One of the best day jobs a writer can have is in an office. Once you’re there for a while, you’re considered a trustworthy employee. Security becomes relaxed and you become convinced it’s your right to exploit the company’s computers, printers, copiers and the endless supply of paper. It’s not really theft. It’s more like a fringe benefit, isn’t it? I believe in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, but it’s after hours when the day job really pays off. Once everyone has gone home, the entire building is mine.

I spend so many nights at the office; I’m on a first-name basis with the cleaning staff. I can tell you the names of their children – their interests and ambitions, too. Why just last week, Maria invited me to her wedding; and Hector has been giving me Spanish lessons during his 9:00 PM lunch break on Tuesdays. During the lunch breaks on Thursdays, I read chapters of my novel to the entire cleaning crew. 

Months ago, I was polishing up my manuscript – making a few revisions suggested by Dave and Hector during the lunch break readings. I could hear the Xerox machine down the hall spitting out copies of my 398-page manuscript and the buzzing sound of the laser printer warming up outside my office, while Dave’s vacuum cleaner whined somewhere on the end of the floor. Hector ran into my office and sputtered between gulps for air. “The boss is here. Your boss is coming to here! He’s coming now!”

I closed down my manuscript file and booted up the company’s job estimate computer program as Hector scampered away. A few moments later, Donald Cristenson, our Chairman of the Board, walked into my office. He’s a classy guy – a sharp dresser – and on this night he was wearing a tuxedo. His cashmere coat hung over his shoulders like a cape. He stood there looking as uncomfortable as I felt. We said hello and stared at each other while the clacking of the Xerox machine filled the uncomfortable silence.

“Is someone else working tonight?” Don asked.

“No. That’s just the Xerox machine warming up. It always sounds like that.” I said.

“Wow. That’s noisy. Doesn’t sound good at all. I’m going to have Jeannie check that in the morning.” Don took a step closer, then adjusted his trouser creases as he sat on the corner of my desk. He looked at me as though I was his son and said, “Katherine and I were at the opera tonight. I left her with friends and came back for my briefcase.

“The opera?”

“Yeah. I’m a real patron of the arts – well, Katherine is. Opera, Symphony, Repertory Theatre, all that stuff – she’s got me donating to every one of them. I’m a big patron of the arts.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “I want you to know that your contribution is noticed. Why there isn’t an evening that I don’t see your car in the lot.” He smiled and punched my arm. “Hicks, you remind me of my younger days, when Bruce and I were starting this company. Hell, we were in here day and night, too. Keep up the good work, my boy.”

Don got up and adjusted his topcoat while I prayed that he wouldn’t turn to inspect the loud copier. He turned at the door and winked. “Don’t stay too late. And remind me to have Jeannie check that copier tomorrow.”

Within weeks, I received a substantial pay increase and at the end of the year, my bonus was doubled from the year before.

Sure, I’ve used the company’s resources to create my novel – a poignant story about an extraterrestrial monkey that works in a circus as a mind reader. I don’t feel guilty. My writing is art. And Donald Christenson is a big patron of the arts.

(Originally written February 25, 2004)