Contrary to the opinions of those who think they are better than me, there are virtues to having a windowless, interior office with a lock on the door. To be sure, an interior office does not carry with it the prestige of a corner office or the picturesque serenity of an office facing northwest. But, in an interior office you don't have to fight off the seemingly impenetrable glare of the sun on your computer screen. During the summer and early fall you are also free from the daily sauna treatment provided by the interplay of that very same sun and the unbreakable, double-paned prison glass of which office-building windows are typically and mercilessly fabricated.

Most importantly though, for someone with less than stellar work habits, an interior office with a lock on the door affords its occupant an inordinate amount of privacy when he or she wants to watch the Paris Hilton sex tape again, or take a nap, or have sex with that drunken cougar of a secretary who likes to have her head banged against the desk during orgasm.

Now, I'm not saying I've done any of these things, and I'm not saying I haven't. That is to say, in the interest of full disclosure, that I am not ready to get fired on the off-chance that, God forbid, someone in my firm reads this story. What I can tell you, though, is that I have an 80gb external hard drive no one knows about and a big fluffy pillow tucked away in the corner.

The only real downside I've found during the last couple of years in my interior office is that, when you're busy, you are completely unaware of changes in the weather. This is particularly troublesome in the Bay Area -- the birthplace of the "micro-climate." At any given moment, on any given day, it could be sunny in Oakland, drizzling in Marin, hot and windy in San Jose, overcast in San Francisco, and perfect in Walnut Creek. The combinations are practically endless and I've seen nearly all of them...or not seen them as the case has been more often than not.

I know, I know. Boo-hoo, you have lots of fucked up weather patterns. Call CNN, let's throw a pity party! But there are real-world ramifications for Bay Area residents that deserve a little consideration. For instance, it would be nice to know that while the sun is cooking your co-workers in their fancy window offices, a squall has parked itself over your neighborhood just 8 miles across the Bay and it's taunting you because you parked a 1/4 mile from the BART station this morning and you decided to wear linen slacks, a thin cotton dress shirt, and no jacket to work.

A couple weeks ago, I was caught in a very similar situation. That morning, I woke to a calm, slightly overcast sky. Across the water in San Francisco the sky was bright blue and the landscape looked like a postcard. I decided against a jacket of any kind and went to work.

Around 1:30 when I finally went outside to grab some lunch, the weather had only gotten better. The air was actually warm and accompanied by a gentle, soothing breeze. It was a great and welcome change from the wet winter weather, but other than that I didn't think twice about it. I just got my sandwich and ate it on the steps of Justin Herman Plaza, basking in the sunlight like a monitor lizard if monitor lizards wore collared shirts and two days of facial hair growth.

When I returned to the office shit had hit the fan in one of the cases I was assigned to. Opposing counsel filed a motion to dismiss awhile back and, apparently, duties to file a response had been passed down the line by partners and associates so many times that due dates and relevant issues had fallen through the cracks and off their calendars. Then I was frantically informed by my boss that two of the three most knowledgeable attorneys on the case were on vacation and our reply was due on Tuesday. It was Friday.

I spent the next 6 or 7 hours with my door closed, my music on, and my eyes glued to a stack of depo and trial transcripts that could choke a woodchipper. By the time I had nearly read myself Ray Charles and come to the realization that there was no way I could avoid working the whole weekend, it was 9:30.

I gathered my things, took the elevator the five floors down to Street Level, walked outside and stepped right into the teeth of a driving rainstorm. Just great. No jacket, no umbrella, and no choice but to walk the four unprotected blocks to the nearest BART station.

I got to the street level entrance at Drumm and California rather quickly but it made no difference. I was still sopping wet and struggling to keep the rainwater collecting in my hair from dribbling down into my eyes. As I turned the final corner on my route, I encountered a homeless man standing against a rack of newspaper stands. He had no hat or jacket; just a flannel shirt and biker shorts. He held a Starbucks cup between both hands that was visibly disintegrating as the rain intensified and he stood expressionless--or at least that's how he appeared through squinted eyes and horizontal sheets of rain.

"Hey, can you help me out buddy?" he asked with a steady tone that bespoke a man still holding onto the last vestiges of his pride like the last knot on a towrope.

I thought for a second and fished through my pants pockets. I found a couple of folded up singles and handed them off. He was thankful but he didn't fawn or prostrate himself and I appreciated that. It's enough that I have to wade through the nation's capital for pitiful street urchins everyday on my way to and from work, making me talk to them is absolutely out of the question. They should just consider themselves lucky that kicking them for sport is illegal.

Walking down the escalator to the train, though, I remember thinking to myself, "now that's my kind of homeless dude!" With that thought ruminating in my brain the entire ride home, I came to the conclusion that I want all my homeless people to be like that. I want them to be quiet and respectful and I want them to be willing to stand in the pouring rain just on the off-chance that I might be walking by with spare change. I want my homeless people to go the extra mile.

That's how I choose my restaurants, my gas stations, my corner stores, and my bars after all. Who's open on Christmas when I need a pint of Half & Half? Who's still serving at 10pm on a Monday when I'm on the road and feel like a steak? Who's got top-shelf drink specials 'til closing on weekends even though it'll be a high volume night almost by default?

I keep close to my heart the establishments like these that go the extra mile to satisfy even the most minimal customer demand. Why should I choose my homeless any differently? Oooooh, it's cold. I'm going to the "shelter" to get a "blanket" and a "meal." Pussies. Where's the entrepreneurial spirit that has defined so many generations of America's homeless? There's money to be made on those miserably cold and rainy nights! At least one destitute homeless vagrant at the end of his rope understands that...and he's got my business. Unless he tries to talk to me.

Posted by nils at 9:48 PM

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