Conditioned Airspace

I gingerly enter the white box. It is heavily carpeted in the manner that voices didnt bounce off surfaces, and footsteps weren't heard. There is an ambient light and shadows do not become.

Everybody is chained to a caffeinated drink and is either talking animatedly or searching for an animated topic. Each possesses a placard ("let me serve you") among a few displayables in their unpapered desks.

An odd chain of varied rings from different telephones throughout the workspace create a sustaining urgent melody. Intermittently, unattended cell phones jukebox cliched tunes. Now and then, I can hear paper rustles, squeaks and groans from wheeled chairs, unintelligible telephonic conversations, and the sighing air conditioners.

I feel I do not belong in this box. No matter how hard I try, my tie is too bright to match the surroundings. I try to stifle oncoming grins and end up looking smirking at best. I try to take in affected smiles and indifferent gestures as professional etiquette. I feel a rush of blood in my face as I try to maintain my composure.

In one corner, diagonally opposite to where I entered, is an unassuming desk manned by an unassuming person. Behind his shoulders through the thick glass of a fixed window, I see a warm-yellow sunbathed outside. Ignoring the need to blurt a courtesy, I clamber over the desk, (the man unsurprised and smiling knowingly), paste my face to the window and drink the scenery.

It is a traffic joint. The fumes seem unchoking and weary faces do not show from this point.

Pretty soon, a kid notices me looking outside. He waves to get my attention, and makes an obscene gesture with his crotch... And I laugh.