The notion that the cubicle is the modern day wasteland is nothing new. Whether you want to liken it to one of the chains that binds us to our own personal Platonic cavern, a cage not unlike those used to constrain animals at the zoo, or merely part of the Matrix that occupies one's thoughts as futuristic machines harvest their bodies for nutrients, it is easy to see why few embrace their tiny enclosures. I used to be one of those who despised the cube, and would frequently join in with the haters lambasting its shortcomings and citing its existence as yet another sign that corporate America loathes its employees and seeks to humiliate them whenever possible.
I often fantasized about pushing down the wall to my cubicle like in the movie Office Space, so that I could finally bask in the natural sunlight that reached everybody’s desk but mine. During other days, when my neighbor would spend hours gabbing on the phone, my day dream involved taking a sledge hammer to the partition between us and creating a breach through which I could emerge on the other side, much akin to Stephen Tyler in the Aerosmith/Run DMC video. Only instead of singing Walk This Way, I would melodically urge my boisterous co-worker to take a moment to consider the effects her unabated personal discussions have upon those in her general vicinity and refrain from such inconsiderate personal conduct during business hours.
But today, as I sit back and admire my space, I can't help but ponder my cubicle's seemingly contradictory virtues. You see, my cube is both rigid and confining, yet is still open enough to allow people to enter without knocking. My cube is continually gripped by a state of disarray, yet it remains organized enough that I can locate what I need when I need it. My cubicle looks flimsy and temporary in design, yet it is somehow sturdy enough to withstand decades of use.
In fact, I am certain that my cubicle will exist long after me, and centuries from now, when we are long gone, and space alien archeologists descend upon our world, it will be the abandoned rows of cubicles that will represent the ruins of our generation. As these futuristic Indian Jones meander from office building to office building they will try to piece together the evidence to get a sense of how we lived as a species. They'll ask the basic questions about our thoughts, behaviors, and values, not out of spite, but because they'll assume that we at least contemplated the answers.
So I can only imagine what would happen if out of the millions of candidates, the explorers were to somehow choose my cubicle as their primary excavation site. Here, they would uncover notebooks filled with drawings created during meetings, at least fifty empty bottles of Propel fitness water, and a copy of a certificate stating that I had successfully completed the company's anti-pornography training. Based on these relicts, they'd think whoever occupied the cubicle was inattentive, over-hydrated, and neutered. I think that pretty much sums it up. The company wouldn't want it any other way.
I often fantasized about pushing down the wall to my cubicle like in the movie Office Space, so that I could finally bask in the natural sunlight that reached everybody’s desk but mine. During other days, when my neighbor would spend hours gabbing on the phone, my day dream involved taking a sledge hammer to the partition between us and creating a breach through which I could emerge on the other side, much akin to Stephen Tyler in the Aerosmith/Run DMC video. Only instead of singing Walk This Way, I would melodically urge my boisterous co-worker to take a moment to consider the effects her unabated personal discussions have upon those in her general vicinity and refrain from such inconsiderate personal conduct during business hours.
But today, as I sit back and admire my space, I can't help but ponder my cubicle's seemingly contradictory virtues. You see, my cube is both rigid and confining, yet is still open enough to allow people to enter without knocking. My cube is continually gripped by a state of disarray, yet it remains organized enough that I can locate what I need when I need it. My cubicle looks flimsy and temporary in design, yet it is somehow sturdy enough to withstand decades of use.
In fact, I am certain that my cubicle will exist long after me, and centuries from now, when we are long gone, and space alien archeologists descend upon our world, it will be the abandoned rows of cubicles that will represent the ruins of our generation. As these futuristic Indian Jones meander from office building to office building they will try to piece together the evidence to get a sense of how we lived as a species. They'll ask the basic questions about our thoughts, behaviors, and values, not out of spite, but because they'll assume that we at least contemplated the answers.
So I can only imagine what would happen if out of the millions of candidates, the explorers were to somehow choose my cubicle as their primary excavation site. Here, they would uncover notebooks filled with drawings created during meetings, at least fifty empty bottles of Propel fitness water, and a copy of a certificate stating that I had successfully completed the company's anti-pornography training. Based on these relicts, they'd think whoever occupied the cubicle was inattentive, over-hydrated, and neutered. I think that pretty much sums it up. The company wouldn't want it any other way.
[Matrix] [Indiana Jones] [Cubicle] [Office Space]
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