The setting is a cubicle shared by two nondescript employees. They are sitting back-to-back, their desks at opposite ends of the cubicle. The cubicle wall is a nondescript shade of lavender, and the shelves mounted on it are stacked with minuscule potted plants and computer reference manuals. The books are dusty with disuse, but otherwise appear brand new. The plants would have died by now, but they're plastic.
Each employee's desk contains the standard complement of desk utility items: Telephone, computer terminal, compact fax machine, compact paper shredder, coffee mug, miscellaneous ball-point pens, and a myriad of unidentifiable papers -- bureaucracy at its finest.
Both employees are busily shuffling papers, tapping on their respective keyboards, etc. Suddenly, the employee on the right stops, picks up his phone, and dials a 23-digit phone number. Half a second later, the left-hand employee's phone rings, and he answers it.
"Hello, Gibbons-3171? This is Fogyson-6942. How's it going?"
"Same as usual."
"And how are...uhhh."
There is an awkward pause as the RH employee taps a few keys on his keyboard, accessing an information database. "Damn this slow network," he thinks, "it makes being social nearly impossible." Finally, he comes up with the bit of information he is seeking.
"Uhhh...how are Loretta, and the kids...Jane and Michael?"
"Oh, same as usual."
"The customary pleasantries are out of the way," thinks RH.
"So, Gibbons-3171 -- may I call you 3171? -- the boss's assistant secretary's computer E-Mailed down to me telling me to get you a copy of the Jakov real-estate file. Should I have it forwarded to you electronically?"
"I would ask you to do that, Fogyson, but it's more than data -- If I remember correctly, the files contain some photographs, stuff like that. Silly how those people refuse to buy a house without seeing pictures of it first."
"Well. Then I suppose we're in somewhat of a sticky situation. I have the files right here in my hand. I guess I'll have to have one of the secretaries fax it to you."
"Why not do it yourself?"
"I don't have a fax machine."
"Yes you do."
"Really?"
"What model office are you in?"
"Expert-Werker Mini-Executive dual: B137 Mark II."
"Ahhh. Same as mine. In the Mark II series, the fax machine is the small gray box on your left."
"Excellent! Well, here goes."
RH puts the first paper of the Jakov files into the fax machine. About three seconds later, a piece of paper comes out of the appropriate box on LH's desk. LH is disappointed that the paper doesn't look as he expected it.
"You know, Fogyson-6942, we've been having some problems with the communications lines recently. I think that first page came through a little garbled. Could you resend it?"
"Sure thing... Oh, wait a minute. The cable's a little loose. That's probably what went wrong." RH begins messing with the cable. Then, "Dang. Cable fell behind the desk. This is going to take a minute."
"That's okay... I can't seem to get my paper shredder working on this garbled fax."
In unison, both employees lift gray boxes off their respective desks and place them on the floor behind them, between where they sit. Each seems to notice for the first time that he is sharing a cubicle with another human being. Each seems a little shocked, then each quickly and guiltily tries to hide the surprise on his face. LH tries to break the awkwardness:
"Hi there. I don't believe we've ever met. Having some problems with your paper shredder too?"
"Actually, this is my fax machine, I think," replies RH. The two gray boxes are astonishingly similar in form. In fact, the only discernible difference is the model number -- a string of forty or so digits printed casually on the front panel of each.
They look at each other suddenly, as if a nagging thought is wrestling for control of their respective minds, but then in unison they both shake their heads and turn back to their own desks. Each tinkers with the spaghetti-like masses of cables tangled behind his desk. Then, on cue, each turns around to retrieve his box. Instead, each grabs the other's box. RH ends up with two paper shredders, and LH ends up with two fax machines.
If minuscule potted plants could chuckle, they probably would at this point. But even non-plastic ones can't.
RH and LH pick up their telephone handsets simultaneously.
