It was my first day of work at the State Department of Labor in my new position of Statistician for the Bureau of Labor Statistics. The date was December 17th, 1990.
I showed up with a tie on (first mistake), and was lead through puke-colored partitions to a small square of real estate located in the back corner of a massive cubicle farm.
“Heres your cubic- er, your workspace,” said Chuck, the project assistant for the Bureau, looking somewhat embarrassed.
“It’s okay, you can call it a cubicle,” I said. “After all, that’s what it is.” He grinned and said, “Yep, you have to be a Section Chief to get a window, and you have to be a Bureau Director to get a door.”
“I guess we’re just too smart to get a window or a door,” I said. He smiled, and I knew I had an ally.
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18 years later, I’m back to the cubicle. My office with a door (without a window because it’s in a basement cum bomb shelter) is now Mary’s domain, our accountant who needs a lot more space and a lot more privacy than I really wanted. I want to be interrupted. I love my staff and I enjoy their company.
So the old cubicle is a mess, but it’s a pleasant sort of disorder.