Going to work every day wasn’t mandatory, but for a while, I did it anyway even though it was a two-hour commute each way. The company culture was inclusive and the place was filled with decent kind people. It was a pleasure to spend time in the office, in the same way, it would be a pleasure to spend hours in the lobby of a boutique hotel. There were large monitors, a decent working space, views of the ocean. The kitchen was stocked with six different types of tea and there would always be a tray of food leftover from some meeting — something that never failed to send a thrill down my spine, the cheap bastard that I was. There was something to be said about the impromptu conversations or a co-worker messaging me if I wanted to head out for a quick afternoon walk or coffee.
Despite the robust amenities and congenital culture, the office was rarely fully occupied, and once COVID hit we were all scattered, like bees flying out of a beehive. Meetings were held over videoconferencing software, and people dialed in from wherever they happened to be: public transportation, unmade beds, living rooms with dogs napping in the background. An engineer attended his daily stand-up meeting from the gym and I started to identify everyone by their background scenery.
I was still apprehensive of displaying myself over video and marveled at how easily most of them had switched over working from home instead of the office. They all looked professional, had well-cultivated backgrounds and video angles, the lighting seemed almost always perfect. As for me, I started with a laptop on the kitchen dining table and then switched to the comfort of my small apartment loft. I had the laptop on the carpet and worked laying on my belly taking conference calls, mostly on audio.
Business meetings were usually in the upper half of the day over videoconference. I eyed outlook daily and muttered a curse when I saw the day covered in a straight blue line. I prepared for these meetings by brushing my hair, buttoning up my shirt, and moving my laptop from the ground to a decent-looking table with a better background view than my behind. The vase with the cute-looking money plant had moved to the table just behind me, the cartons of Basmati rice bought from the Indian store last week moved out of view.
“I am guessing you had a day full of meetings today?” Ana asked one afternoon, watching me position my laptop on the table so that the clothes drying rack, draped with underwear, was out of frame. Sitting in the formal chair, barely comfortable, I eyed my usual spot on the ground.
A couple more hours, I told myself.
Once the restrictions were relaxed, I did go back to the office once even if it was just to pick up my winter boots leftover from last year. It was strange when we were embodied, disorienting to see people from the neck down. Our relationships, fostered in the last year through software, did not immediately map onto physical reality. We were all more unwieldy in person than over video. The conversation spooled along awkwardly.
Back home, sometimes I just enjoyed the specific intimacy of being anonymous while watching everyone else on video: everyone breathing, sniffling, chewing gum, forgetting to mute the microphone before clearing their congestion, the slight grimace when someone else said something with a tone. I liked the banter, the frozen mid-sentence faces, the surprise of seeing an animal emerging from under a desk. I liked watching everyone watch themselves while we pretended to watch one another, an act of infinite surveillance. The first five minutes were almost always spent correcting the videoconference software, during which I became acquainted with my people’s home interiors, their color-coded bookcases and wedding photos, their guitars, or obscure art. I learned about their hobbies and partners. I grew fond of their children and pets.
At the start of these meetings, I would log in and lean into my laptop, enjoying the camaraderie and warmth of a team. For an hour, my loft would fill with laughter and chatter, conversation tripping when the software stalled or delayed.
When it was done, I would stand up, stretch, put the table and chair back in their spot, tape back over my laptop camera as I put it back in its spot on the carpet —
Adjusting to the silence, alone in my room.
