Tuesdays suck because they tend to be the day my imagination can’t quite get fired up. I work at the front desk of a coworking space called Bucatini. Yes, like the pasta. The owner of Bucatini is a failed restaurateur. I need my imagination because there’s a strict no headphones policy I’m required to follow. Endless scrolling is discouraged as well, although an outright ban on phone usage is not in place (thank god). My imagination is essential for the primary task I engage in each day: writing non-work-related emails to people I don’t know.
Sometimes I try to guess famous people’s Gmail addresses. Or I’ll look up a random company that has their leadership’s contact information listed on their website. I keep a shoebox filled with business cards I’ve collected over the years. They’re mostly from people I’ve never met.
Engaging in this type of nonrational behavior should be proof of some sort of lunacy. But writing these emails actually keeps me sane. I work eight-hour shifts and there’s almost nothing to do. The regulars scan in with a badge. If someone wants to pay for a day pass, all I’m supposed to do is tell them to fill out the form and pay using the tablet in front of them. When someone wants to sign up for a monthly membership, I point them to my boss, who sits in one of the non-cubicle cubicles behind me. He does all the sales and handles all the (digital) paperwork. There’s not even a phone for me to answer. And there’s no chance I’m there to be eye-candy. I’m an unimpressive 27-year-old dude with scruffy facial hair and glasses.
I’ve tried to rationalize why my job exists. The best I’ve come up with is that I’m essentially a living, breathing form of furniture. Coworking spaces are supposed to feel like a hybrid space that isn’t exactly an office but hasn’t gone full coffeeshop. I’m one of the pieces of furniture that says “office” when you walk in (even though most offices don’t have front desks anymore).
When I started working here, I tried to be as helpful as possible, always asking my boss if he had anything he wanted me to take off his plate. Did he want help with the membership paperwork? No. Did he have any data entry tasks I could work on? No. Could I run and grab him a cup of coffee from across the street? He liked to get the fresh air himself. I quickly realized I was annoying him and that my primary job was to not ask him for tasks to complete. From what I can tell, his own job isn’t that taxing and he’d like to keep as much of the work as possible for himself to justify its existence (and not be dead-bone bored too, probably).
Even if it was cool for me to doomscroll in my chair all day, I think I’d need the unnecessary email-writing to feel any kind of productivity. In my role as office furniture, it just feels right to be writing emails. Isn’t that what people in offices do? I see it as part of the act. And honestly, I want to do my best in the small role I’ve been given in this faux-work hellscape that pays me.