Preoccupied with Reservations

My company's process for conference room scheduling is an organized riot. I recently called the "Hoteling Department" to book a conference room. This department is manned with an elite force of operators specifically trained to keep track of reservations. I gave my name, employee id, first born, and reservation time. Once the laughter subsided on the other end of the line, the operator ensured me that my reservation would never see the light of day.

You want a conference room? You're hilarious!

Through deductive reasoning, I concluded that the operater did one of two things with my reservation 1) nothing or 2) double booked a room for the ga-gillionth time, whatever they were inspired by at the moment.

Inevitably, it's time for the meeting and I hold my breath while approaching the conference room. Shocker, other people have squatted on the reserved property. Shocker again, the squatters are smug gentleman from a higher pay grade. I have to pop my head in the room and probably resemble a puppet to those inside. I politely tell the gentleman that the space is reserved.

If you're not inside, you're outside.
Corporate Joe, get outside of my conference room.

One of the silver-haired gentleman responds in a polite but firm tone that I must be mistaken. According to their records, they have successfully booked the room. Oh, I see, prison rules, that's cool by me. The only way to solve this is to call Hoteling and see what they have in their records. Unfortunately for me, no one picks up. Hoteling notices the conference room extension (which is never good news) so they don't answer the phone.

It's a conference room number! Quick, everyone under their desks!

As we collectively listen to the ring through the speakerphone I feel the weight of their stares getting exponentially heavier with each passing second. I finally hang up. Either the Hoteling Department double-booked the room or the edgy corporate clones never booked a room, squatted, and are lying to me with impressive poker faces.

We officially have a Mexican standoff.

My options are rapidly diminishing. All I have left is my quick wit which I deftly use in the response, "There must have been a mistake, sorry for the disturbance". I briskly walk out the room. Yeah, take that sucka's. I don't hold back when it's prison rules.

Defeated but not demoralized, I scan the adjacent conference rooms to see which ones are empty. Jackpot! This isn't the adequate size but it will do. So me and my fellow employees huddle inside. Once everyone is settled, we look like a Seattle ticketbooth for a circa '92 Pearl Jam concert.

Who has the agenda?

The meeting begins and I respectfully address my peers in corporate speak that would put most humans to sleep while standing up. In the middle of one of my oh-so ordinary sentences the meeting is interrupted by an intern. Her head pokes in the side of the door like a puppet.

Apparently this intern booked the room in advance. That's strange? I respond in a polite but firm tone that she must be mistaken. According to my records, I have successfully booked the room. She is more than welcome to call Hoteling if she likes. I even pick the phone up and dial. The weight of her venomous stare is like a feather in a helium balloon compared to my previous experience.

She shuts the door. I begin to speak again and realize that I have become one of "them" and a smile reluctantly curls up on the side of my face.

About Corporate Joe

Corporate Joe is one of the five original people who was born, raised, and still lives in the Northern Virginia area. After completing college at the only school that would accept him, he decided to venture over 15 miles from where he grew up to start a career. Armed with a Bachelors Degree in something "ology", he used his well connected network called "The Five" to land a job as a secretary. Through rigorous hands-on training and knowledge gained from his B.S. degree, he learned to copy, collate, staple, and fax.

By using more advanced tools such as the mouse and printer, Corporate Joe ascended the ranks of Corporate America. To further rocket his career, he embellished his resume and endlessly harrased superiors who eventually promoted him to avoid further contact. With a great wardrobe and a natural ability to bullshit about topics in which he lacked any credibility, Corporate Joe knew it was time to make the career move to consulting. Plus he was broke from liquidating his 401K and investing it in Kozmo.com.

Corporate Joe's tipping point for becoming a consultant whore.

He hit full stride in the world of consulting. Through constant use of the word "robust" combined with perfectly executed head-nodding, he was handed the indispensable position of Project Manager.

Systems Integration, Business Process Improvement, Customer Relationship Management; you name it, Corporate Joe doesn't know about it. But that never stopped him or the endless army of consultants with similar outfits to be self-proclaimed subject matter experts in the area they happen to be working in.

View from Corporate Joe's cubicle....into another cubicle.

Despite all his successes, there was an unfulfilled need for Corporate Joe to express his slice of life experiences from Corporate America. He needed to have a creative artistic release that didn't involve porn so he did the next best thing...he joined an elite group known as "bloggers".

