"A Promotion"
This is the moment, right here. I can grasp it and make a pact with myself to always remember it, to tie it around my finger, or I can let it pass and let it merge with the rest of the traffic—the hundreds of feathery musings that float into and out of my brain during this and every other day—to be lost forever, only to be wondered about and longed for when I’m older and life has gotten out of control. When I’ve cheated on my wife, spent my life’s savings on something extravagant and unnecessary, when my kids stop trying to be close to me because I work too much and am too far gone. A time when only thoughts of youthful yore will do, searching for old doors I pray are still open, when all answers are somehow in the past. This moment.
I’ve been promoted, leaving the world of cubicles and hourly pay rates and punch clocks—my world for seven years—moving into the world of the salary and the office. My office. This office, with its four white walls and blank desk. A new floor, a new world, ready for me to make it mine, a world where I’m no longer “assistant” to anyone or anything.
It’s five o’clock, and I’m sitting in the epicenter of my new white room. A box of my belongings rests on top of the desk. Prior to this office, I could fit everything I needed into a few drawers. I had one shelf on which to place my things, to display personal artifacts, or maybe a plant. But I did not use it. I made sure not to settle into the cubicle, to anchor roots in any direction, lest anyone think I actually wanted to stay there. Now I’m gone from that space, and my belongings look puny in this office.
There’s so much space I don’t know what to do with it. This cavernous office, with it’s sterile, flat-white walls, its empty floor-to-ceiling shelves. I feel like I need to fill it, to step into this new space and expand like a balloon in a box, stretching myself outward until every inch is occupied and nearly bursting with framed photos, luscious plants, and thoughtful posters.
Yesterday, in my cubicle, I didn’t need these things.
This is the moment.
This is a precipice, from which I may never cross back, lost forever to the salaried universe. Lost forever to this promotion. Its office, its title, its pay raise.
I imagine my debt disappearing. Student loans, credit cards, car payments: all slowly diminishing, month by month, until no one is calling anymore, no demanding hands are stretched in my direction. I imagine the day I make the final payment, sitting in a quiet room or on a park bench on a sunny day with every penny in my name and no one else’s. Beholden to no one but myself, like a child running through the streets in summertime.
When the debt is gone, maybe I can afford a bigger apartment. Maybe I can finally go on nice vacations, instead of staying home and saving money in order to “improve my situation.” My situation just improved. This office proves it.
But at what cost? Will I now work myself to the bone, hating it at first but then letting it become a part of me? Working so much for a bigger office, for another pay raise, so hard I forget what it was like to work a set shift, to be able to section out my days to allow for other activities? Exhausted, will I sit in my bigger office, ignoring the world around me and, looking at my bloated pay stub, rationalize that existence? Will I excuse what I do and how much I do it, when it occupies me so much I have time for nothing else, all because I say it makes life comfortable? Will I be comfortable?
Will I no longer be able to remember my former selves? The guy in the cubicle, the one who found his calling despite being lost in a big city. The humble man who moved from a small Midwestern town, the land of farms and farm machinery holding up traffic, where he jumped from job to job, cubicle to cubicle, looking for the right fit. The alum of a hyphenated college, where he jumped from major to major, looking for something that would stick. The high school graduate who only got accepted to two schools and zero scholarships, who knew he’d have to work full-time while attending either just to make things work. The teenager who goofed off in class and, at one time, thought he should be a comedian. The child who watched Twister and wanted to be a storm chaser, who watched Top Gun and wanted to be a fighter pilot. The young boy who teased his sister, who ran around aimlessly and laughed constantly. The healthy baby of two loving parents, born in the spring of 1986.
This is the moment I could lose all that.
It’s now 6 o’clock. I’ve been sitting in this new office for an hour, and the floor is now quiet. I think some coworkers waved goodbye for the night, but I’m not sure. The cleaning lady, a middle-aged woman, steps into my office and startles me.
“Hello,” she says, her Russian accent coming through clearly in just five letters.
“Hi,” I respond.
She smiles and grabs the trash can next to my desk; it’s empty. I haven’t discarded anything yet. She points to my desktop. “Clean desk?”
“Oh, sorry.” I feel weird, like I’m in her way, like this floor is her world and not mine. I quickly stand and back away from the desk, as if I found a spider in a drawer. She begins to wipe down the desk. Rather than watch her clean, I avert my eyes to the window behind me and watch the cars moving on the street below. The city is finally calming; people are scuttling back to their homes. To homemade dinners, chatty children, giddy pets, favorite TV shows, comfy beds.
“Good night,” she says.
I turn and the cleaning lady is smiling over her shoulder, heading out of my office and on to the next. She stops at the door, where an affixed plate is adorned with my name.
“Jeremy,” she says.
I smile. “Good night.”
She turns and leaves.
It’s past time for me to head home, so I grab my bag, flip off the light in my office, and head for the elevators.
It is there that I realize, while wallowing in the maelstrom of my new office and its implications, that I had forgotten to do something. I’d already let myself go. The elevator door opens, and I walk away from it, back toward my office.
She’s still there, in the office next to mine.
As I approach her, she’s emptying a small trash can into a larger one. Standing still, she hears footsteps and turns. I’ve surprised her.
“Sorry,” I say, for startling her, and for not asking this earlier. “What is your name?”
She smiles, no longer startled.
