The best thing about my work was that it made me feel like a serious person in some way. It forced me to take a shower in the morning, or at least simulate I did by wetting my hair, which I had to do in the shower anyway because the sink was too small. It also forced me to wear a shirt, shoes, and look overall presentable within my natural limitations. 

 

The worst thing about my work was the amount of perfume one of my colleagues bathed in. God, what a smell. God, what a budget! I was always on the verge of confronting him about it, but I couldn’t find a way to say it without offending him. Plus, I had consulted with some of the other people in the office and nobody seemed to be as bothered by it as me. Imposing a smell on another person seems rude to me, but apparently I’m alone in this, and I don’t want to be a person who complains. 

 

Our office was on the second (or third, depending on how one counts) floor of one of those old houses where, my guess is, large rich families lived some decades ago. I’m embarrassed to say that I couldn’t place the building style or epoch-wise even though I had graduated from architecture school less than a year before. It’s not that I didn’t pay attention in class, I just don’t have a good memory that’s all, and I can hardly be blamed for it, can I? I’d still throw a fancy word like balustrade or frieze whenever my colleagues talked architecture-talk, which was more frequent than I’d choose to. My main problem with it was that everything seemed too important for them and too unimportant for me. I don’t mind discussing unimportant things, but why should we treat them as if they were important? Moreover, it’s very hard to make architecture humor, there’s nothing truly humorous about it except for the names of some Japanese architects that sound like dirty words. 

 

Every morning before I became another cog in the machine, more often than not in the building’s exterior grand stairs, I’d find Omar, the doorman. The first task of his daily routine, to which he devoted a preposterously unnecessary amount of time, was to sweep off the tree leaves and any other item that could be deemed as dirt, trash, or offend the eye of the passer-by in any shape or form. It was not the love of cleanliness that motivated him, but the love of smoking, and a huge crush he constantly reminded me of having on Mabel, the woman who applied herself to the same task, at more or less the same time, a few buildings southwards. She, however, completed it in proper timing, and didn’t seem to share with him the habit of smoking, at least to the best of my knowledge.

 

“Can I borrow those bags for the market?” Said Omar, referring to my eye bags. He’d make this joke every time the opportunity presented itself, which was plenty, due to the insistence of a certain friend who convinced me to go out on weekdays under the unscrupulous promise that “we’ll just have one drink.” I was too tired to utter a good comeback and the only ones that came to mind were too mean to say, so I just fake laughed and gestured “whatchugonnado” with my face and shoulders. 

 

He laughed at his own genius, then came a few steps closer to me, placed his hand perpendicularly to his mouth, and, in a whispered voice said “I caught her looking my way twice today,” at the same time he pointed in the direction of Mabel’s building with his eyes and a subtle tilt of the head.

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“It’s because your bald spot is particularly shiny today,” I replied with a straight face.

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He let out a belly laugh. “One of these days…I’m telling ya.”

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“Yeah, yeah, and I’m gonna be the next president. Can I go to work now?” I asked.

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“I’m telling ya,” he said. 

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“See you around, dog.”

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“Woof woof.”

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I went up the stairs and before I opened the main door Omar had yet another stroke of genius, “hey,” I turned around, “I’m still gonna need those bags for the market.” I entered the building. 

 

Even if brief, basic and repetitive, my little interactions with Omar always seemed to energize me. Something about greeting people has that effect on me. The same happened every time I got to the office and saw my fellow workers for the first time in the day. And there was nothing special about them honestly. They were just people, and I like people. 

 

As I was in the hall about to open the elevator door, I sensed perfume molecules being fired at my nostrils from behind. I hurried to open the door in the hopes that perfume guy wouldn’t see me but then I heard my name being yelled. It was too late to pretend that I was going to take the stairs, as I more than once had done, and I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t hear him because I had my headphones on, because I didn’t have my headphones on. We rode together. I can imagine him describing me as the weird guy who for some reason doesn’t breathe in the elevator. 

 

Most of my work consisted of drawing technical plans on the computer. My secondary task, unofficial and unpaid for, but equally, if not more important, was that of office DJ. I’m convinced that my playlists played an essential role in maintaining the office morale above a certain level, especially in those circumstances where the team needed a little boost. I got so good at it, that I knew exactly what kind of music would lift a specific colleague up.  

