I Heart Secretaries

Lifer secretaries. We all sit over a cubicle partition or workstation cabinet from a few of these, and they generally blend into the hallway scenery, like the stained coffeepots, thumbtacked childrens photos, and monitor-riding beanie babies that also inhabit their desk areas. I've sat at the desk of a lifer secretary past 9pm to check email before going home for the night, long after their kind has retired to Staten Island dwellings, and everything from the die-cast contour of the long-suffering chair to the precise angle of the triple-decker phone caller-id screen shouted "Intruder!" at me as I uneasily padded my fingertips on a scratched keyboard that has felt only the clacking of acryllic-layer nails since it came out of an I.T. bin 6 years ago. We tend not to notice lifer secretaries in the same way that giraffes and water buffalo don't notice each other; we might be on the same plain, but our grazing happens worlds apart. It is therefore a startling system shock anytime we find ourselves interacting.

A while ago, I was using the document scanner in the secretary workstation 10 obscured-vision feet and one dimension away, when one sociable Winston-smoking secretary asked about the yellow bracelet on my right wrist. I told her about cyclist Lance Armstrong's Cancer foundation, and she correctly placed cyclist Lance Armstrong as the guy in France. Last week, the day after NJ Governor James McGreevey's admission of gay infidelity and resignation, I found myself back in the same secretary station, getting some shipping labels from a cabinet, when my Winston-smoking friend perked up at my presence, looked me over, and innocently asked, "Is that bracelet one of those sexual awareness things?" Hmm. Maybe I need to start harassing more of my coworkers.