Sharpie: 5, Receptionist: 0

The office is too small.

That's a lie, of course, but that's what the great thinkers at the top of my particular food chain have decided. Multi National Mega Global uses exactly 2.05 floors in a very tall and noteworthy building in an instantly recognizable financial district. If the windows were less tinted I'd be seen on postcards the world over, waving, or depending on what day of the week it was, flipping the bird. The 1/20th of a floor we occupy two levels down is a very small storage closet that has been virtually empty for at least three years. You'd think that since we didn't make budget this year, we'd get rid of that unused space in an effort to spend wisely. You'd think. What the brain trust here at MNMG has decided instead is to go ahead and take over the whole floor.

Nice work, people. Way to save a penny.

Normally I don't distract myself with the idiocy that is the Supervisory Panel because, for the most part, the members are ineffectual enough that little ever really changes. Currently, however, the hirelings in the office (Receptionista included) are disgruntled because, due to this fiscal year's revenue shortfall, our bonuses have vanished. To add insult to injury, the architect in charge of our floor-to-be periodically comes rolling through and we know there's fat cash on the table when he's designing in Tuscan stone floors, Australian Myrtle burl cabinetry and the installation of an inside water feature. (With fish. Is that legal?)

I'm guessing that's the bonus money allocation. Thanks.

So on Friday, when a herd of thirty contractors waltzes into my lobby, I'm peeved to say the least. Most carry some kind of rolled up blueprint, snug in an armpit, each bumping into the other in a formerly spacious foyer. Amid the preponderance of stocky men in golf shirts and Dockers, and the occasional short-sleeved button down with a tie, there is only one single woman, wearing a winter white wool suit. She is accompanied by the biggest man I've ever seen. Football lineman, maybe. Huge. His sleeves don't fit over his veiny arms. The architect in charge conducts the group as if on a tour - holding up a clipboard, pointing out corner moldings and wall treatments and elevator shaft boxes - and everyone is taking notes. Most have gadgets for this purpose, digital recorders and Palm Pilots, but one man is using a Sharpie felt pen, far too close to the woman's gorgeous suit.

Bad idea.

As if choreographed, the permanent marker slips out of Notetaker's hand, flipping up and over to slide down the front of a pristine white silk blouse and the very expensive white wool suit.

In response, White Suit gasps and steps back, digging her high heel into the instep behind her.

Steroid Overdose releases a surprisingly high pitched squeal as the Franco Sarto assaults his foot, and leaps aside, right smack into a tall corporate potted tree.

Like a domino line, the tree lands on Tour Guide, busy taking pictures with his iPhone, which is knocked from his hand and makes a beeline for my head.

Too late, I bellow, throw my hands up and knock over a three-quarters full Dr. Pepper, submerging my keyboard, console, various important papers on my desk and, of course, Tour Guide's precious iPhone.

All in the space of three, maybe four, seconds.

If we had planned it, it never could have worked.


In the momentary stunned silence, heard over the fizzing of my now extinct soda, Notetaker says "Oops."

Three days later, I'm still awaiting a new keyboard, and a replacement battery, handset and extension template for the telephone console. Worse yet, I'm nursing what looks like a rather large hickey on my forehead that doesn't even have the decency to bruise.

Well, at least now I know exactly where my bonus is going.