“Selena.”
“Selena, nice to meet you.”
She half-nods, a slight bow of the head, and continues with her work. I leave her be and head back the way I came.
Selena. Se-le-na. Selena.
Standing in the lobby, waiting for the elevator to arrive, I repeat her name in my head, trying my hardest to remember it.
I’ve been promoted, leaving the world of cubicles and hourly pay rates and punch clocks—my world for seven years—moving into the world of the salary and the office. My office. This office, with its four white walls and blank desk. A new floor, a new world, ready for me to make it mine, a world where I’m no longer “assistant” to anyone or anything.
It’s five o’clock, and I’m sitting in the epicenter of my new white room. A box of my belongings rests on top of the desk. Prior to this office, I could fit everything I needed into a few drawers. I had one shelf on which to place my things, to display personal artifacts, or maybe a plant. But I did not use it. I made sure not to settle into the cubicle, to anchor roots in any direction, lest anyone think I actually wanted to stay there. Now I’m gone from that space, and my belongings look puny in this office.
There’s so much space I don’t know what to do with it. This cavernous office, with it’s sterile, flat-white walls, its empty floor-to-ceiling shelves. I feel like I need to fill it, to step into this new space and expand like a balloon in a box, stretching myself outward until every inch is occupied and nearly bursting with framed photos, luscious plants, and thoughtful posters.
Yesterday, in my cubicle, I didn’t need these things.
This is the moment.
This is a precipice, from which I may never cross back, lost forever to the salaried universe. Lost forever to this promotion. Its office, its title, its pay raise.
I imagine my debt disappearing. Student loans, credit cards, car payments: all slowly diminishing, month by month, until no one is calling anymore, no demanding hands are stretched in my direction. I imagine the day I make the final payment, sitting in a quiet room or on a park bench on a sunny day with every penny in my name and no one else’s. Beholden to no one but myself, like a child running through the streets in summertime.
When the debt is gone, maybe I can afford a bigger apartment. Maybe I can finally go on nice vacations, instead of staying home and saving money in order to “improve my situation.” My situation just improved. This office proves it.
But at what cost? Will I now work myself to the bone, hating it at first but then letting it become a part of me? Working so much for a bigger office, for another pay raise, so hard I forget what it was like to work a set shift, to be able to section out my days to allow for other activities? Exhausted, will I sit in my bigger office, ignoring the world around me and, looking at my bloated pay stub, rationalize that existence? Will I excuse what I do and how much I do it, when it occupies me so much I have time for nothing else, all because I say it makes life comfortable? Will I be comfortable?
Will I no longer be able to remember my former selves? The guy in the cubicle, the one who found his calling despite being lost in a big city. The humble man who moved from a small Midwestern town, the land of farms and farm machinery holding up traffic, where he jumped from job to job, cubicle to cubicle, looking for the right fit. The alum of a hyphenated college, where he jumped from major to major, looking for something that would stick. The high school graduate who only got accepted to two schools and zero scholarships, who knew he’d have to work full-time while attending either just to make things work. The teenager who goofed off in class and, at one time, thought he should be a comedian. The child who watched Twister and wanted to be a storm chaser, who watched Top Gun and wanted to be a fighter pilot. The young boy who teased his sister, who ran around aimlessly and laughed constantly. The healthy baby of two loving parents, born in the spring of 1986.
This is the moment I could lose all that.
It’s now 6 o’clock. I’ve been sitting in this new office for an hour, and the floor is now quiet. I think some coworkers waved goodbye for the night, but I’m not sure. The cleaning lady, a middle-aged woman, steps into my office and startles me.
“Hello,” she says, her Russian accent coming through clearly in just five letters.
“Hi,” I respond.
She smiles and grabs the trash can next to my desk; it’s empty. I haven’t discarded anything yet. She points to my desktop. “Clean desk?”
“Oh, sorry.” I feel weird, like I’m in her way, like this floor is her world and not mine. I quickly stand and back away from the desk, as if I found a spider in a drawer. She begins to wipe down the desk. Rather than watch her clean, I avert my eyes to the window behind me and watch the cars moving on the street below. The city is finally calming; people are scuttling back to their homes. To homemade dinners, chatty children, giddy pets, favorite TV shows, comfy beds.
“Good night,” she says.
I turn and the cleaning lady is smiling over her shoulder, heading out of my office and on to the next. She stops at the door, where an affixed plate is adorned with my name.
“Jeremy,” she says.
I smile. “Good night.”
She turns and leaves.
It’s past time for me to head home, so I grab my bag, flip off the light in my office, and head for the elevators.
It is there that I realize, while wallowing in the maelstrom of my new office and its implications, that I had forgotten to do something. I’d already let myself go. The elevator door opens, and I walk away from it, back toward my office.
She’s still there, in the office next to mine.
As I approach her, she’s emptying a small trash can into a larger one. Standing still, she hears footsteps and turns. I’ve surprised her.
“Sorry,” I say, for startling her, and for not asking this earlier. “What is your name?”
She smiles, no longer startled.
“Selena.”
“Selena, nice to meet you.”
She half-nods, a slight bow of the head, and continues with her work. I leave her be and head back the way I came.
Selena. Se-le-na. Selena.
Standing in the lobby, waiting for the elevator to arrive, I repeat her name in my head, trying my hardest to remember it.