Thanks! Now take your shirt off.

Corporate Joe's stories do not involve watercooler talk in the office. They are geared more towards the watercooler itself. He writes of his personal experience in cubicle land; fax machines, office etiquette, underground parking lots, bonus structures, etc. Everything that millions of corporate clones despise but only a few hundred thousand have dared to write about.

So make Corporate Joe a part of your weekly routine. Take a few minutes from work, read a story, and spend some time on the company dime. Comments are both welcomed and encouraged.

Corporate Joe lives in Oakton, VA with his Bengal Tiger, Bitey. He can be contacted at cubicle.land@gmail.com. If you prefer to know more about Corporate Joe before stalking him, please use this link.

Building, My Confidence

At the same time George Clooney was announcing the award for Best Supporting Actress at the Golden Globes I was fully entrenched in my consulting cubicle to meet a deadline. I could not help but laugh at the uncanny similarities between me and Clooney. Both of us had blood being pumped to our vital organs along with sharing some of the same letters in our name. The list goes on, but let's just focus on my story.

Good job Corporate Joe. We'll catch up never.

Checking back into work at 8:00PM after leaving only 3 hours earlier was a Deja-F*ck You moment. The hours this week have been relentless in pursuit of a deliverable that will inevitably be shipped to a graveyard called Iron Mountain Storage. Because of this bizarro world schedule I have been exposed to the alter ego of our building that I never knew existed. And I wished I had never found out.

During the day, our office is alive with the humming of lights, the buzz of printers, and the firing of employees. However, the environment changes in an instant based on the sinister plan of our building engineers. I was the firsthand witness to this account and reacted the way most humans would. I pissed my pants, cried, and fell asleep in the fetal position.

The 12-story structure of brick and steel takes its final breath of the evening when the digital clock strikes 11:00PM. The ceiling lights shut down in perfect synchronicity with the auxiliary lights that struggle to stay alive. No humming, no buzz, no traffic. The lighting transmogrifies into an eery blanket of charcoal darkness occupying every space that was booming with electric life a moment ago.

After waking up feeling refreshed from my involuntary coward nap, I sat back down and was immediately distracted by the oppressing silence. Occasionally I'd look over my shoulder to see if someone was there. In particular, the twin girls from The Shining. The poor lighting and deep hallways seemed to be a perfect invitation for them. After misaligning my vertebrae from looking behind my back so many times, I returned to work.

Come play with us forever and ever and ever.
And by the way, what the f*ck are you still doing at work?

The clock now read 12:30AM and I did not put a significant dent in my deliverable. Why am I still here? Why am I hearing the elevator? Who wet my pants again? Oh goodness, the elevator stopped at my floor. I take a breath and hope the killer will murder someone else dumb enough to be working at this hour.

The elevator doors open and the "click clack" of dress shoes reverberate in the lobby. Then silence...which speaks volumes since this means the psychopathic killer is on the carpet that is one step closer to me. Then comes a "beep" indicating a security badge, the psychopathic killer molester now has access to the inside of the floor.

That call is coming from inside your cubicle!

After sucking my thumb and trying to wet my pants for the third time I realize that neither of these techniques have been very helpful. I decide to grab my kahunas (which are saturated at this point) and summon the courage to hunt down the last face I'm going to see before I die. There was a need for me to find the psychopathic killer molester pedophile with a fetish for nylon and look him right in the eye.

I rounded the corner and was immediately met by an intimidating physique. His clothes were dark and his shoes were black mirrored pools. He took a step into the straining light and I saw the true face of....Security. The dread replaced joy faster than the lighting had changed in our building. Naturally, I embraced him and cried.

In his best English he managed to reassure me with the words, "Your pants are wet." God bless you, Babukar something or other. It's hard to read your name tag with all this salt in my eyes and the shitty lighting, but either way, you know I've been through. After this encounter, I left the building tired from the ordeal but refreshed by the outcome. I had put my fears and deliverable to rest.

Upon entering the same building only six hours later the sounds of office life were frighteningly reassuring. The humming, buzzing, and firing had returned. Together they harmonically whistled a tune that let me know I share the burden of a paycheck with endless others.

I had made it through the night with my manhood intact. As long as Babukar keeps his mouth shut based on that C-note I gave him. If he doesn't, I swear to God I'll murder him while he's working the night shift.

