With vigorous stirring, it changed from lumpy to viscous to watery once more.

“Anyway, thanks for making the coffee, Josh.”

“You’re welcome.”

They waited a moment, lingering in the warmth of conversation. Osmond was the first to flinch. He nodded slightly and left.

That was nice.