I started at IEc almost six years ago. The transition from grad school was a shock, as I adjusted to being part of a company full of stoic New Englanders who seemed to let nothing stand in the way of their work. This attitude was best illustrated by the saga of Pepper and the Closet.
I met Pepper two weeks after I’d started at IEc, at the annual new hire dinner. The dinner was overwhelming for someone as new as me—60 people, a mix of old and new hires, one dimly lit room, no nametags. Pepper was a few years older than me and one of the first friendly faces I ran into. I no longer remember what her position was (administrative assistant, maybe?), but she only overlapped at IEc with me briefly—perhaps because of the closet.
The saga of the closet happened one nondescript day in the middle of the week. From where I sat at my desk, I suddenly began hearing a bit of a ruckus. Someone was banging on a door. Someone was rattling a doorknob. Now our receptionist Linda was walking down the hall to Pepper’s “office,” which was actually a converted closet. “Pepper, are you okay?” I heard Linda ask. More doorknob rattling.
At that point, I poked my head out of my cubicle. Everyone around me was continuing to work as though nothing important were happening—stoic New Englanders. But Linda continued chatting with Pepper, who was apparently locked inside the closet and had called the front desk when she realized she couldn’t open her door. Linda tried in vain to find a key for the lock. When that didn’t work, Linda confirmed that Pepper was fine and then called the building manager, who is apparently the Keeper of the Keys. Twenty minutes or so later, Pepper was freed. Linda returned to the front desk. I sat back down and tried to get back to work, still surprised that no one seemed the least bit bothered by Pepper’s ordeal.
Fast forward to today, almost six years later. Pepper left IEc long ago, as have many of the others that were at that dinner. I’m one of the “old hires” now.
Anyway, today, as six years ago, I was sitting at my desk when I began to hear a bit of a ruckus. Someone was banging on a door. Several people were gathering in the hallway, talking loudly. Linda was there. Our new HR director Leyre was there. This time, no one was locked inside, and it wasn’t “Pepper’s closet,” which is now vacant. It was the office next door, a slightly larger closet that had been retrofitted with a glass-paneled door. That office belongs to Ken, a recent hire who used to work at MIT and has been our subcontractor for many years. Maybe at MIT they gave him a key to his office?
After several minutes of banging on the door and several more minutes investigating the doorknob on Pepper’s closet to see if anyone could find a way to pick Ken’s, Leyre gave up and got her hammer. She covered the glass panel in tape and started prying the entire window frame out of the door. Bang! Bang! Splinter! By this point, I had given up working and poked my head out of my cubicle – a different cubicle than before – to watch the situation play out. Not so for most of my neighbors, though. One colleague breezily apologized to the person he was on the phone with for the background noise—“I don’t know what’s going on; maybe someone’s moving desks?” Just a little DIY demolition. No big deal.
The glass didn’t shatter, and Leyre successfully removed the window pane, giving Ken unrestricted access to his office, as well as fresh wood chips on his floor. I’m pretty sure MIT doesn’t give you those.
But, I don’t know, a key would be easier? Or switching the doorknob for one that doesn't lock? Or at the least, leaving a note for whoever takes Pepper’s and Ken’s offices next, letting them know that the doors are actually just decorative.
I met Pepper two weeks after I’d started at IEc, at the annual new hire dinner. The dinner was overwhelming for someone as new as me—60 people, a mix of old and new hires, one dimly lit room, no nametags. Pepper was a few years older than me and one of the first friendly faces I ran into. I no longer remember what her position was (administrative assistant, maybe?), but she only overlapped at IEc with me briefly—perhaps because of the closet.
The saga of the closet happened one nondescript day in the middle of the week. From where I sat at my desk, I suddenly began hearing a bit of a ruckus. Someone was banging on a door. Someone was rattling a doorknob. Now our receptionist Linda was walking down the hall to Pepper’s “office,” which was actually a converted closet. “Pepper, are you okay?” I heard Linda ask. More doorknob rattling.
At that point, I poked my head out of my cubicle. Everyone around me was continuing to work as though nothing important were happening—stoic New Englanders. But Linda continued chatting with Pepper, who was apparently locked inside the closet and had called the front desk when she realized she couldn’t open her door. Linda tried in vain to find a key for the lock. When that didn’t work, Linda confirmed that Pepper was fine and then called the building manager, who is apparently the Keeper of the Keys. Twenty minutes or so later, Pepper was freed. Linda returned to the front desk. I sat back down and tried to get back to work, still surprised that no one seemed the least bit bothered by Pepper’s ordeal.
Fast forward to today, almost six years later. Pepper left IEc long ago, as have many of the others that were at that dinner. I’m one of the “old hires” now.
Anyway, today, as six years ago, I was sitting at my desk when I began to hear a bit of a ruckus. Someone was banging on a door. Several people were gathering in the hallway, talking loudly. Linda was there. Our new HR director Leyre was there. This time, no one was locked inside, and it wasn’t “Pepper’s closet,” which is now vacant. It was the office next door, a slightly larger closet that had been retrofitted with a glass-paneled door. That office belongs to Ken, a recent hire who used to work at MIT and has been our subcontractor for many years. Maybe at MIT they gave him a key to his office?
After several minutes of banging on the door and several more minutes investigating the doorknob on Pepper’s closet to see if anyone could find a way to pick Ken’s, Leyre gave up and got her hammer. She covered the glass panel in tape and started prying the entire window frame out of the door. Bang! Bang! Splinter! By this point, I had given up working and poked my head out of my cubicle – a different cubicle than before – to watch the situation play out. Not so for most of my neighbors, though. One colleague breezily apologized to the person he was on the phone with for the background noise—“I don’t know what’s going on; maybe someone’s moving desks?” Just a little DIY demolition. No big deal.
The glass didn’t shatter, and Leyre successfully removed the window pane, giving Ken unrestricted access to his office, as well as fresh wood chips on his floor. I’m pretty sure MIT doesn’t give you those.
But, I don’t know, a key would be easier? Or switching the doorknob for one that doesn't lock? Or at the least, leaving a note for whoever takes Pepper’s and Ken’s offices next, letting them know that the doors are actually just decorative.
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| The aftermath. |
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