Member-only story
“It’s Not Good Or Bad. Y’all Are Just Different.”
The response when I questioned the questioning.
I had transferred from my cushy cubicle located in a nondescript, unmarked brick building just outside of D.C. to a “renovated” all-metal unused warehouse that came with its own fold-up tables and chairs to be used as makeshift office furniture. We were all issued laptops and cell phones, as we had to be mobile at all times.
Good thing I was single.
Moveable walls became my safe space for the next several months. I worked in the Panhandle of Florida. I should have been asked for a passport to get there. Then I would have had a clue as I was about to get myself into.
We ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.
I was in my usual attire: jeans, sneaks, a polo shirt with the alphabet soup on the back. My lanyard with my ‘it will get you in anywhere’ ID dutifully displayed. I got there early. Stayed late when needed. 12 hours a day, 7 days a week in the beginning. Soon it was Sundays off. Eventually, Saturdays were half days. Then off. We were still doing 12 hours a day, however.
I’d be at my little fold-up table in my fold-up chair typing away on my laptop, cell phone at the ready. Around me was a nonstop hen party. Plans for the weekend. Oh, ah over baby pictures. Oh…
