I believe in the on call room. I know it’s there. I know that somewhere in this office complex, with its three large, broad, looming buildings, with its myriad rooms and offices, there is one that is specifically set aside for the bosses to take afternoon naps. I know this.
The room has beds and sofas, good, luxurious beds, probably with the metal springs, not wooden planks, underneath the matresses. It also has a deep carpet and potted plants. It has linen curtains and ambient lighting. There is a fridge with white wine on the house.
I don’t know where it is, but I know it is there because I am a clever boy and clever boys figure things out. It is the only logical conclusion I can come to after following the trail of evidence.
- The bosses get the itis, the post-prandial depression, the sleepiness after lunch just like the rest of us because they are not aliens, they are human beings. Fatter, older human beings in fact, which makes them even more liable to it than the rest of us more sprightly, more biologically-efficient troops.
- The bosses have the ability to make this room and keep it a secret from us so that we don’t ruin it the way we ruined the general happiness toilets.
- If you have the means to make something you want, you make the thing.
- Ergo, it is there, somewhere in the office complex
I don’t know what they call it: The on-call room, a dorm, a lounge, a bedroom, but I want to know how to get in. The fact that I am not one of the company’s executives should not automatically preclude me from the benefits they enjoy—there are exceptions made for the more valuable employees after all. I once drank a cup of the Good African Coffee that was brewed for board members, you know. It’s about being in the right place at the right time.
So, ref earlier statement on cleverness, I have to figure out an in. I am not going to fornicate, of course, being a morally upstanding gentleman of virtue, and being pretty certain none of my bosses want to bone me anyway, but I am going to find my way there.