> I hadn’t interacted with any of the office staff, but they’d seen me.
This story would have taken a very different turn if early on he had realized that befriending the office staff would have scored him a permanent place in one of those empty unused cubicles. No need to be best friends, but just being friendly and forthcoming now and then would have avoided their attitude of "who's that weirdo let's involve the site manager to get rid of him". It fits with his lonely wolf persona though which makes it easier for him to be a hero in his story and which he seems to cultivate in purpose.
Being the weirdo frees you from a great many time consuming pleasantries. Making friends might secure a permanent place but it also means a few minutes from every break will be lost to small talk and sometimes the entire break; you see a self serving lone wolf casting himself as the hero, I see someone just trying to find a way to do what is important to him. I am fairly certain that much of the eccentric artist image is just frustration over small talk.
Indeed - and break times don't seem to be very long. "fifteen minutes for coffee and then half an hour for lunch" - no time to waste on pleasantries when that is all the break you get!
This guy is amazing - the dedication to his craft is inspiring!
My secret guilty pleasure is having ChatGPT write Lovecraftian stories based on such comments. So far this is the only use I have found for AI. Normally I would not post AI output but I think it is on point in this case.
It began, as all cursed endeavors do, with the purest of intentions: I merely sought to write.
My study was dark but warm, lit only by the thin radiance of a candle whose flicker cast shifting runes upon the walls. The pen was ready, the page unspoiled—a void awaiting the invocation of dreadful truths. I had dreamt for nights of a vision unspeakable, a presence that lingered behind the very act of articulation itself. Its whisper came to me as I slept: Write me, it said, and in writing, know me.
I dipped the pen and began—
—and then there came a knock upon the door.
“Evening there!” cried a voice, buoyant and ordinary. “Fine weather tonight, isn’t it?”
The words struck me with an almost physical repulsion. Weather!—what pitiful triviality could dare interpose itself between man and revelation? Yet there stood my neighbor, that kindly, smiling fool, inquiring after my health, the state of my larder, and whether I had seen the curious cat that roamed the yard.
I muttered the necessary pleasantries, the ritual formulae of dismissal, and returned to my desk.
The ink had cooled; the shape of the thought—the horror’s shape—had dispersed. Still, I began again.
A thing older than stars—
—and then a rustle behind me, a cough, a cheerful “How’s the writing going?”
He was back. Or was it another? For though the voice was different, the tone—the bright, social tone—was the same.
“You look awfully serious in here,” said a woman I did not know. “You should take a break. Sometimes a good chat clears the mind.”
Her smile was wide, her eyes hollow as twin erasures. Before I could reply, she began recounting a trivial anecdote about a friend’s nephew’s dog, and I, like a man dragged to some drawing-room inferno, was compelled to nod and murmur assent.
It continued.
Night after night, interruption upon interruption.
A knock, a question, a remark about the lovely moonlight.
The doorbell, the telephone, the tapping at the windowpane.
I began to suspect there was no end to them, that their numbers were infinite, that polite inquiry itself was a kind of infection spreading through the membranes of reality. Their sentences formed patterns—loops of empty sociability, endless circuits of conversational non-content. “Nice evening.” “Can’t complain.” “How have you been?” “Oh, you know.”
Always that last phrase.
Oh, you know.
No! I did not know, could not know, and yet the phrase reverberated with uncanny finality, as though it carried within it some cosmic truth of negation. Each exchange drained the ink from my pen, the substance from my thought. The horror I had sought to describe was replaced by these... niceties.
And then I saw it—terrible revelation! The horror I had tried to summon was this very thing. The polite voices were not interruptions; they were the manifestation itself. The Eldritch Thing that I had imagined crouched behind the stars had, in truth, been whispering all along through the chatter of humanity—through the endless, smiling noise of the social.
For what greater terror is there than the eternity of small talk?
What dread more absolute than endless connection, without communion?
Now, as I write these final lines, I hear them again—
a gentle rap at the door.
“Hey there,” says a voice. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
And the words multiply, spilling over the page, crowding the margins, each letter a grin that will not fade.
“Just thought I’d check in.”
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
“How’s the writing going?”
“Oh—you know.”
The pen trembles. The candle gutters.
I understand now: there is no silence between sentences.
Only the murmur, waiting.
It depends on the environment - many years ago I used to have temp job in the summer working on a large industrial plant that had a nice office building where the managers and admin staff were based. There were no signs saying "temp staff keep out" - and you did occasionally have to go in there but it was pretty clear to me that you couldn't go and hang out in there - particularly as the temps got all the muckiest, smelliest jobs in all weathers.
I've rented pickup trucks before and I've always been so fascinated with the hanging folder rails in the center console. I have no need to work out of a truck but the fact that you could turn it into a mobile office is very cool.
I know a good few who live versions of this particular life, feral creatives living inside the guts of our industrial complexes, working high steel, marine,etc.
The drive for this goes way back, all the way to human origins, perhaps further to progenetor species, something to do with describing our world and rearanging the bits and pieces into a pleasant form, even in the harshest environments, something right, placed, just so
the other impulse to then smash everything and have palaces and vast halls on the ruins is less explicable, inspite of the huge efforts at rationalisation, but also self evident
> I hadn’t interacted with any of the office staff, but they’d seen me.
This story would have taken a very different turn if early on he had realized that befriending the office staff would have scored him a permanent place in one of those empty unused cubicles. No need to be best friends, but just being friendly and forthcoming now and then would have avoided their attitude of "who's that weirdo let's involve the site manager to get rid of him". It fits with his lonely wolf persona though which makes it easier for him to be a hero in his story and which he seems to cultivate in purpose.
