Back in the days when I lived in Texas, I met some very strange people. Once, at ZH’s office party, someone said to me, “You know, your husband’s desk is always clean at the end of the day. It’s creepy. It’s like nobody works there.”
I knew two things about ZH — one, he’s a neatnik; and two, he’s slightly odd (but that could be because he was French) — so I didn’t think much about the comment. At the time, as a housewife with three young children, I didn’t work; hence I didn’t have a desk to compare to. I had gone to college and graduated but don’t recall much studying and much less a desk.
Then when I got back into the work force, I understood what that person meant about clean desks. There were hardly any to be found at my office. In an average open floor space, there were mostly desks cluttered with computer monitors, telephones, piles and piles of papers. The actual working space, if any, was around the size of a sheet of paper. I’ve worked late many times and seen the cleaning crew squirt cleaner on just that 8.5 x 11 spot and scrub it. One time, there was a mysterious smell that emanated from somewhere on our floor and got progressively malodorous as days went by. After some investigation, the office manager discovered a plate of half-eaten sushi under a pile of clutter on a desk whose occupant was on vacation.
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