In the Belly of the Bat

I work in a building that is undergoing a remodeling facelift at present, and as a result is wrapped up like Britney Spears in psych ward wear. It's about that charming, too. My office is missing its windows and is currently host to a plastic-wrapped plywood wall with a little door cut into it. If I were nine, I would think that was pretty sweet, and you'd probaby find me reading comics out there during lunch. But being the old and semi-arthritic 29-year-old I am, I mostly regard the wee door with contempt as it's repeatedly flung open to allow the construction workers passage. So I simply sit, huddled over my space heater, clutching my cup of tea and try to channel the inspiration to edit another semi-literate article or answer another email about the rules of logo placement.

It's the first floor that really does me in, however. As charming as it is to stroll the halls of the now windowless second and third floors, I can somehow tune out the cave-like feeling that lingers; but the first floor is something altogether more sinister. The entry to our building now looks almost exactly like a bunker, but with less head room. I have to resist putting on a pith helmet and launching into my Winston Churchill impersonation as I traverse the passage, muttering "get Franklin on the phone. More victory garden propaganda posters, stat!"

And then there's the conference rooms, which have eschewed the clear plastic covering in favor of what appears to be black Hefty bags stretched over plywood. It's so unbelievably ghetto looking it's not even funny. I've seen more tasteful makeshift walls in Tijuana. I spent this Monday's cruelly-early morning meeting writing goth poetry about being in the belly of a bat as I sat through the minutes in that frigid, tar-colored pit of despair.

But it's not all bad. When I leave at night, blinking mole-like in the light I feel buoyed to even breathe the outside air and bask in the elements. And I have pleasant flashback memories of my days working in the dark room, huffing chemicals and listening to Elliott Smith with Churpita. It could be worse.