There is an awkward silence. It lasts for several seconds as neither is sure what to do. Finally, LH and RH each turn around and are about to yank the same book off their shared bookshelf. RH gets there first, and chuckles at LH's dejected sneer. The book is labeled "Telephone Protocol." RH reads quietly to himself: "If a conversation is unexpectedly interrupted and neither the initiating party nor the receiving party receives communications from the other, a deadlock situation has occurred. In the case of a deadlock, the initiating party must wait at least one (1) minute. If communication has not been reestablished by that time, the initiating party is responsible for sending the signal 'are you there?' and then awaiting a response."
RH glances at his watch. Frowns. Presses a button. The watch beeps. Presses another button. The watch beeps again. RH frowns again. RH begins frantically stabbing at buttons as the watch emits a barrage of beeps, chirps, and electronic warbles. Finally, RH's face brightens. He relaxes. Sits back against the wall. Taps his foot, glancing back at his watch every few seconds. Finally, he returns the telephone handset to his ear and speaks into the phone.
"Gibbons-3171, are you there?"
"Yes!"
RH sighs with relief. Replaces the book on the shelf. Then he says, "Ready to try again?"
"Yes."
RH inserts the first page of the Jakov file into the paper shredder.
"Okay! I've sent it."
LH waits, his hands poised at the paper feeder of his fax machine.
Nothing happens.
LH redoubles the effort invested in his catcher-like stance.
Nothing happens.
LH scratches his head.
LH taps his foot.
Yet a greater amount of Nothing happens.
LH speaks into his phone: "I don't think your fax got here."
"That's strange."
"Quite."
"Well, I'll call Maintenance this afternoon and ask them to take a look at my fax machine. Meanwhile, make sure you destroy that garbled copy of the first page of the Jakov file."
"Fine."
"What's worse, it looks like my fax machine is not going to give me back the original I just put in it. I'll have to have the first page reprinted. It may take a while."
"Fine."
"I'll be in contact with you later."
"Fine."
Both hang up.
LH takes the garbled copy and places it in the fax machine, which he thinks is his paper shredder. He smiles happily and sits back down in his chair. He is startled to see the same paper emerge again from his other fax machine.
He picks up this paper. By the time he recognizes it, the first one has reemerged from the machine that he thought was the paper shredder. Now he has two copies of the same garbled page. He puts both in the 'paper shredder' and within a few seconds, he has four copies. This continues.
RH is typing at his keyboard. Suddenly he stops and turns around to see LH madly shuffling papers from one machine to the other. There are now papers flying everywhere on his side of the cubicle.
The minuscule potted plants, though plastic, now truly appear to be chuckling as the vibrations from LH's direction shake the entire cubicle.
Finally, in a mad snowstorm of fax paper, the cubicle wall is tipped over and the entire frame around them -- computer manuals, potted plants, and all -- falls flat to the ground.
A huge cloud of dust rises and then settles.
The fax papers settle, too.
The scene revealed is startling. There are no other cubicles, no other employees. Merely a mass of cobwebs, rotting carpet, and twisted bits of scrap metal. Their two desks stand opposite one another like two duelists, amid an expanse of wasteland that at one point, ages ago, was a bustling office full of cubicles, employees, faxes, and potted plants. How long has it been since anyone else has worked here? Decades? Centuries? What wars have gone on since then? What revolutions? Evolutions? For how long has history been writing itself while these two have toiled on, unaware of the passing of hundreds of thousands of 8:00 AM wake-up calls, noontime lunch breaks, five o'clock rush hours, and the like?
LH looks around. His first feeling is shock. Then comprehension. Then horror. Finally, annoyance. He turns angrily towards RH.
"I thought I told you to tell me when it was five o'clock!"
RH looks at his watch. Taps it.
"I thought I set the alarm. Must have had it in the wrong mode. Sorry."
"Oh... Well, it's no problem." LH's smile returns. "I just can't wait to see what my paycheck will look like! I get time-and-a-half for overtime, you know."