an office manager - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Our office manager is as grey as the linoleum. Maybe there was a person in that shell once, I wonder how far back you'd have to rewind time to find it. Ten years? Twenty? It's hard to imagine him as a kid, someone with all the hope in the world, eager for a future yet to unfold. All this time on the job has robbed him of all that, brought him to some robotic half-alive state. He isn't cruel, I know some can go that way, replace love and goodness with the keen joy of cruelty. Not him though, he's just fading away. He needs someone to love him so much his fire is reignited, someone that makes him want to bun-jee jump or climb mountains. I wish I had a "love" gun I could fire right at his heart, I wonder what he'd do. I bet he'd leave this cubicle horror show and never come back, find a good woman who needs as much fixing as he does and be happy. It'll take a miracle, I know. But miracles happen every day, you just have to know how to see them.
Our office manager is one of those people who can't handle even a nip of power. They get a corner office and a secretary and suddenly they're the Stalin of the paper pushing world. I always say you can get the measure of a man by how well he handles power. A good leader is assertive, but never cruel. They aspire confidence by being competent and showing a willingness to listen and change direction if necessary. Our manager is willing to abandon his humanity just to get a 2% bonus.
I can see the arc of our office managers blood caffeine through the morning. He starts with an enormous pep - double espresso from the coffee sop drive-through. By mid-morning he's sagging in his over-shinned shoes, his paunch sitting harder over his leather belt. Then Donna arrives with his pick-me-up, another double and a doughnut too. After that he roars on until lunch time. God help us all if the coffee shop has a power cut, maybe I should keep some chocolate covered beans in my desk for emergencies...
The boots on the linoleum marched in perfect rhythm and the staff suddenly stopped reading their random internet pages. From being submerged in humorous forums they snapped into robot mode - keys clacking and faces serious. Nobody turned as he passed except the new girl who didn't know better yet, she caught his eye and he stopped. On arriving at her desk he demanded a full run down of her work and told him to report to him at the end of the day. The others held off their snickering until he was back in his opaque glass office.
Kory dragged himself into the office to the drab greetings of his staff. They were less pleased to see him than the tax man. He told a joke, he always did when he entered the office and none of them ever laughed. He sank a little inside his suit and sweat began to blossom under his arm pits. He walked up to each desk to make the small talk he knew he should and got the usual hum-drum response. Wearing his big smile he stuck his hands in his pockets and slunk to his office. "Perhaps," he thought to himself, "I should order some donuts, everyone likes donuts." He sat so heavily in his chair that the faux-leather creaked and it swivelled faster than he had expected. After straightening his hair he picked up the phone, the donuts seemed like the right thing to do.
Janet was efficient from her shinny shoes to her pearl necklace. Her suit was crisp and her shirt ironed to perfection. She coiffured her hair and spoke with an aristocratic accent she picked up in England, though truth be known she was from Toronto. Her lipstick and handbag changed according to her outfit but something remained the same daily - her face was set almost as firmly as a mannequin and when she spoke it was with the clipped tones of one who was enjoyed her authority. She stalked through the office with her head head held high and settled to her desk. Then she closed the doors and kicked off her heels. No-one was allowed in until noon and she had the morning to organise her social schedule.
Under the artificial glow of the strip lighting, David was more pale than usual. Everything about him was otherwise typical. It was the same old polyester suit and same grey tie with pink stripe. His hair was a comb-over and his front teeth reconstructed after an accident with a lawn mower. His smile was as genuine as a car salesman and only worn for special occasions. When he spoke everyone listened, but not out of respect, rather because his tone was so reedy and shrill. Every lunch time he played heavy rock music, strutting up and down the aisle with his air guitar, but not today. Today he was nursing the mother of all hang-overs and his stomach was turning in a way he wished would stop. There would be no music and no strutting, just a quiet day with a coffee and some painkillers.
Our office runs according to the rhythm of the managers love life. When she has a new man we are all "superstars" who can do no wrong. When it ends in fiery ball of hatred we're liable to start seeing folks loose their jobs. We take it in turns to be her relationship counsellor, keeping our winning streaks going that bit longer, but the crash always comes and each time she takes longer to recover.