I may as well be swinging on a hammock drinking a piña colada beneath a palm tree because nobody in The Firm really knows what is going on inside my CUBE. Tucked away like a marsupial pouch missing a kangaroo and far, far away in the remote outback of The Firm, my CUBE is part and parcel of the land that time forgot.

I used to resent being assigned a CUBE in the worst section the office. But now, I’m starting to like it.

Each day when I arrive at work, I plunge into the CUBE like a diver in a swimming pool. Head first. The CUBE is my fantasy island where I do whatever I want. Stick pushpins in its walls to feed my voodoo inclinations. Spin in my swivel chair just because I can. When bored, which is often, I stand up in the CUBE and enact a Gulliver in Lilliput story line. On occasion, I have crawled under the desktop when the cluck-clucking gait of middling manager, Mother of All Hens, trundled by within pecking distance. On particularly tedious days, I may do a full-out bachata in the CUBE, if Marc Anthony is in the Airpods, and I’m feeling especially saucy.

Airpods, IMHO, are the greatest invention known to humankind since to the blowdryer. Their beauty is that they easily pass for earrings. Most attorneys in The Firm, especially if they’ve made partner, don’t do their own shopping. They will never set foot in the Apple flagship store, which is directly across the street, primarily, because they can’t bill for it. They will send someone else. They probably don’t even know what AirPods are.

Attorneys, who dwell in a realm unto themselves, don’t care about your idiosyncrasies – your strange attire, what you do with your hair or your odd personality quirks – as long as you maintain a psychic distance, and help them.

On the most surreal days in the CUBE, when soul-sucking ennui threatens to implode the padded barricades, topple it in on itself and bury me alive, the AirPods will remain in my ears all day long. Except when the battery needs recharging.

During that interim period, I will flee the CUBE. I may fit in a trip to the ladies’ room before my segue to the desks of my trusted comrades, the Double LL’s Nonpareil, for a few laughs and an update on the latest gossip. Who’s boffing whom, who’s on the chopping block, who didn’t wash their hands when they should have.

I keep my visit short. I don’t want to attract unwanted attention from the gooey layer of nepotismic wheedlers – aka the vampire bat middle managers – who are obsequiously slathered in between the vanilla upper crust and burnt bottom platform of the hierarchical layer cake called Management.

It’s back to the CUBE for me!

AirPods in, volume up so high and crystal clear and stratospherically stereophonic, that I’m virtually propelled out of my chair as Kathleen Battle’s soprano unleashes an accelerating crescendo so stunning, pristine and precise, I waltz on my toes to the sounds of The Voices of Spring until I reach the printer, where I am immobilized by a final, heart-stopping arpeggio.

I retrieve, and quickly fold up for future perusal, a copy of a confidential email addressed to Partners Only, marked Strictly Confidential, which someone, a partner, forgot to delete from the queue, and which I inadvertently dragged to my desktop from the firm’s scan folder.

So loud and crazy and wild was my glorious musical interlude that I am still basking in the afterglow of its weightlessness. It’s as if an astronaut – me – adrift in a spaceship destined for the moon, has veered off course and touched down in my CUBE.

Safe landing. For now.


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