Here read the true tales of a young twenty-something cubicle dweller by day - dreamer of “there’s got to be more than this” by night - trying to find the moral of her everyday story. Walk with Jackie down cubicle lane every Wednesday as she humorously shares the pitfalls and high points of moving to a new city for her first job, building a life post 5 o’clock, and searching for meaning in every crevice of her stu-stu studio.

Dear Fellow Millennials,

During that beloved, quiet period before the holidays when half of the office was gone and all seemed relatively peaceful, I experienced a corporate slap in the face. It was uncalled for. It was callous. It was just plain dirty.

Not Without My Neighbor

I walked over to Neighbor’s cubicle after Magnum delivered news that would rock my corporate existence.

Me: “Neighbor…I have some bad news.”
Neighbor: “What is it, Neighborette??”

Me: “I’m being forced to relocate to a cubicle on another floor (Neighbor’s face dropped).

Me: “Can I sit down in your cube for a little while?”
Neighbor: “Sit and never leave.”

Then I cried tears from the depths of my neighborly heart. (You think I’m kidding?)

“Here, Neighborette,” she said, handing me a crinkled, partially used napkin with some raisin bran muffin residue from her breakfast (Neighbor loved bran).

Wiping the tears (and simultaneously contaminating my pores), I said, “I can’t do it without you, Neighbor.”

Neighbor: “We should quit.”
Me: “I see no other option.”

In the days that followed, we took our remaining time together seriously.

Me: “Neighbor…?”
Neighbor: “Yeah?”
Me: “Just making sure.”

Me: “Neighbor…?”
Neighbor: “Yes, Neighborette?”
Me: “You’re the neighbor of my dreams.”
Neighbor: “Right back at ya.”

Neighbor: “Neighborette, do you want to borrow my calculator??”

Typing mailing labels and doing nothing related to computation, I said, “Sure, Neighbor…thanks for asking.”

When I left my cubicle for the last time, I took a good, hard look at my barren desk – the overhead cabinets void of magnets and photos – and my swivel chair haphazardly situated between the desk and rear partition. I felt like I was looking at a crime scene.

Sitting in my new cubicle, I had that first day of school feeling when you don’t even feel comfortable in your own desk. So this is what resettlement feels like, I thought to myself.

Diet Coke Demise

I tried to limit my soda intake, but a walk to the soda machine was precious time away from my cubicle. Diet Coke purchase #1 – the machine ate my money. I was left thirsty and felt defeated, viewing the experience as a metaphor for how I felt about my job.

In the days following, I saw people around the office drinking soda so I decided to give it another shot. Diet Coke purchase #2 – again a vending machine victim. Then I became angry and felt the onset of tears. For those who have ever been unhappy at a job, you know it wasn’t about the money.

Annie from “Office Services” happened to be in the kitchen at the time of my being robbed.

“Annie, the machine ate my money.”

Annie felt bad, but said that Office Services didn’t handle the vending machines, and I should leave a note on the machine for the person who restocks it.

So the word “Service” in Office Services stands for what?

I went back to my cubicle, sat down and announced to surrounding co-workers, “The machine ate my money.” I never thought I was the type of person to do this, but I went back to that machine with a note in hand that read, “I lost $1.30 in this machine. Please call Ext. 2479 or see Cubicle #7006,” and taped it to the front.

Days later, I got my money back. Then I was the Diet Coke champion.

Love is in the Cubicle Air (not mine)

Switching cubicles gave me a new cubicle community (one I could have happily lived without). The cubicle dweller across the stained, carpeted walkway from me was quite loquacious and spoke to her mom at least four times during the day. Her vocal chords really seized the day after she-yaps-a-lot got engaged. Twenty-three years old, her first serious relationship, and they met online. I’m not judging (yes I am). I’m not.

The day following the engagement, I listened to her tell the proposal story at least 15 times – four times to her mom. They picnicked on the National Mall, he brought her favorite foods (one being falafel), and popped the question in hot pink icing on a chocolate cake (chocolate ice cream chocolate cake). She cried. If I heard correctly, and I believe I did, she “bawled.”

Ain’t no sunshine when Neighbor’s gone,
Jackie

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