Brody the Australian Shepherd stared up at me. As had become his habit, he was lying on my feet under our desk, likely disappointed more blueberry muffin hadn’t escaped my mouth and dropped to the floor in front of him. I consider it our desk because he spends nearly as much time at it as I do, though he has yet to do any computer work or make a more lasting contribution than some occasional light clean up.
I changed jobs a couple months ago, and the new job is fully “remote,” one meaning of which is that I never meet any of my coworkers, any of my “team.” At least not in person. These days I only see workmates on my computer screen, and so know them only from the chest up, an angle which leaves a lot to the imagination. I almost never see anyone’s hands, unless they’re trying to make a point. Certainly not their legs or feet. But, from what little can be gleaned over Zoom, my guess is at least half of us don’t shower before the workday begins. I’m in that half. Since falling out of my old morning routine, a routine ripened over years of commuting to offices external to my home, I have developed new habits. These new habits, amongst other things, include rolling out of bed as late as possible to start work by nine. Like the muffin crumbs, however, Brody helps with this, mostly by forcing me to conform to his bathroom schedule. Said schedule demands he be taken out by eight o’clock every morning and, to my credit, I mostly don’t go back to bed after he does his business.
Most mornings start with a one-sided conversation with Brody about his grooming habits. After that we pop around the corner to purchase coffee and baked goods with which to fortify myself. I always make sure this task is accomplished before I start working, operating, as I am, under the logical assumption that my computer travels are being tracked by some type of artificial intelligence, and that any deviation from the agreed upon work schedule will be transmitted to my supervisor later that evening. Or perhaps the next morning. Now, I have no evidence to support this theory, but these days I have plenty of time to think about things like this, and the theory absolutely makes sense. Why wouldn’t Big Brother want to keep an eye on me? At the least, they (Note: “They/Them” refers to what I imagine is a vast cadre of unseen humans and bots looking over my shoulder anytime I’m online.) will want to make sure I’m not selling secrets or watching porn during work hours. I’d do the same, if I was them. And, you know, maybe someday I will be one of them. Maybe the singularity is closer than any of us realize and soon I won’t even need this laptop. Maybe my brain will connect directly to the wifi. We’ll see.
Did I mention I have lots of time to think about this stuff?
In contrast to the loud but entertaining thoughts of an impending AI apocalypse, my office, also known as the spare bedroom, is dead quiet, and will be dead quiet until someone starts screaming or honking on the street below. Or arguing. Or shooting.
But none of those things are presently in the offing. There is no one to make noise, no one with which to make water cooler chat, even if there was a water cooler. There is no one wandering into my office to bullshit about current events or family matters. There is no one with which to share dirty jokes. So, quiet it will remain, at least until I decide to stream music or call someone to help me with this or that problem; or call just because I need a reminder that other humans exist. Perhaps surprisingly, I don’t find this state of affairs unsatisfactory. Not completely. It makes me more productive, or so I believe.
On the other hand, I have only Brody to count on for needed distraction, and he grows bored of me rather quickly. When I turn my chair to try to speak to him, he simply stares at me, as would a waiter politely doing his best to understand a foreign visitor ordering dinner in their native tongue. In a frustrated huff, I spin my chair back to the computer screen.
Fun fact: No one comes in at night to clean my office. The lack of this service has forced me to be more conscientious of the mess I create every day. More than ever, I’m now more careful about the trash I generate, and make sure it all ends up neatly in the can, especially since I’m the cleaning crew and am in charge of bag replacement. And I never put liquids in there, though on occasion have been known to spit in the empty coffee cups.
Same goes for the restroom. Now, when it comes to mess-making, I don’t believe my bathroom habits to be particularly egregious, but there are days when I am sorely tested. The other morning seemed like any other. I stood over the toilet, contemplating the street-scene watercolor hanging over the tank, and tried to go about my business. However, things took a turn. Without warning, my urine stream unexpectedly bifurcated, and neither of the newly created, twin flows seemed capable of finding the toilet. Horrified, I attempted the micro-adjustments I deemed necessary to make at least one stream successful, but my efforts resulted only in urine simultaneously striking the shower door and vanity, a harrowing aftermath for which I can rely on help from no one.
My day ends in the breakroom, or kitchen, as some still refer to it. I sit at the island having a snack of cheese and crackers, wondering what I can do to break the day into separate, recognizable pieces, and come to the conclusion a beer is in order, a beverage to mark the end of the day. It’s Miller Time.
Look for my new Book – First Date – on May 26th! It’s the second installment of the Day in the Life Series.