One of my old friends in Manhattan ended our friendship because I made a joke about her desk. I had been living in Hawaii for a decade and wanted to return to the city. She had mentioned that she had space to rent in Hell''s Kitchen, so I inquired about it.

Yes, she said, the space was still available, for $ 700 per month. It was the storage closet in her apartment. The closet was packed with stuff, but she said she would remove the most of it, and I could have the space if I sent her $2,100 cash right away - like, right now, because cash was tight. There was one very important condition: I must never, never touch her desk.

I replied that the terms sounded good except for the restriction against touching her desk. I had a desk fetish, I explained, and was afraid I could not help myself - one day, while she was gone, I would probably leave a sticky deposit or two in her drawers.

I was just kidding, of course, but that was the end of the friendship, as was evidenced by a small scar left on my heart.

The wound was reopened recently. I was looking for work in Miami. Lo and Behold, an angel, whom I call La Mujer de Oro, called me from Coral Gables. She said one of the professionals at her firm was on maternity leave and my services were needed for eight weeks. I rushed over and was ushered into the new mother''s private office, where I proceeded to work away before the flat computer monitor on the large desk therein.

Everyone knows how touchy the first few days on a new job can be. I certainly wanted to make a good first impression: perhaps the engagement might be extended for a few weeks if I made a good showing. In any case, we usually want to be liked or at least accepted by new co-workers.

The beleaguered receptionist stormed into my borrowed office on the second day of my employment and proceeded to search for a missing file. I say beleaguered because she is not only the receptionist but is also the general administrative factotum; she has a good heart but it seems to have been under a great deal of pressure for some time. However that may be, she was undoubtedly annoyed that some file or another was missing from the office I had just occupied, and she directed her irritation at the new kid on the block. She let me know in no uncertain terms that the lady on leave was very particular about having her things touched, and that I was not to touch anything. In fact, she said, the lady had called and inquired about the condition of her office since I had occupied it - she did not receive a glowing report.

Alas, I had the status of an alien "occupier". I felt like laughing and crying at the same time at the absurdity. Maybe, I thought, it was the candy I had deposited in the left hand drawer, or perhaps the adding-machine tape dangling from the 10-key adding machine, or the fact that I had moved three files on the desk to a table-top three feet away so I would have some space to keep my own work in order. I speculated on how I could work at the desk without touching anything, without leaving evidence of my strange and seemingly unwanted presence in the office.

My anxiety over the predicament was relieved three weeks later: I was moved out of the office into a cubicle with an old computer; the new mom was going online, I was told, and needed to hook into her computer station in her office. So now her office is darkened and unused. My new desk is about two feet narrow and about five feet long, and the bulky old monitor, telephone, and adding machine takes up so much space that I do not have much room left for the documents I work on. In addition, the chair is uncomfortable. Even worse, I am developing a back injury twisting to one side to see the monitor. Is there such an expression as "unergonomic"?

But I can tolerate all that. I happen to like the managing partner everyone complains about. He can be abrupt and impatient, and has a mean streak like most human animals, but I think he’s a good man on the whole - mind you, I’m notorious for getting along with bosses of all sorts. And I like the workhorse around the place: he is a whiz at his profession, despite being charged with "procrastination". Besides, I''m "just a temp" – I’m just passing through - I might drop dead at any time, so why make myself miserable? No matter how unwelcome I might be for the time being, I like the feeling of community of the common space - indeed, sound carries so well to my vantage point that I can hear what everyone is saying in their private offices even when their doors are closed.

I wonder, are women touchier about their desks than men? Maybe desks represent male power, or the female womb, or whatever - what did Freud say on the subject, if anything? I have always been rather generous with my desks. If I knew a woman was going through my drawers, I would leave something there for her to discover. Of course some personal information must be kept under lock and key.

Desks are no doubt a very important factor in many people''s lives, especially if they are literate. My own father often mentioned desks in his little poems. I leave the reader with two of them:

The Poetic Brood

Poets are a different breed,
And many live with broken hearts
Whose blood that pours therefrom
Mingles with most bitter tears.
O Poet, when you pray begin to sing
And when you sing begin to pray.
Pray and sing through somber night.
Your voice will tire. Your voice will tire.
Walk to where your desk resides,
And write until the dawn arrives.
The atmosphere may part for you
And Poetry descend to you.

Uprooted

Uprooted by the violence late endured,
I''ve sailed far out to sea
With this yellow lamp as buoy.
This battered desk and I
Rise and fall in rolling swell to swell,
And cresting high I westward scan and see
You as ever in the evening
Walking on the shore.
The tides do not repent, nor tides abate
Nor shall an angel in her destined flight
Perceive me lonely in the sea
And take me in her lovely arms
That we may together through the heaven fly
To walk beside you where you walk
In the evening by the shore.

 

Poems copyright 2005 R.B.C. Walters
quoted with permission of the author