My day at the office (Part 1)

I'm going to be doing a little contract work for my uncle. He's the president of a small-ish perfume pump company (yes you heard right) in Stratford, CT. His parent company is mulling over whether to move the Stratford facility down to the southeastern U.S. or into Mexico where labor is cheaper, and my uncle is looking for some research on the pros and cons of such a move. (I think he doesn't want to move out of Connecticut and is looking for some evidence that proves that companies go south...when they go south.) He asked me if I'd be willing to do this research for him, and I told him I would.

I drove down to his office this afternoon to go over some of the specifics of the project. I had no idea what a vibrant experience I was in for. Or, perhaps more accurately, what a vibrantly un-vibrant experience.

Let me start out by saying that the word that kept flashing in my head throughout this entire experience was "soulless." I'm sure there are a host of more descriptive, less cliche words that I could use to describe what my day in a real live office was like, but "soulless" was the one that grabbed hold and wouldn't let go.

The name of the company that my uncle presides over is [deleted]. Somehow the name manages to be disingenuously futuristic and repulsively clinical at the same time. The plant, or factory, or whatever-you'd-call-it facility is located at the end of a very long industrial road. The road is called Lordship, as I recall. The street name made me think of England, or one of the Commonwealth countries. I imagined it as a grand boulevard lined with tall, majestic trees and ornate old buildings. In fact, it's a strip of crumbling grey pavement running through the tall yellow grasses of a tidal marsh, lined with low brown warehouses and fast food restaurants.

When I got to [deleted] HQ, I drove around to the front (which was actually located in what I would consider the back) and parked in a visitor space, honking as I did to shoo away a couple of seagulls who were gnawing on a hamburger wrapper. I followed the signs to the main entrance (red octagons on short posts spaced every twenty yards from the visitor parking area to the main door that proclaimed "STOP! All visitors must sign in at Main Entrance").

Just inside the entrance, in a small glassed-in alcove, was a grey felt sign with removeable white letters that read "[deleted] Group Incorporated WELCOMES Y-O-U".

I walked through the alcove and into the main reception area, where a woman--who, with stark blonde hair and a short lime green skirt, looked like she was trying very hard not to look 40ish--greeted me and told me to sign in and write my name on a visitor badge. My uncle was still at lunch, she said, and I should have a seat in the waiting area. My seating options were a black leather couch and a black leather chair. I opted for the chair, next to a tall leafy plant (I picked a leaf and ascertained that it was real).

I took a moment to assess my surroundings. Directly across from me, along one entire wall of the waiting room, was a large glass case filled with cosmetics bottles. Perfumes, lotions, ointments, creams, colognes, aftershaves, breath sprays--any product you can imagine that might require a pump was represented in this case. It was a colorful assortment: reds, pinks, oranges, yellows, and on through the spectrum. But the color of each bottle was slightly off, tampered with in some way. Some sparkled (as did several containers of liquid soap marketed toward children); some were excessively glossy and metallic (as were a collection of aerosol perfume sprays); and some were bright pastels or neons (a suntan lotion line, among others).

After a moment it dawned on me that this was the company trophy case. A shrine to all of the products whose functional, stylish plastic pumps were a testament to the [deleted] Group's dedication to sophisticated craftmanship.

Above the leather sofa was a series of photo prints. The photos might have been family portraits, but in the place of smiling children were the shiny metallic cylinders that topped fancy glass bottles of perfume. The [deleted] Group's proud offspring.

I took all of this in as best I could, trying not to dwell on the surreality of it all. So, I thought to myself, this is an inside look at the world of plastics manufacturing, nothing more. It's not the downfall of civilization; there's no need to comdemn a society that would exalt pieces of molded plastic as works of art. Just close your eyes and wait for your uncle to get back from lunch.

I was doing so well, until the receptionist answered an incoming call.

"[deleted] Group Incorporated, how may I direct your call? Oh, hi Dottie! Oh, yes, fine I had a wonderful weekend, thank you, the weather was so lovely and Christiana was in town and we went into New York for the day and, can you believe it, it was 70 degrees, and when I got here this morning everyone was asking me, 'How did you know that the weather would be so good to take the day off'...uh huh, we really lucked out, I couldn't believe it, the luck we had, and yes, the train down was lovely, except we were waiting at Cos Cob for fifteen minutes while they wheeled an old woman in a wheelchair onto the train, yes I know, me too, God forbid someday one of us should be confined to a wheelchair, but God willing we'll have the decency to not take the train during peak hours and make everybody wait while they roll out that big metal ramp and keep everybody waiting..."

To be continued...

[Note: I've taken the company name out of this post because I realized that it's conceivable that a Google search for the company name could lead to this site, and I wouldn't want to get myself or anyone else in any trouble.]