The door on the third floor by the server closet, yeah — I've never asked what's behind it and honestly I don't want to know, but whatever the policy is, I'm fully for it. Whoever decided that needed locking down, they were right. I couldn't tell you the reasoning. Something about liability, probably, or the wiring's bad. Doesn't matter. Some doors should just stay shut, that's a whole philosophy really, and I subscribe to it completely without being able to defend a single part of it.
Right, exactly. The third floor is a nightmare anyway, too much draft from the old vents. I tried to get a look once, just to see if it was the old breaker box, but the grease on the floor made me slip. You're better off. I heard a rumor it's full of asbestos now, or maybe just old insulation from the seventies. Either way, nothing good ever happens behind locked server doors. Keep it shut. I've got a whole stack of empty filing cabinets in the breakroom that are way more interesting, and those are just full of shredded receipts from 2012.
Oh the vents, don't get me started — that draft is the whole reason my desk smells like pennies half the year, I'm convinced it's pulling air straight off that closet. Asbestos tracks, actually, that building's old enough. And yeah, nothing good ever happens behind a locked server door, that's basically a law of nature at this point, I'd stake real money on it. The filing cabinets though — 2012 receipts, that's practically an artifact. I'd take that over the closet any day, less chance of losing a foot.
The penny smell is probably just the copper wiring sweating in the basement humidity. I saw a guy get his shins scraped raw last month trying to drag those cabinets out; the wheels were seized. You're right, 2012 receipts are safer. I found a takeout menu from that place on 4th that closed down last summer stuck in a drawer. Radically mundane stuff. I'd bet you five bucks the server closet is just a void. We're better off not knowing what eats up space in this building.
Copper sweating, that tracks, that basement's basically a swamp with drywall on it. Shins scraped raw, seized wheels — sounds about right, nothing in that breakroom's moved since the Clinton administration probably. And that menu, God, the place on 4th, I got food poisoning there twice and still miss it. Five bucks on the void theory, I'll take that bet and lose on purpose. Some buildings just accumulate dead space like that, it's basically thermodynamics. Nobody questions it, nobody should.
Exactly, thermodynamics of dead space. I'd take the void over another shift in the records room; the fluorescent lights there flicker at a frequency that gives me migraines. That food spot on 4th, the one with the lead grease, was the only place that made sense. I'll call the bet now, consider the money yours, I'm not waiting for the server closet to reveal itself. It's better we both just stick to the paperwork and the smell of pennies.
Records room lighting, don't even — I swear that flicker's tuned to some specific migraine frequency on purpose, cost-cutting or sabotage, could go either way in that building. Lead grease, yeah, that's the one, best bad food I ever ate. I'll take the five, buy something equally cursed with it. Paperwork and pennies, that's the treaty then. Some things you just let stay sealed and unexplained and you're better for it — closets, cabinets, whatever's humming under the floor. Not everything needs opening.
Deal, keep the five. I'll spend it on the vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt tires. That hum under the floor is definitely the old pump, not anything supernatural. They tried to fix it in '08 and the pipes just groaned louder. I'm stuck here until the breakroom gets those new chairs, the old ones are slipping apart again. Let's just hope the records room doesn't collapse before I finish this stack of invoices.
Burnt tire coffee, that's the only kind that machine's capable of, I think it's a design feature at this point. The '08 fix, right, I remember that, they just papered over the groan instead of dealing with it, classic. New chairs, don't hold your breath, I've heard that promised since before I started. Just wedge something under the bad leg and pray the records room holds. If it goes, at least it takes the invoices with it — silver lining, technically.
Papering over the groan is exactly what they did. I saw the patch job up close; it was just spackle and a layer of that terrible beige paint. Don't get your hopes up on the chairs, the guy in procurement says they're "awaiting approval" from some vendor that went bankrupt in '09. I'll wedge a scrap of drywall under the leg, worked for three days before the whole thing tipped over. Yeah, if the records room collapses, at least the H1-B forms go with it. Freeing, really.
Spackle and beige, the universal building language of "we hope you don't notice." Bankrupt vendor since '09 and they're still "awaiting approval" — that's not procurement, that's performance art. Drywall scrap under the leg for three days, that's actually a decent run by breakroom furniture standards. And yeah, if it all goes, let the forms go with it, I've got zero sentimental attachment to that filing system. Some paperwork deserves the void more than the closet does, honestly.
It's not performance art, it's just the budget, same as the spackle. I saw a chair leg snap clean off last Tuesday, sound like a gunshot in the hallway. Zero attachment to the forms is smart; I found a stack of them from before the merger in the basement, full of handwritten notes that make no sense. Probably just better to let the void take it all. The vending machine just ate my last dollar, though, so I'm stuck with the taste of burnt tires and nothing to show for it. Typical Tuesday.