I'm Mr. Blue

The majority of people who take the Princeton Review Career Quiz are recent college graduates whose entrance into the workforce is imminent. I have always been a late adopter so I decided to wait until the quiz was tweaked. Fourteen years after graduation, I felt that all the kinks had been worked out. Upon completion, the results already confirmed what I was feeling. I'm blue.

The quiz has a total of 24 questions. Each question provides two possibilities but only one answer can be chosen. Upon answering all the questions, you are assigned two colors. One is based on Interest and the other is Style. Mine was blue for both.

I guess we have been down in the dumps lately.

Initially this upset me. I'm not racist, but I think we can all agree that blue people are lazy as shit. Based on this sweeping generalization, I decided to look further into the test.

Here are some sample questions:

Question 1
a) I would rather be an auditor.
b) I would rather be a musician.

Question 2
a) I would rather be a clerical worker.
b) I would rather be a carpenter.

Question 3
a) I would rather be in Corporate America.
b) I would rather suck on a 12-gauge.

My Interest was blue:

Blue people like job responsibilities and occupations that involve creative, humanistic, and quiet types of activities. This is often due to being witness to a traumatic act in their formative years thereby stunting emotional growth. Blue people repressed this horrific experience and escaped by disengaging with the outside world to create their own. Their personal world extensively involved video games, comic books, and torturing handicapped animals.

Neato mosquito! Get 'em Green Lantern!

Blue interests include theorizing, masturbating, knitting, writing, and murder, which often lead to work in teaching, masturbating, knitting, mediating, murdering, and other activities ending in "ing".

My Style was also blue:

People with blue styles prefer to perform their job responsibilities in a manner that is supportive and helpful to others with a minimum of confrontation. This is due to their fear of once again being socially isolated from the outside world and forced to play Dungeons & Dragons in their parents basement.

My half-orc has darkvision. Or is it dorkvision?

They prefer to work where they have time to think things through and desperately need others to validate them. People with blue style tend to be insightful, reflective, masturbating masturbaters, selectively sociable, thoughtful, and imaginative. Usually they thrive in a cutting edge, informally paced, future-oriented environment where mistakes are not easily spotted.

Go on, take the test. Unless you are Blue. Then I'm sure you'll make up an excuse not to take it. Lazy ass.

http://www.princetonreview.com/cte/quiz/career_quiz1.asp

Hold the Line, Add the Toner

My printer ran out of toner today. And everyone quizzically asks Corporate Joe, "Did someone call this in?" which translates to "Can you call this in?" And as always, I cave and reluctantly phone our help desk.

The HP LaserJet is approximately two feet away from my cubicle but if I want new toner I have to call across the world to Delhi, India and speak with a tech specialist named Balachandra Janakibhushan aka "BJ".

BJ is an extremely decent human being. All of our lives would be more peaceful if there were more BJ's in this world. His level of politeness is unmatched. Unfortunately, so is his understanding of the English language.

The routine usually transpires in the following manner...

My call is immediately put on hold. The ironic Muzak of Toto's "Hold the Line" echoes through the receiver. Except this version sounds as if Ghandi became the sound engineer for Zamfir's coverband of Toto's Greatest Hits.

"Take it from me, Ghandi's got mad skills as a producer."

Once BJ picks up the phone, he asks me a series of questions that are equivalent to applying for a passport. After the tenth question, I actually have the mappings for my latitude and longitude ready, just in case. Then, for good measure, I'm put back on hold.

Hold the line, love isn't always on time.

At this point, I imagine BJ is typing my words into a decoder to unlock the secret mystery behind the statement "My printer needs toner". Normally, this would upset me. But I actually get upset because I have the inability to become upset due to BJ's level of courtesy.

It's not in the way you look or the things that you say that you do!

He's just getting by, trying to make ends meet.

Hold the line, love isn't always on time.

If he lived near me, we'd definitely be drinking some Mango Lassi over Aloo Tikki.

Woah woah woah!

"I am one with nature. Your ticket number is H279Q-4."

Finally, we are on the same page and he orders the toner. So where does Mr. Janakibhushan call now?...thousands of miles across the world to the very building I work in. A few hours later an employee from Facilities replaces the toner. I notice this employee because he works on the same floor as me.

I have the audacity to ask, "Why can't I just..." and before I can finish the sentence Dr. Facilities gives me a look like he's answered the question a million times.

I imagine BJ politely laughing at the absurdity of it all thousands of miles away.