"chair day"
a tease from upcoming book three
On my desk in my cubicle one morning is a thick, glossy catalogue with several hundred pages of photos of the most ergonomic office chairs. We are to flip through and choose our favourite before the end of the day. It takes me a minute to decide and to fill out the requisition form and to get back to my work. (And I intentionally do not look at the prices.)
Throughout the entire day, I see my colleagues prairie-dogging up and down in their cubicles, discussing, dissecting, arguing before making their final decision on something this immensely important. Real leather or mesh? What level of lumbar support? Can each armrest be set at a different height? Adjustable or padded headrest? Can I get a heated seat?
Early one morning several weeks later, we get an email that our new chairs have arrived and we are to immediately wheel our old chairs down to the main-floor loading dock. En masse, everyone stops their public service, stands up in their cubicle, grabs their chair by the back, and escorts it towards the freight elevator.
Wee-wee-wee-wee-wee is the high-pitched sound of several dozen public servants wheeling their chairs down the corridors to the elevator, entering four by four, and wee-weeing to the loading dock where we hand our chair to a man who throws it in the back of a large truck. Once all the old chairs —some which have been around for more than two years— are disposed of, we wait to hear our name called, then step forward to receive our new chair and its paperwork, then roll it off to the side to remove its foam, plastic, and cardboard packaging.
We’re then instructed to take our chairs up to the big boardroom on our office floor for a mandatory training session. This is interrupted by the union head saying that it’s now around 10:30, about two hours since we left our cubicles, and there must be a break before any more work can be done, plus the scheduling of a lunch break. The private-sector chair guy lets out a big sigh, drops his shoulders, and says to bring the chairs to the boardroom, then meet up again at 1pm.
These beautiful new chairs are smooth, pushing them takes no effort and they’re silent. Everything is going fine until we all arrive at the boardroom and start to push our new chairs inside. Trouble is, no one thought to remove the existing boardroom chairs before we arrive. As more and more people enter with their chairs, the whole boardroom —with its giant wooden rectangular table and two dozen matching chairs— becomes one big clogged traffic jam. I alone break into giggles looking at this live action version of Tetris.
“When we leave, what if someone steals our chair?”
“Ya, exactly,” is the chorus.
“Attach your paperwork to your chair.”
“With what? I don’t have any tape!”
“Anyone got elastics?”
“I’ll grab some.”
A few people squeeze out of the room and raid nearby desks of tape and elastics.
Everyone is now attaching their requisition orders onto their new chairs, passing around a sharpie to encircle their name.
At 1pm, I arrive back at the boardroom and am prepared to wait at least a half-hour for everyone to slowly arrive for this mandatory training session. (In all of my years in the federal public service, I am rarely without a book to read.)
At 2pm, the chair guy says he might as well get started and he opens up his hour-long PowerPoint presentation on how to operate our chairs.
“The lever underneath the left armrest will lower or raise the left armrest. The lever underneath the right armrest will lower or raise the right armrest. These are independent and can be in various positions.”
“I don’t feel any heat in my back.”
“You’ll have to plug in your chair for an hour once you get back to your office.”
“This smells. Is this real leather?”
“It’s a faux leather and will have a temporary plastic smell.”
“Ever since I touched my new chair, I’ve had a tingling in my leg. I need to order a new chair.”
I feel so bad about the non-stop whining the private-sector chair guy absorbs that day until I think about how much money his company just made, and will make in the future. Having a federal government contract in the 1990s is a ticket to unlimited riches. Speaking of Y2K …
Throughout the entire day, I see my colleagues prairie-dogging up and down in their cubicles, discussing, dissecting, arguing before making their final decision on something this immensely important. Real leather or mesh? What level of lumbar support? Can each armrest be set at a different height? Adjustable or padded headrest? Can I get a heated seat?
Early one morning several weeks later, we get an email that our new chairs have arrived and we are to immediately wheel our old chairs down to the main-floor loading dock. En masse, everyone stops their public service, stands up in their cubicle, grabs their chair by the back, and escorts it towards the freight elevator.
Wee-wee-wee-wee-wee is the high-pitched sound of several dozen public servants wheeling their chairs down the corridors to the elevator, entering four by four, and wee-weeing to the loading dock where we hand our chair to a man who throws it in the back of a large truck. Once all the old chairs —some which have been around for more than two years— are disposed of, we wait to hear our name called, then step forward to receive our new chair and its paperwork, then roll it off to the side to remove its foam, plastic, and cardboard packaging.
We’re then instructed to take our chairs up to the big boardroom on our office floor for a mandatory training session. This is interrupted by the union head saying that it’s now around 10:30, about two hours since we left our cubicles, and there must be a break before any more work can be done, plus the scheduling of a lunch break. The private-sector chair guy lets out a big sigh, drops his shoulders, and says to bring the chairs to the boardroom, then meet up again at 1pm.
These beautiful new chairs are smooth, pushing them takes no effort and they’re silent. Everything is going fine until we all arrive at the boardroom and start to push our new chairs inside. Trouble is, no one thought to remove the existing boardroom chairs before we arrive. As more and more people enter with their chairs, the whole boardroom —with its giant wooden rectangular table and two dozen matching chairs— becomes one big clogged traffic jam. I alone break into giggles looking at this live action version of Tetris.
“When we leave, what if someone steals our chair?”
“Ya, exactly,” is the chorus.
“Attach your paperwork to your chair.”
“With what? I don’t have any tape!”
“Anyone got elastics?”
“I’ll grab some.”
A few people squeeze out of the room and raid nearby desks of tape and elastics.
Everyone is now attaching their requisition orders onto their new chairs, passing around a sharpie to encircle their name.
At 1pm, I arrive back at the boardroom and am prepared to wait at least a half-hour for everyone to slowly arrive for this mandatory training session. (In all of my years in the federal public service, I am rarely without a book to read.)
At 2pm, the chair guy says he might as well get started and he opens up his hour-long PowerPoint presentation on how to operate our chairs.
“The lever underneath the left armrest will lower or raise the left armrest. The lever underneath the right armrest will lower or raise the right armrest. These are independent and can be in various positions.”
“I don’t feel any heat in my back.”
“You’ll have to plug in your chair for an hour once you get back to your office.”
“This smells. Is this real leather?”
“It’s a faux leather and will have a temporary plastic smell.”
“Ever since I touched my new chair, I’ve had a tingling in my leg. I need to order a new chair.”
I feel so bad about the non-stop whining the private-sector chair guy absorbs that day until I think about how much money his company just made, and will make in the future. Having a federal government contract in the 1990s is a ticket to unlimited riches. Speaking of Y2K …