 

I was staring at the computer screen, doing what from the outside must have looked like focused work. This new project had been assigned to me a couple of weeks ago and later that day we were having a meeting with the client for the first time. I hadn’t finished them yet, so focused work was what I should have been doing, but I find that unfocused work works much better for me, so I decided to build a playlist before I started. Once the issue was resolved, the rest took care of itself. The whole thing was printed and ready before lunch break. 

 

At exactly 2 PM, my boss, suit and tie-d, overcombe-d and lightly perfumed, came to my desk. “They’re here,” he said. I took a deep breath, dried my palms on my jeans, and followed him. He shook my right shoulder firmly. “Let’s do this,” he said. 

 

A formerly athletic, silver haired, rosy cheeked man and his assistant, a girl around my age or so, came into the conference room. They were both stylish, him wearing a light blue linen suit and a beige silk scarf, her wearing classic washed jeans, a loose silk short sleeve shirt and matching belt and sandals in a salmon tone. I tried to act normal but I couldn’t help myself from looking in her direction every two seconds. She had the type of hairdo that I consider to be compatible with my lifestyle. “The bob” is what the hairstyle is called, I later learned. I infer a lot from hairdos and style in general, which is why I can easily fall in love with a mannequin in certain stores. My boss, noticing this, kicked me softly with his knee under the desk.

 

The big guys did most of the talking while she and I tried to look the part. When both of them leaned on the table looking at the plans, we gazed at each other as if telepathically saying “what the hell are we doing here” and giggled. I was rapidly brought back from fantasy land when I heard the last part of my boss’ question, “Diego, isn’t that right?” He was pointing at a specific part of the plans so I was able to bullshit my way out of it.

 

“We had to make this adjustment so the HVAC ducts wouldn’t intersect with the plumbing,” I said. I felt so smart saying that in front of her. I saw her smile in the corner of my eye. 

 

The meeting lasted another fifteen minutes. From a bystander point of view, which is exactly what I was, it had been a success. “It’s been a real pleasure,” the client said as we all shook hands. “May I ask where the restroom is?”

 

“I’ll walk you,” offered my boss, leaving me and her alone in the room. 

 

As soon as they left we looked at each other and smiled. “We were pretty much like furniture back there,” I said.

 

“At least you got to say something, I didn’t even open my mouth,” she replied. 

 

“Let’s think of a question only you know the answer to and I’ll ask it in the next meeting,” I said. 

 

“I’ll think of one,” she said. 

 

I didn’t know how to continue the conversation so I just said “your boss seems nice.”

 

“The nicest,” she said and giggled. “He’s my father!”

 

“That’s awesome,” I said. “I’m glad I didn’t say your boss is an asshole.” 

 

He came back in. “Are you ready?” He asked her. She grabbed her things, waved at me, and they both left. I stayed in my swivel chair daydreaming, staring at nothingness with the dumbest smile stamped on my face. I rolled my chair to the window to watch her leave the building. I saw them walk down the stairs. Her father was talking on the cell phone a few steps ahead of her and she was trying to figure out the best way to carry the huge set of plans we had given them but the wind wasn’t helping. A tear of laughter ran through my right cheek. I read that these little acts of clumsiness are what make us fall in love with people and that’s why they always use this trick in movies. She stopped to grab something from her purse but the plans kept flapping violently. She shook her head to get the hair out of her face, causing her glasses to fall on the first step of the stairs. I shouted “hey” but she didn’t hear me. I saw them get in the car and drive away. 

 

I came down as fast as I could and found Omar leaning against the balustrade. “Omar, Omar,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

 

“What happened, is the police chasing you again?” He asked. 

 

“Very funny,” I said. “Did you happen to see a pair of glasses?” 

 

He removed a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket. “You mean these ones?”

 

“Yes, perfect,” I said and extended my hand. “A client who just left dropped them.”

 

“But I already promised my wife a pair of glasses,” he said. 

 

“Give them to me, you wouldn’t want your wife to see how ugly you are,” I said. 

 

“Have a cigarette with me,” he said. “I’ll roll you one.”

 

“You say the same thing every day and every day I tell you I don’t smoke,” I said. 

 

“Yes but look at how lovely the hydrangeas look today.”