moving on

Last week was the last week for my daytime gig at our old offices. After 15 years or so in Trumbull, Connecticut Magazine has been moved to New Haven, where we have been absorbed into the New Haven Register building at Long Wharf, which is owned by the company that owns us. This in itself may be a prelude to another move as it was also announced last week that there are plans to sell that building to move downtown New Haven.

I think we’re along for the ride, but I learned a long time ago not to assume anything. One day at a time. What happens happens. It is what it is. Insert whatever other cliche you can think of that implies it’s a situation over which I have zero control so I won’t worry about it. Que sera, sera …

Anyway, as you can imagine, the last few weeks have been crazy as we have been packing up years of work while still trying to put together the next issue. Like during any moving process, we discovered things we thought were long lost (like a poster-sized staff photo from 1997!), didn’t have nearly enough boxes for all of our files and, ultimately, threw out tons of crap—literally. Stacks of old magazines are heavy. One batch weighed so much that it made the elevator sink before we even hit the “down” button—we sent that one by itself and took the stairs!

It was weird arriving at work on Friday, the last day in the office where I’ve spent the majority of my 40-hour weeks for the past decade or so. As I walked across the parking lot, I sort of took it in, the surroundings to which I’ve become accustomed, the building and all. I wasn’t wistful or sad, but I guess I was feeling a bit nostalgic, and started reminiscing about some of the good times.

Of course, I thought of all the weird and wonderful people with whom I’ve directly worked, like the one woman who would get overly excited from time to time and slap the butts of various co-workers. Yeah, you read that right, but before anyone goes all human resources, you truly had to be there to be appreciate the way she went about it, her targets and her timing, how it was done in a loving and tension-breaking way—nothing will loosen up a stressed office like a resounding *SMACK* and the faux hysteria that follows it. Like the old “Friends” episode, getting struck became a badge of honor. For the record, I was spared in the reign of terror; apparently, my dimpled posterior wasn’t an enticing enough target. Go figure.

I also remembered the various characters who worked in other offices in the building, not associated with us, you know, like the NASDAQ security guards who would often nap at their posts in the hallways—nothing keeps you alert like being well-rested, right?

Memorable also were some of the extracurricular things that went on in the office—specifically, the fun I had with my co-workers. Or at the expense of my co-workers, on occasion.

I think of one long-time employee of the magazine who was obsessed with the store room, and spent an inordinate amount of time in there, straightening and organizing. He would be in there first thing almost every morning, which seemed extraordinarily excessive considering the relatively small size of the room and of our operation. After a while I decided to help out: being a good co-worker, each afternoon before I left I would go in the store room and randomly take a few heavy boxes off the shelves and place them on the floor.

The next morning when I arrived, they’d always be back on the shelves, all neat again.

This continued on and off for a few years—I’d leave boxes on the floor, he’d clean them up by the next morning. I never heard him complain about it, so I assumed we were playing some sort of game he enjoyed. Of course, he may have never noticed anything was out of the ordinary, either. Still, I was amused. Oh well.

Speaking of cleaning things up, there was one member of the building’s cleaning service by the name of Miguel, who was an excellent worker and incredibly polite, even if he went a bit heavy on the cologne. English was not his first language, so he tended to be a bit shy when he came to empty our trash cans at the end of the day.

One afternoon, while I was talking to my work wife Marisa in her office, Miguel came in to get the garbage. Marisa, trying to help him out, went to hand him the can, but it slipped and landed between them, spilling out. They both immediately started apologizing to each other and bent down to get the trash, almost knocking heads together. It was like a scene out of a teen rom-com, where the couple meets after one drops the books in the hall and they both scramble to pick them up. Love at first sight!

Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite love, but it was close enough for us to joke about her “crush” for a while afterward. Marisa is as twisted (read: immature) as I am, so we would often have each other in stitches trying to top each other about potential Miguel “fantasies.” Her husband’s name was Mike—the English version of Miguel—so there was a lot of fun to have there too, you know, talking about accidentally calling out the “wrong” name at the wrong time.

Well, December rolled around, and with it, a golden opportunity. When it came time to draw names out of a hat for “Secret Santa,” I pulled Marisa’s name and a terrific prank immediately sprung to mind.

After work day had ended on the afternoon before the event, I went through the building in search of Miguel. Of course, I couldn’t find him anywhere and returned to my office dejected, but a Festivus miracle occurred. As soon as I reached for my coat to call it a day, he appeared to empty my trash can! I took advantage …

Cut to the next day at the Christm—er, “holiday luncheon.” (By company rules, we were not allowed to have either a “Christmas” event or any sort of “party.”) I was sitting across the table from Marisa when her Secret Santa gifts were placed before her. I pretended to be absorbed in my own gift as she tore the paper off the first package—a CD of Latin music, which ironically had been on her Amazon gift list. I could see she was a little perplexed, but she gamely moved on to the next package.

She slowly pulled the wrap off the gift, and then stared at it for a few seconds …. and then burst into laughter so hard she couldn’t even talk for a while. The other people seated around her started to notice she was in hysterics and asked what was wrong. All she could do was just hand them her special gift …

A framed photograph from her unsuspecting “crush,” addressed to “Mamacita” and signed “Besitos, Miguel.”

Apologies to Miguel (who the night before had reluctantly allowed me to “test” the “new” camera I brought to work), but I hope there’s a little harmless fun to have in the brave new world that awaits us this week!