Waterboarding: The Musical

-
Our formerly gracious lobby is no more.
The kitchen has joined the choir invisible.

Construction has begun in earnest.

Three days ago, an entire unit, including four worker bees and one supervisor (herself equivalent to three high-maintenance people), was moved down two floors into a temporary space carved out of our future third floor. Books have been packed away, files schlepped, tchotchkes swept from desktops, and cubes dismantled without so much as a fare thee well. In their place, adjacent to the most inconvenient entrance imaginable, my desk has been plunked down with all the apparent planning of Dorothy's house landing in Munchkinland. The only thing missing is a pair of red and white striped legs sticking out from underneath, which is not to say they're not there; all I'm saying is I haven't looked hard enough.

Upside: I'm closer to the candy bowl. Downside: I'm directly under a speaker.

In my lobby, there were no speakers: technically, my only job is to hear and be heard on the phone, and the lobby was an absolute echo chamber. But now, lost in the middle of the industrial-berber-carpet black hole, when I page someone, I hear my own dulcet tones as clearly as if I'm murmuring in my very own ear, which is disconcerting to say the least.

What's worse, though, is the Musak©. While it may not be very loud, it's treacherous. You don't even know it's there until you get some horrid “adult contemporary” song stuck in your head. This evil loop is updated from time to time, but always remains disturbingly reminiscent of what one might hear if one were to stand in the cereal/crackers/snacks aisle long enough.

In sum, it's Barry Manilow.

Let me be clear - I am not bashing Barry Manilow per se. Secretly, I have fond memories of Barry Manilow. We've all heard "Mandy". In my much younger years, I used to know all the words to "Weekend in New England" (When will our eyes meet/When can I touch you/When will this strong yearning end?). Hell, like every other red-blooded American 10-year-old girl in my town, I used to belt "Copacabana" into my hairbrush microphone and shake my pre-pubescent tail feather. Thinking about the largely languishing vigor and optimism of my youth makes me smile. Unfortunately, the present-day followup - synthesized instrumental Barry Manilow on nonstop mental repeat - sends that marvelous nostalgia to the ground in a miserable and grumpy heap.

Yesterday the tune du jour was "Can't Smile Without You", a catchy, saccharine little ditty, done here Kenny G. style. When Sam Shenanigan, COO stops by my relocated desk for a spontaneous chat about nothing in particular, it appears that he's caught up by the melody, probably unconciously. I can't help but notice that his head bobs ever so slightly from side to side and he shifts his weight not quite in tempo. A self-important, rhythmless metronome. I'm transfixed. His words take on a soporific, dreamlike quality, until the unthinkable rips me from my torpor.

Suddenly snapping his fingers, he does the Cabbage Patch right in front of my desk.

Just for the record, there is never any legitimate reason to perform the Cabbage Patch at all, let alone to Barry Manilow.

Naturally presuming he's stroking out, I leap out of my seat, almost knocking over my ergonomically correct chair while simultaneously realizing my CPR skills will be woefully inadequate. The spectacle lasts only a few seconds, at which point he ambles away, smiling and saying, rather too loudly, "Wow, I haven't done that since college!"

There’s a good reason for that, Sam - a little thing I like to call penal code 370.