Being the weirdo frees you from a great many time consuming pleasantries. Making friends might secure a permanent place but it also means a few minutes from every break will be lost to small talk and sometimes the entire break; you see a self serving lone wolf casting himself as the hero, I see someone just trying to find a way to do what is important to him. I am fairly certain that much of the eccentric artist image is just frustration over small talk.
Indeed - and break times don't seem to be very long. "fifteen minutes for coffee and then half an hour for lunch" - no time to waste on pleasantries when that is all the break you get!
This guy is amazing - the dedication to his craft is inspiring!
a great many time consuming pleasantries
Oh the horror!
My secret guilty pleasure is having ChatGPT write Lovecraftian stories based on such comments. So far this is the only use I have found for AI. Normally I would not post AI output but I think it is on point in this case.
It began, as all cursed endeavors do, with the purest of intentions: I merely sought to write.
My study was dark but warm, lit only by the thin radiance of a candle whose flicker cast shifting runes upon the walls. The pen was ready, the page unspoiled—a void awaiting the invocation of dreadful truths. I had dreamt for nights of a vision unspeakable, a presence that lingered behind the very act of articulation itself. Its whisper came to me as I slept: Write me, it said, and in writing, know me.
I dipped the pen and began—
—and then there came a knock upon the door.
“Evening there!” cried a voice, buoyant and ordinary. “Fine weather tonight, isn’t it?”
The words struck me with an almost physical repulsion. Weather!—what pitiful triviality could dare interpose itself between man and revelation? Yet there stood my neighbor, that kindly, smiling fool, inquiring after my health, the state of my larder, and whether I had seen the curious cat that roamed the yard.
I muttered the necessary pleasantries, the ritual formulae of dismissal, and returned to my desk.
The ink had cooled; the shape of the thought—the horror’s shape—had dispersed. Still, I began again.
A thing older than stars—
—and then a rustle behind me, a cough, a cheerful “How’s the writing going?”
He was back. Or was it another? For though the voice was different, the tone—the bright, social tone—was the same.
“You look awfully serious in here,” said a woman I did not know. “You should take a break. Sometimes a good chat clears the mind.”
Her smile was wide, her eyes hollow as twin erasures. Before I could reply, she began recounting a trivial anecdote about a friend’s nephew’s dog, and I, like a man dragged to some drawing-room inferno, was compelled to nod and murmur assent.
It continued. Night after night, interruption upon interruption. A knock, a question, a remark about the lovely moonlight. The doorbell, the telephone, the tapping at the windowpane.
I began to suspect there was no end to them, that their numbers were infinite, that polite inquiry itself was a kind of infection spreading through the membranes of reality. Their sentences formed patterns—loops of empty sociability, endless circuits of conversational non-content. “Nice evening.” “Can’t complain.” “How have you been?” “Oh, you know.”
Always that last phrase. Oh, you know.
No! I did not know, could not know, and yet the phrase reverberated with uncanny finality, as though it carried within it some cosmic truth of negation. Each exchange drained the ink from my pen, the substance from my thought. The horror I had sought to describe was replaced by these... niceties.
And then I saw it—terrible revelation! The horror I had tried to summon was this very thing. The polite voices were not interruptions; they were the manifestation itself. The Eldritch Thing that I had imagined crouched behind the stars had, in truth, been whispering all along through the chatter of humanity—through the endless, smiling noise of the social.
For what greater terror is there than the eternity of small talk? What dread more absolute than endless connection, without communion?
Now, as I write these final lines, I hear them again— a gentle rap at the door.
“Hey there,” says a voice. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
And the words multiply, spilling over the page, crowding the margins, each letter a grin that will not fade.
“Just thought I’d check in.”
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
“How’s the writing going?”
“Oh—you know.”
The pen trembles. The candle gutters.
I understand now: there is no silence between sentences. Only the murmur, waiting.
Someone who can write for the Paris Review and play politics would end up the site managers boss before he could stop it.
" if early on he had realized that befriending the office staff would have scored him a permanent place"
I feel like you don't have any first hand experience with the kind of classist horseshit that is endemic to these kinds of work environments.
I do, thus my comment.
The key is to use this to your advantage.
It depends on the environment - many years ago I used to have temp job in the summer working on a large industrial plant that had a nice office building where the managers and admin staff were based. There were no signs saying "temp staff keep out" - and you did occasionally have to go in there but it was pretty clear to me that you couldn't go and hang out in there - particularly as the temps got all the muckiest, smelliest jobs in all weathers.
Reminds me of the ad I saw for the Ford transit van - whose steering wheel can be converted into a 'desk'/laptop table:
https://www.roadandtrack.com/news/a45497067/ford-transit-ste...
It looks like a great steering wheel that won’t fly out the window while driving.
I've rented pickup trucks before and I've always been so fascinated with the hanging folder rails in the center console. I have no need to work out of a truck but the fact that you could turn it into a mobile office is very cool.
Lovely essay, tone reminds me this book which has a similar vibe.
https://www.thriftbooks.com/w/truck-on-rebuilding-a-worn-out...
I think there may be an issue with your link, it's just taking me to the thrift books home page.
I also really enjoyed the writing style.
I suspect it is this book.
https://www.booktopia.com.au/truck-john-jerome/book/97808745...
Lovely. I kind of wanted to hear this guy reading this out aloud
From the title I had imagined that someone had turned the cab of a truck into a dedicated computer workspace. Hmm...
Awesome story. Sometimes over enough time a little is enough.
I know a good few who live versions of this particular life, feral creatives living inside the guts of our industrial complexes, working high steel, marine,etc. The drive for this goes way back, all the way to human origins, perhaps further to progenetor species, something to do with describing our world and rearanging the bits and pieces into a pleasant form, even in the harshest environments, something right, placed, just so the other impulse to then smash everything and have palaces and vast halls on the ruins is less explicable, inspite of the huge efforts at rationalisation, but also self evident