What Being on the Road Can Teach You #2

The first afternoon on the road takes me north on Interstate 5 to a small campground that is scenic enough though within earshot of the Interstate's traffic. But it's far enough away and pitch my tent within spitting distance of a bush of poison oak. My head aches and the glands in my throat seem to be the size of plums, but the gin and tonic tastes good nonetheless.

Toward dusk, as I brush away families of mosquitoes, something happens: the cubicle calls. I try to ignore the phone, but it keeps ringing and ringing. "We're not supposed to talk," I said. We've recently started counseling, and we were counseled to take a break from one another so that we could work on what we need to work on, alone.

"I just wanted to talk," the cubicle said in that husky voice it sometimes uses to get its way.

"About what?"

"Us. Things. Whatever comes up."

"I don't know if I have anything to say at the moment," I said.

"Well, I've been thinking of things," it said. "I really want this to work."

I sipped the gin and tonic. "I know you do," I said.

"Part of the problem, I think, is that we spend so little time together. You're seldom here, and even when you are, you're looking out the window, or something."

"I don't have to be there to be there, you know."

"That doesn't make sense."

The cubicle was right--it didn't make sense.

There was a few moments of silence. "Is there someone else?"

"No, " I said. "There's nobody else."

"Were you like this with the others? I mean, did you lose interest after a certain amount of time?"

I thought about that. "I'm not sure how to answer," I said.

"I know I'm not your first, and we always feel something special about the first one.  But I've seen how you stare at others. I know I'm older and less attractive than I once was."

"You're beautiful," I said. "This has nothing to do with how you look. And I don't stare at others."

"I just wish you would tell me what you want," the cubicle said. "You have to be open about things, you know?"

I finished the drink. Above me, the sky through the pines was nearly completely dark. "I need to go," I said.

"Okay," the cubicle said. 

"Okay," I said.

Later, I wondered if I'd lied during the conversation. There certainly was not someone else, at least not formally. Had I been looking at others? This was more difficult to answer precisely, but I know there had been glances if not looks. That night I slept well. 

What Being on the Road Can Teach You

Maybe you spend a lot of your time in a cubicle, something that is a choice too many of you make. Think of something: What could--would--you do if the majority of your workday were spent somewhere else?

Perhaps, like me, you might have been in many cubicles over the years, a denizen in your little den of supposed privacy. I once worked in a cubicle down in a row of many cubicles in a building full of cubicles. Because of the room's acoustics, I could hear conversations of everyone who was in the same row. Funny thing: I could hear one woman's whisper as she spoke in a whisper into her phone, as she spoke to her boyfriend of certain sexual promises. In other cubicles in other buildings I have heard people fighting with their spouses and children, arguing with bank representatives, discussing their parents' health issues. If I have learned nothing else, I have learned to be quick to fill my ears with music whenever these conversations begin.

But that's not what I want you to think about. I really want you to think of my question: What would you do if you spent your workday somewhere other than a cubicle? Would you write? or travel? or play the drums? or simply sit outside and feel the warm and wind on your skin?

Well, hell. It's a choice, really; we're not shackled to our cubicle walls. Not literally, that is. But healthcare, paid vacation and sick time, retirement plans and the such keep us chained nonetheless.

But this is more about getting on the road, something I've touched on somewhere in the bowels of this blog-type thing. And what we find out there is a bit of perspective--or maybe a retrospective of where we spend so much time. My favorite time to head out is well before dawn when the traffic is light and the sky isn't. Wind through the window seems more forgiving then, and the music sounds especially good. If you're not afraid of what's in your head, it's an excellent time. If you are afraid, well, you'll confront some interesting things. And sometimes, what you what you thought you were comfortable with will show its darker face and leave you with questions you might have trouble answering.

Tomorrow I start a road trip, the first extended time away from work since the start of the year. It should be a good journey, one with a destination toward the beginning and then some improvisation at the end. If nothing else, a trial separation from my cubicle will let us both re-evaluate some things (not the least of which is if we should continue our relationship).

I'll see what I find in the next few days, and then I'll report.