Thursday, March 31, 2005

doorman

part IV of V - office space essays.  conclusory addition: another business name from the east bay.

I’m basically a pretty discrete guy.  I try to modulate my voice in public and to respect people’s confidences, not to walk too loudly or dress unnecessarily garrishly.  (I mean, anymore.) I try to make a good impression on people in general, any time such people are obliged to deal with me.  Whether it’s politeness, insecurity, an attachment complex or some combination of these and/or other factors, I don’t like to be pushy or make a big noisy splash.  I’m just more comfortable that way.

So I find it inexplicable that I’ve got this irritating habit that instantly undercuts my purported goal of inoffensiveness: I open doors too fast.  Sounds benign?  Maybe it is.  Maybe I’m stretching a mere quirk into a full-blown “issue.” Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s not.

It’s just not helpful for me to approach the bosses’ door with a carefully-thought-out question in mind, just to get her so flustered when I power my way into her office that she can’t think straight.  I go to the hallway door and crank it open vigorously, nearly decapitating the hapless innocent on the other side.  I emphatically broach the restroom door and give three guys instant performance anxiety with the suddenness of my unsubtle entrance.  What’s the opposite of slamming a door?  Me.

So, what exactly am I doing?  I can break it down in my mind: I usually walk with “purpose” (that is, as if I had a purpose); I don’t do much idle ambling.  As I approach the door I am building up speed and energy.  So I’m heading to the closed door with zest, almost as if I am preparing to kick through it with a private eye hipsnap (Paul Drake, not Jim Rockford).  As I get within reaching distance of the hardware, I stop myself short; my forward momentum flows through me like a whip,seeking some dangling appendage to invest with my powerful charismatic chi.  I let the energy descend from my shoulder, down my arm, into my palm; it draws up my outstretched hand almost automatically and fills it with potential, an eagerness to translate mere existence into an impact that will literally and metaphorically expand my very horizons.  The hand hits the metal with a flat slap and continues through, driving the latch down or the knob into rotation, all one smooth movement of presence, expression, exposition.... I push forward simultaneously as I make contact, and the door springs open as if I had passed materially through it.  Really, it’s very satisfying. 

Until I notice the people on the other side.  They generally look shocked and startled to see me crash their little party so vigorously.  It’s not exactly that I’m unwelcome, but that it all happens too fast.  Some people look defensive about the abrupt invasion of their space, as if they expect to have to protect themselves; some look nervous, as if I’d just nearly caught them at something.  It typically ends with mutual embarassed laughter and a quick return to business as usual.  But someday I’m going to catch someone upside the head with the edge of an 80-lb firedoor; the vision of their shattered brainpate will finally wean me from this habit altogether.  Or, perhaps, I’ll finally intrude on someone doing something they don’t want me to see.  In which case, I’ll probably just keep pushing my way through doors for the rest of my knob-cranking, latch-smashing days.  Once you get used to hitting that wood with feeling, it’s hard to back off. 

business name from Richmond or Albany, CA (on Cutting Boulevard, in Richmond): Cutting Gas.