White Christmas

In the bathroom at the ad agency where I’ve been working recently, in addition to the sink, there is an automatic hand sanitizer dispenser, you know the kind—wash your hands without soap and water, no need to dry them either, just rub them together until the weird alcoholic substance evaporates, leaving your hands feeling clean and oddly clammy. The dispenser is located right next to the light switch and is motion activated. So whenever you turn on the light, you inadvertently squirt hand sanitizer all over your hands. The first few times it happened to me I thought it was my fault, that I had done something foolish, but by the third or fourth time I understood that it was a problem as simple as a bad design.

It is, other than that, a nice bathroom, located in a very impressive office, designed extravagantly with crazy bean-bag chairs, large monitors and weird tents as if to say “This is designed by creative people, for creative people.”

I edit in a corner suite on the third floor with large windows covering two walls. From my chair I can see the corner of 46th and Park, and not much else. To see the sky, I will occasionally cross to the window and push my face to the glass, straining my eyes as far up as they will go. Standing uncomfortably like this it becomes possible to catch a glimpse of a cloud or two between the buildings but impossible to tell what kind of day it is through the thick tinted window. The street below seems very distant, and were it not for the occasionally rumble of the subway to remind me, I would be convinced that it is a fake city back drop like the ones that make nightly appearances behind Letterman and Leno.

I rarely leave the editing room except to get lunch or the occasional coffee from the large automated coffee maker in a small kitchenette around the corner.

The coffeemaker appears impressive, with coffee beans in a small compartment on top that get ground when you choose your drink from the eight buttons on the front of the large machine. “Decaf,” “Black Coffee,” “Light Coffee,” “Mocha,” “Hot Chocolate,” “French Vanilla,” and on and on. A tiny screen reads politely, “Choose your drink.” Upon pressing a button, the screen changes to “Drink in progress.” A loud crunch follows, then a grinding sound. I glance around to see if anyone is watching. They aren’t. It hisses and clicks, shoots dark liquid into the cup followed by light liquid.They mix together to form something that resembles coffee and the screen says, “Take your drink.” I do.

Despite the bells and whistles, the coffee is pretty terrible. It’s drinkable, but I’d much prefer a regular coffee maker. Starbucks cups are abundant in the hands of passers-by and I am envious of the time they have to run out to pick up real coffee.

The coffeemaker and bathroom look the part, and so in this frustrating world they each fulfill their purpose; I mean, who cares if it actually works well or tastes good.

On a particularly long day last Friday, I turned around to see the corner of 46th and Park covered in snow. Big flakes that came down heavy and soft, and I watched transfixed as they cascaded past the tinted window. For an instant the view from my lonely third floor office was actually enjoyable. Seeing those flakes put a smile on my face, and was the single moment that got me in the mood for the holidays. I treated myself to a loud, mediocre hot chocolate and enjoyed every last sip.