The workaholic

We all work pretty hard here at 720 California. And space is at a premium. (When you have 500 people doing the work of 700 in a building meant for 300, that’s just the way it is.)

But some rules of polite society must be maintained.

Recently, a co-worker approached me and said, “I have a photo and a story.”

Honestly, nine times out of ten when somebody says, “I have a photo for the potty blog,” it’s usually so unspeakable, that I can barely process what I’m seeing. (The evidence traditionally breaks down into three categories: horrific splatter patterns, hard-to-fathom anacondas or odd shapes.)

But the co-worker’s story wasn’t about some unusual fecal topiary, it was about a head-scratching experience that he’d had in fourth floor men’s room.

The co-worker (hereafter “our hero”) was conducting his business in the stall of last resort. He noticed a strange glow emanating from the stall next to him (the Peter Brady stall.) Then he heard the clackity-clack of fingers on keys and the “WHOOSH!” of an email being sent.

Now I realize we’re all super important people around here. But is anything really so urgent that you need to take your laptop with you into the bathroom stall? That email really couldn’t have waited five minutes? (Probably only 2 minutes if it was the day that the Indian food truck stopped by for lunch.)

Our hero sprung into action, pulled out is iPhone and snapped the above picture--evidence of our workaholic.

We know your shoes, friend. We are coming for you to do an intervention. You and those that conduct business around you (and yes, despite what the “turd burglar” contingent says, it is OK to go next to a co-worker) need some peace and quiet while you’re conducting your transaction. It’s better for everyone. Trust me.