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Second Story
Window-shopping for a lifestyle
by Kent Lewis

I first noticed him during one of my many "zoning" sessions. I was staring out my ground floor office window, watching pedestrians pass by on their way to more important things than whatever I was doing. My peripheral vision caught something moving on the second floor of the building across the street. It was a handsome businessman sitting in a fancy leather chair, spinning in circles while looking at the ceiling.

There he was, a well-dressed, grown man playing around like an unattended child. A moment or two later, he suddenly stopped and sat upright, resuming his role as corporate executive as two co-workers entered his office and sat down. I watched their interaction with such fascination that I completely missed our weekly staff meeting.

The next morning, I stopped by Starbucks for my usual caffeine injection. While waiting for the Barista to work his magic, I recognized the man from across the street, standing in line talking with co-workers. He seemed to control the conversation, but not in a bad way. The man and woman accompanying him were riveted by his monologue.

What could he be talking about? The Johnson account win? His weekend in Paris? The new Mercedes S-Class? I was nudged out of my trance by a concerned coffee-addict, "Is this your half-caf soy vanilla mocha?"

Over the next few weeks, I became increasingly interested in the man from the second story office. I wondered what he did for a living, what kind of car he drove, if he was married, what his favorite food was. All I knew for sure is that he had a nice office with a few paintings and drank some sort of overpriced Starbucks beverage.

I admired his self-confidence when he was in a meeting or on the phone, pacing with a headset on. He reminded me of Judy, the Time Life operator, but with a Ferrari. I envied his dartboard that he played three times a day and the fact that he had his own laser printer. How did he get to this lofty position? Did he even have a lofty position?

When work slowed down one afternoon, I decided to do a little detective work to get a few answers to my lingering questions. I made a special trip across the street to the lobby of the building he worked in to check the directory. Unfortunately, there were three companies leasing space on the second floor.

Decision time: quit or finish the job. After brief deliberation, I elected to take the elevator up and scope out the floor plan to see if I could figure out which company he worked for. Based on my keen sense of direction and spatial relations, I was able to determine that he was employed by SpaceTec Industries. Having accomplished my mission, I felt a mix of pride and shame. What was I doing? Was this even legal?

On my return trip to the office, I decided I was not, in fact, a crazed felon. What’s the harm in finding out more about a neighbor? Having alleviated my guilt, I located SpaceTec’s Web site and looked through their management bios and found what looked to be my mystery man: Les Moorhey. I was able to determine his education and previous employment from the bio, but not where he lived, what kind of car he drove, his favorite food, what his wife or girlfriend was like, or anything else about his personal life.

On Friday, I wrestled with the fact that I wasn’t satisfied with what I knew about Mr. Moorhey. I looked up his address in the White Pages, which was an easier than expected task due to his unusual name. No mention of a Mrs. in the directory, but he did live in a decent part of town, actually not too far from my apartment.

On my way home that night, I found myself taking a few wrong turns and coincidentally ended up in front of Mr. Moorhey’s house. A two-story colonial. Nothing special, but it had its charm. There was a brand-new Mercedes parked in the driveway. I figured as much. I didn’t see a second car indicating a possible wife. As I cruised by slowly I noticed the mailbox said The Moorheys. So there was a Mrs. after all.

At home that night, I imagined what it must be like to come home to a candlelight dinner and a beautiful wife. Would he throw his coat on the chair in the entry room as I would, or would he hang it in the closet? Would he kiss his wife on the cheek or on the mouth? I had to believe she deserved full tongue and an ass-squeeze. Over dinner, I bet they would talk about his work. Perhaps she also works, or she takes care of the kids. Children, indeed. The thought brought me out of my reverie and forced me to fix my Deluxe Macaroni & Cheese dinner.

Over the next two weeks, I found myself spending increasingly more time wondering about Moorhey and his life. I decided it would be worthwhile to not spend time spying on him at home, but that left me with the simple and rewarding task of staring out the window. I admired his punctuality and ability to hold meetings in his office while on the phone and computer at the same time. He would also stand at the window each morning and sip his coffee while looking down at passing pedestrians. Funny he never noticed me watching him.

One Friday morning, I was finishing up a presentation when I noticed plenty of activity in his office. Moorhey was pacing back and forth, waving his arms and shouting at two co-workers standing nearby. They did not look impressed by his passionate gesticulations as indicated by their grimaces. Perhaps this was senior management, as I couldn’t see peers treating him with such blatant disrespect. Whatever the topic, the conversation ended abruptly when Moorhey grabbed his coat and stormed out of his own office.

The following Monday morning I was sitting at my desk, sipping my mocha, and happened to glance up at Moorhey’s office. To my surprise, there was no Moorhey. Gone also were the paintings and the dartboard. In fact, the entire office looked abandoned. What could have happened?

I didn’t have to wait more than three days for my answer. Our general manager gathered us together during lunch to announce we would be expanding into new office space due to a recent acquisition. That space was none other than the former SpaceTec office suite. Did I mention I got a promotion out of it?

A week later I packed my belongings and walked across the street to our new offices. The operations manager told me my office was down the hall, second on the left. I nearly dropped my box when I entered the office. I instantly recognized the familiar desk and fancy leather chair. SpaceTec must have left in a hurry indeed.

I cautiously edged around the large L-shaped desk and sank into the plush, but worn, leather executive seat. It was comfortable, but not quite what I expected. It felt unfamiliar, if not awkward. As I sat behind the desk, I started to notice the little things: scratches on the desk, stray paper clips near my feet, pock marks in a circular pattern where the dart board used to be.

Moorhey’s professional life had become my own. I glanced out the window across the street and down toward my old cubicle. A young woman was sitting in my old chair unpacking a box of personal effects. She was a few years my junior, but she had the same naïve look all fresh, young employees have. As she placed a stuffed teddy bear on her bookshelf, she looked out her window and our eyes met.