Tales of an off-siter
I had just finished talking on the phone to a friend who was saying how lucky I was to be working at home when I heard a funny gagging sound. The dog had thrown up on my rug. Calls, even from friends, are distracting enough when I’m working on a column. I didn’t need a sick dog to frighten away my muse.
Normally, I don’t clean up animal emissions of any kind. I have perfected the art of pretending not to see what the dog might do in another part of the house, but when he violates my work space, I’m forced to take care of it myself, more’s the pity.
Don’t get me wrong. There are many advantages to being among the 10 million or 20 million Americans (depending on whose figure you believe) classified as telecommuters or off-site employees, which are terms created by those who work at home for those who work at home.
Whatever the number, experts predict that it will double in the next several years. That’s because there are perks to being an off-site worker. Writers, for instance, can write in their underwear if they have a mind to, which they cannot do in a conventional workplace. I write fully clothed most of the time, but that’s just me.
As a home worker, I like the idea that I don’t have to risk my life in the demolition derby known as the Santa Monica Freeway. I did that for years and it was only due to my passive-aggressive driving techniques that I managed to survive. Today, for instance, I heard that traffic was crazy on the 10 because of a dead pelican in the road. A dead pelican? Of course.
I am actually a semi-telecommuter. I work at home three days a week writing and researching and spend two days interviewing, observing and wandering, which I do a lot of. Sometimes I work nights or weekends, but the telestatisticians haven’t gotten around to factoring that in yet.
Whenever I do hit the road, I work it out so that I don’t have to drive during commute hours. That is not always possible, since they seem to begin at about 4 a.m. and last until 3 a.m. the following day. There are very few people willing to be interviewed between 3 and 4 in the morning, even in Hollywood, unless you’re sleeping with them.
I began working at home when I read about a growing concern over something called “desk rage.” It involves erratic behavior by stressed-out office workers who occasionally commit violence against their colleagues. Working at home would at least save me from some unwired nut coming at me with his staple gun. No one ever tries to kill me at home.
Innovation is never without its moneymakers. Telecommuting has spawned new industries. Companies that design work spaces and their furniture make millions. Color schemes dazzle the eye. Euro-classic desks and acid-etched glass complement rooms built to house off-siters.
My workroom is filled with the basic conveniences: a computer, a printer, a copier, a fax machine, two phone lines and some objects called books. I am, in fact, surrounded by books. I collect them the way Renfield collected flies, the difference being that Renfield, Dracula’s mad assistant, ate the flies; I don’t eat books. I do not have Euro-classic furniture or acid-etched windows. I have a chair I bought at Staples and a desk I’ve had forever. My walls are decorated with must-do notes. Some have been there since the last century. I get by without a Lifto chrome and glass desk lamp by Benjamin Thut or an Antonio Citterio scratch-resistant polycarbonate filing cabinet.
I do, however, have a stereo, which I rarely play while creating columns. There’s a different rhythm to writing about crime and poverty for a newspaper than there is to, say, writing about the importance of butter for a food magazine. On freelance weekends I play classical music, but newspaper writing requires a kind of grim silence.
When I first set up my home office, I received a call from someone at the paper who said she had to come out to see if I was ergonomically correct. It’s crazy, I guess, but what popped into my head was that it might involve a colonoscopy, so I said no way. But when she explained that it was to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome, I said OK.
I’m happy, I suppose, except for all the distractions, like the dog throwing up, which he does when he wants attention. He used to just bark, which was noisier but cleaner. I may have to buy a faux neo-Roman polycarbonate self-cleaning designer rug to handle that. I’m sure they’re available.
