Page 84 of Error Handling
Christopher grabs my elbow, and we both bound toward the parking garage. When we’re out of earshot, we burst out laughing.
“Are you a teenager?” I say between laughs.
“I just act like one.”
“He seemed grumpy.”
“Ya think?”
When we’re back in the car, Christopher convinces me to accompany him to his house on the northside. I convince myself it still isn’t a date. We’re just going to upload the pictures and make use of Christopher’s photo manipulation software. We’ll DoorDash our dinner because adults eat food, date or no date.
The longer My non-date with Christopher goes on, the flimsier my logic seems to become.
Christopher lives in Oak Prospect, a relatively new addition of mostly one-story brick-fronted homes. His home on the cul-de-sac has a larger backyard and more privacy than most of the tightly packed homes. The cookie-cutter house has a pitch over the garage and a smaller pitch to the right, with a porch stretching between. Its fresh interior reflects market trends: light gray vinyl plank flooring, an even lighter gray paint on the walls, shiny quartz countertops, and an open floorplan.
He gives me a quick tour, including a peek into his guest and master bedrooms before we settle into his third bedroom, which he uses as an office.
“So, this is what it’s like being an adult with a job,” I say, as I admire his tastefully decorated office. The room contains a modern L-shaped desk with a hutch, a stream-lined, low-profile couch, and a decorative lateral file cabinet.
“Asingleadult,” Christopher says.
“Maybe I’ll own a home one day.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“No thanks to my painting commissions. Or lack thereof.” I spin on the swivel chair he provided me.
“JetAero is hiring. And it’s only five minutes from here.”
I’m not sure what he’s implying. Is he offering up his guest bedroom for a poor twenty-eight-year-old with no experience in the aerospace industry? Probably not.
“I think I would suffocate if I had to spend every day in a cubicle,” I say.
“We got rid of our cubicles a couple years ago. Most of the office spaces are open concept now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you get a desk with no privacy walls.”
I gag. “That sounds worse.”
“It is. Luckily, I have an office.”
Christopher plugs his camera into his laptop, clicks upload in his photo app, and leans back in his chair with his arms crossed while the photos upload. He stripped off his jacket upon entering the foyer, and now his muscles bulge beneath his gray short-sleeved T-shirt.
“Basically, your office spaces are big rooms with a bunch of desks in them?” I ask.
“Pretty much.”
“How does anyone get any work done?”
“Most people have noise-canceling headphones. I have one guy who made his own pair of glasses with blinders on the sides like the kind horses wear.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“It sounds like a modern form of torture.”