It is no secret that I love my iPod.

Actually, I love all my iPods.  I have backups, just in case.

When I bought Miss Celie, I wasn’t concerned about the color or any of that shit, but wanted to make sure that it had a jack for my iPod so that I could listen to Foghat and Blondie on my way to work.

I love to listen to it on Saturday mornings while I surf the Internet or do homework or read the rare book not related to school.

We have a boombox so we can listen to it by our pool.

We have a little player in the master bedroom.

And since my first week at the law firm for which I work, I’ve had an iPod playing apparatus in my office.  Until recently, I couldn’t imagine making it through the day without hearing Led Zeppelin or Madonna or Dwight Yoakam or Patsy Cline or the Violent Femmes tweeting around my office all day.

Now, I don’t have to imagine it.  My office is as quiet as a morgue.  I can hear the building’s HVAC system kick on and off somewhere 44 floors below; I can hear every word said in every corner of every other office in my firm; every printer whirr; every gasp of the coffee maker; every slam of a drawer; and every sigh of despair.

I miss my Evita soundtrack.  I miss Bill Withers and Dusty Springfield.

Let me tell you how it all went down.

*****

It was a Friday morning, and the office mood seemed to be good.  I’d had a shrink appointment at the U.S.V.A. (did you remember the arm motions?), and fortified with mood elevators, Starbucks and the knowledge that in 8 hours I’d be on my way home, I was happy.  Plus, that dumbass with the dreadlocks had been kicked off “American Idol” that week, so there was an extra spring in my step.

I was in my office, on the phone with a friend who works for one of our largest clients, inquiring about her father who the night before had been moved from a hospital to a rehab facility in Jacksonville, Florida. 

My male boss, Mister, stepped into my office and started talking to me, then seeing I was on the phone, retreated to his lair on the corner of the building.  I finished my conversation, then walked down to his office.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“How do you do that?”

I scrunched my face, thinking of the empty coffee cup hanging flaccidly at my side, wondering what the hell he was talking about.  “How do I do what?”

“How do you talk on the phone with your music on?”

I just stood there.  I, of course, being me, wanted to say, “Oh, it’s easy.  I turn it on, then I pick up the phone, dial a number, then speak.  Would you like me to show you how?”

Instead, I just blinked, wishing I’d had the forethought to get coffee before entering Mister’s corner lair.

“Because, I really have an issue with this,” he continued.

I held out my hand.  “Wait, Mister.  Let’s not do this.  I haven’t even had coffee yet.  This isn’t a big deal.  I…”

“I think it is,” he interrupted.  “I don’t want our clients…”

“I wasn’t on the phone with a client,” I interrupted in return.

“I don’t want our clients to think you work in a bar.”

I breathed deeply.  “Mister, I can’t believe that after a year and a half, you think I don’t have the requisite professionalism to turn off or down my iPod when I’m on the phone with a client.  I was on the phone with Dana, inquiring about her father.”

“Still, I think it’s inappropriate,” he replied.

I looked at the industrial office carpet and the empty coffee cup in my hand and made what I considered to be a managerial decision:

a).  I could escalate this matter into a screaming match, and further delay my coffee, or

b).  I could acquiesce and hurry my caffeine fix.

“Okay,” I said.

I really needed that coffee, even though I’d already stopped at Starbuck’s, it just wasn’t enough to get me through a screaming match with my boss over an iPod.  Pick your battles, ya’ know?

He nodded curtly, acknowledging his win.  “Where are we with the binders?”

“It looks like C. got almost everything done before she left last night,” I replied, “so all we have to do is put them together.”

He looked at me as if I was the dumbest lump on a log he’d ever seen.  “Why didn’t you send them out to be copied?”

“Because it was only 5 copies of 20 documents, which we could easily do in-house.  I prepared the graphics and discs, so it seemed more economical to do it here than send it out to a service.”

“I thought you were going to create one binder, then send it out to be copied,” he said.

“No, sir.  We did all of them here.”

Mister lost it.  He ranted and railed about the cost to the client.  He told me what an ineffective use of time it was.  What a waste of resources.

I stood there and waited for him to finish, then said, “Mister, I understand that these binders are standing between our client and $40 million in financing.  If that’s the case, I wanted these binders to look like $40 million.  I’m sorry, I thought I was doing the right thing.  Next time, I’ll ask you how you want them done, and make sure that’s what we do.”

Mister bitched and moaned for a little longer, then let me go to the coffee pot.

Once back in my office, I turned off my iPod, unplugged the player and packed it into a Target back (recycle and re-use, Fart Blossoms) and the silence was deafening.

Later in the day, I walked into the office of my female boss, Missus, for something or other, and she asked if I was okay.

“Oh, Mister and I got off on the wrong foot this morning over my iPod, but it’s not a big deal.  I’m taking my little stereo home and that should alleviate the problem - keep everything copacetic,” I responded.

She sighed with exasperation.  “You are being over-sensitive again.  He was kidding, Maxine.”

My head popped as if I’d been slapped.  “No, ma’am, I assure you he was not.  But, really, it’s no big deal.  I’m just gonna take it home and then the problem is solved for everyone.”

“You’ve got to stop taking everything so personally.” 

I blinked several times.  “Oh.  Okay.  I’ll put that on my to-do list.”

At 4:40 that afternoon, I heard C. showing Mister the binders.  She was proud of them, and had reason to be - they looked like $40 million - full color process, the client’s logo in full color on the cover - they truly rocked.  Then I heard Mister bellow for me to join them.

“C., tell Maxine what you just told me.”

C. stared at him as if she’s just opened a huge can of worms and had no idea what to do with them.

“Tell him,” Mister repeated.

C. looked at Mister and then at me and then back at Mister, so Mister took the lead.

“C. was here until 10:30 last night printing everything for these binders.  So, just like I said, we spent way too much money producing these.  We should have made one binder and sent it out.  I don’t know why you didn’t do that.  I thought that’s what you were going to do…”

After that, all I heard was Charlie Brown’s teacher.  “Wah-waa-waa-wah-waa-wah-waa-waaaaaaaah.”

I turned around, went into my office, picked up my purse and the Target bag with my iPod player in it and walked back through the room where Mister and C. were still standing.  I thanked C. for helping with the binders, then walked out 10 minutes early.

That’s when the shit really hit the fan.

I wasn’t there for this part, but according to reliable third parties, Mister ranted and railed and told the other employees of the firm that he wasn’t going to take my shit and that he didn’t have to take my shit and that I was insubordinate and overly sensitive and spent too much time and money on the binders and that he was so upset over everything that he just had to leave for the day.

*****

Amazingly (at least to me), I went back to work Monday morning.  It was quiet.  It tried not to pay attention.

Then I tried to hum.

Then I sang to myself.

Then I made up songs.

Then I gave up and sat in the silence, concentrating on the sound of my fingers on the keyboard.

Someday, when I’m running my own camp, I’m going to have the back wall of my office covered in mirrors and shelves and bottles of liquor, and I’m going to have a 2,000 watt Bose stereo system installed so that I have to take client calls out on the sidewalk and explain to them, “Sorry, but my office is like working in a bar.”

By God.

    

Kisses,
Maxine