There are no cigarette breaks at U.Va., but working in an office makes me want to start smoking. True, I find cigarettes pretty disgusting (even though I will have one from time to time as my drinking dictates), but the idea of going outside to "take a break" from a job not requiring much stress in the first place sounds quite agreeable. But when the smokers return from their secret meeting of gossip and, well, smoke, the putrid, ashtray smell billowing from the group quells my initial instinct and I decide not to start a habit.
So why this urge to smoke? Well, the real desire lies not in the action of smoking itself, but in the change from my routine. Returning to my most recurring theme, I feel the need to "escape" from the reality surrounding me, regardless what exactly that reality is. This innate desire is, of course, not specific to my condition, as a wandering eye in any contemporary office environment will eventually pass over a day-dreamer or at least someone looking at an Internet site that has no correlation to the business at hand. The human imagination demands exercise, and these wanderings are certainly part of the common human experience, but the constant need of newness seems a bit absurd.
Even as I am writing this, the co-workers around me are breaking away from their sales calls and keeping themselves entertained. The receptionist is reading a science fiction novel; one of the traders is looking at pictures of the house he will be staying at on the beach this weekend; one salesman is looking up different types of tea; another is writing thoughts out on a yellow legal pad since typing would draw too much attention and no one, save himself, can read his handwriting. I, of course, am not working either; I'm writing this column that other people will read to get their minds off of their immediate responsibilities -- the cycle continues.
As much as I point this out, and as obvious as it is, I really have no problem with it. If the office I worked in was full of workaholics, I would probably lose it, or just spend lots of time "running errands" around town and take two-hour lunch breaks even though I'm not French. The "meeting with the Bobs" scene from "Office Space" keeps appearing in my mind as a perfect example of what I'm trying to emphasize:
Peter: Well, I generally come in at least 15 minutes late. I use the side door, that way Lumbergh can't see me. Uh, and after that, I just sorta space out for about an hour.
Bob Porter: Space out?
Peter: Yeah. I just stare at my desk but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch too. I'd probably, say, in a given week, I probably do about 15 minutes of real, actual work.
Thomas Christman, a third-year College student, is also working in a fixed-income investment firm this summer. His work experience is very similar: "I like to have a webpage up of what the bond market is doing, so if anyone ever walks by I can open it and look very focused and/or confused at what's going on in the markets. I check my e-mail every 10 minutes in hopes that someone has sent me an e-mail I can read to pass some time. I stare at articles that I'm given and look like I'm focused on what I'm reading, when I'm really thinking about how long of a nap I'm going to get when I get home. I think about what I'm going to eat for lunch and where, and then after lunch I think about how good the food I ate was and how I wish I was still eating it. My co-workers are constantly talking about what happened on the World [Series] of Poker the night before, or yesterday, for example, how every network covering the Democratic National Convention got worse ratings than a rerun of CBS's 'CSI: Miami.'"
Tommy and I are not alone in our anguish. The majority of the working public would rather do anything other than wake up and drive to their job every morning. Those fortunate enough to have the privilege take off early and play golf for the entire afternoon. The assistants, rookies and interns get stuck crunching numbers and answering phones all day, trying to explain to the aged customers why their interest payment this month was not as high as last month.
A washed-up alcoholic once said, "You don't know what you've got till it's gone." Well, he's right. I want to go back to Charlottesville. A 34-year-old trader with a three-year-old daughter asked me yesterday, "So you're going to be a junior at U.Va. next year?" "Yep," I replied. "Dammit man. That just sounds awesome. It's not fair." I guess it's not fair, but just think, in a few years, we will all be looking back with the same nostalgic eyes wishing we could relive the good ole days.
Brett Meeks is a Cavalier Daily columnist. He can be reached at: meeks@cavalierdaily.com.
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