Office at Night Read Online Free PDF

And I never told anyone this. I wanted to throw myself out the window after it happened the first time. And after that, every time I opened the window? That is the reason.
    What?
    What is the reason I draw cats ? Oh, come on. For Christ’s sake. I draw cats for the same reason anyone draws anything: I love them. And I worry for them.

 

     
    F or a long time I sat in the other room, facing the door, and so could see, even if see is not exactly the word, who came in and what they wanted, from the moment they came through the front door. Positioned as I am now, next to the filing cabinet, I cannot do this. What I can do, right this minute, is look at Marge Quinn’s great can, and while this is not a small deal, not by any stretch of the imagination, I mean it’s a great, great can, it is not the same as being able to see who is coming through the door. Once a guy came in with a gun. He was holding it in his left hand, and in his right hand he was holding a cigarette. He came in and didn’t say anything, just looked at Chelikowsky, who was looking over some paperwork JJ wanted him to initial, then looked at his gun, then took a drag off his cigarette, then walked out again. I like to know when someone comes in with a gun. Even chairs can get shot. We can get shot, and we can suffer, and we can become damaged, and we can become scrappable. Not that, let’s just get this clear, I am complaining about my view, right this very second,of Marge Quinn’s great can. I made that clear, right? It’s clear now, right? Very clear? She has a can, does Marge Quinn, that could take her far. If she plays her cards right. Can right. Ha!
    Not, great as it is, that I like being sat on by it. It is a misconception that all chairs like being sat on. In fact I can speak with some authority, even if speak isn’t exactly the right word, for all the chairs in our office on that score. None of us like being sat on. Though I’m the only one who doesn’t like not being able to see who might be walking into the room holding a gun. Is that who or whom ? One that, probably, has been used before. For nefarious purposes.
    Hester Chan’s brother has a gun. He hasn’t showed it to her yet. I know he has it because three nights ago he came to see Hester Chan, and when she went down the hallway to the ladies room, her brother pulled out his gun and pointed it at Chelikowsky’s empty chair and said, “Bam!” We haven’t had a peep out of Chelikowsky’s chair since. Chairs are sensitive. Some of us more than others.

 

     
    D esks are solid, desks are sturdy, we serve as background, we support, we provide circumstance, we intimidate, we maintain. We are also full of drawers. Of nooks and crannies. We are stained in secret places. Here is a story—one Hester perched neatly on me to tell her brother once—or part of one.
    A woman emerges from a river, crawls exhaustedly onto the bank, passes out. A moment later a man does the same. While they lie there, two bags float up beside them. The woman wakes first, sees the bags, takes them, and walks quickly away without waking the man. She makes her way to a train station and manages to climb aboard a train that is just leaving. She finds an empty compartment, pulls its light-blue curtains shut, takes off her damp blouse. As she is opening one of the bags to look for another shirt, she sees the shadow of a figure behind the compartment curtains. She freezes, terror-struck, but the figure moves along.
    Instead of continuing to look for a shirt, she sits down on the bench, puts her head in her hands, and bursts into tears.Sometime later, having fallen deeply asleep, she sits up and realizes the train has stopped. She puts her original blouse back on and leaves the train, stepping over various encumbrances related to cleaning as she goes. Not by chance the train has taken her home, but she does not go home. She goes to a hotel and asks for a room. The clerk is suspicious (she looks very bedraggled) and asks