I recently found out that I have a job this summer. This is good news, because having a job means I’ll be making money, and making money means that I can finally buy a replica of the costume Mr. Mistoffelees uses in “Cats,” the longest-running musical in Broadway history.
It also means that my family will be proud of me, given my previously demonstrated penchant for avoiding work of any kind. Two summers ago, when my mom asked me if I was going to work, I went to Brazil. Last summer, when my mom asked me again if I was going to work, I nodded earnestly and showed her an application I was filling out for an audition in “Cats.” Then, when she wasn’t looking, I went to Brazil.
So, it seems natural that they would be elated to hear tales of employment and paychecks, and I called one of my sisters to tell her the jubilant news. But, instead of being happy for me, like I was for her when she got a job, she was upset with me, like I was with her with I found out she was hypoglycemic. She spoke candidly, and without emotion.
“Listen, Daniel, I’m going to be honest with you,” she said candidly, and with a concordant lack of emotion. She was definitely not pleased with me, since my family only calls me by my real name when they’re upset. The rest of the time, they refer to me by my nickname, Dandrew Lloyd Webber.
She continued: “I don’t care if you have a job. What matters is the type of office you have at your job. You get yourself a corner office, or you might as well just quit right now. Also, if I don’t eat enough glucose I start to shake, because I’m hypoglycemic.”
Upon hearing this, I was hurt. But deep down, I knew she was right. She was definitely hypoglycemic, and probably adopted — I just didn’t want to admit it. Also, she was right about the job thing. It really doesn’t matter if you have a “job.” What matters is that you have a corner office with a view that you can use as a status symbol to make other employees aware of your social standing.
When you have a corner office, everything automatically gets better. For example, I frequently imagine a scene where I’m standing outside the door to my corner office sipping a cup of joe, which is office lingo for “immense satisfaction.” As lower-echelon employees from my company walk by, I scoff at their measly cubicles and windowless offices.
“Hey Steve,” I’ll say to Steve as he walks by, “I’m sorry to hear that you got frostbite and had to get your hands amputated. Maybe if you had a corner office things would have turned out differently.”
Then, as Steve stands in front of me, embarrassed and dejected, I’ll make a casual motion for him to keep walking, and he’ll feel even worse because handless people can’t make casual motions like that.
Next, Jared walks by, and I imagine myself saying something like, “Hey Jared.” He’ll stop suddenly, anxiously awaiting what he thinks will be praise from a superior with a corner office. “Does your boyfriend have an small cubicle, too?”
I’ll laugh to myself and take a sip of joe, confident in my ability to imply that someone is a homosexual. Then Jared will respond, “Actually, Mr. Lloyd Webber, he doesn’t. He has a corner office, like you. He also really loves the musical ‘Cats,’ like you.”
As it turns out, the Jared I imagine is actually a homosexual, and the joke is on me for not paying enough attention to the personal lives of other employees to know which ones are gay. But you get the point: a corner office gives you all the power in the world, and if I’m going to have a job, I need to walk the corner office walk and talk the corner office talk before I even show up on the first day.
For exactly this reason, I have transformed my dorm room, which sits in a corner of TD, into a corner office training ground so that one day, I’ll be ready to take on the corporate world. I have molded my life into that of the corner office dweller, and I exude, if I might say so myself, an air of authority to the non-corner members of TD. For example, when my roommate, who is a virgin, called me yesterday — most likely to talk about his virginity — my secretary answered for me.
“Dandrew Lloyd Webber’s office, this is Joanne, how may I help you?” she asked.
“What the hell are you doing? Why are you talking like a girl? And why are you still doing that Andrew Lloyd Webber thing?” the virgin queried.
“I’m sorry sir,” Joanne responded, “you seem to think that I’m Mr. Lloyd Webber. That’s just absurd. Can I take a message for you?”
“This is ridiculous. Just tell ‘Dandrew’ that he can’t hang up his ‘Apocalypto’ poster in my common room,” he said.
“Hey fuck you,” I responded, and then Joanne hung up the phone.
That’s exactly the sort of executive confidence and decision making abilities that Joanne and I exude on a daily basis. Aside from hiring Joanne full time, I spend most of the day in my room putting and otherwise perfecting my golf game so that, when necessary, I can woo potential clients with solid chip shots and neatly ironed khakis.
Also, I put a water cooler in the bathroom, where I frequently brag to the people who live on my floor about my son Robby and how good he is at basketball. Recently, I tell them, Robby’s team won the state championship, but little do they know I don’t have a son named Robby. I have a son named Jesus Christ Superstar, and he sucks at basketball.
So please, fellow students and future fellow employees, take note of my workplace prowess. I have prepared myself for workplace domination, and I intend to make you aware of my social standing. And, if for some reason you feel like challenging the status of my corner office, I’ll make you look like an idiot, because I know all the words to “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” and probably you don’t.
Daniel Zier cleared this with his hypoglycemic sister prior to publication.