On my first day Bob introduced me around. There was his assistant graphic artist, Lowell, also known as Mr. Fun. Mr. Fun was ornery, overweight. He grumbled a little at me before returning to his mouse and screen.
There was Brett. A former aspiring rock star, dressed in leather, frayed jeans and attitude. He was rail-thin, manic. A stud pierced his brow. He lurched around the office on a gimpy foot, his Doc Marten shit-kickers clomping and shuffling on the wooden floor. Every now and again he'd lean back in his chair and strum a few loud chords from his acoustic guitar. Almost always someone shouted for him to stop.
Brett led the development team, an amorphous group that seemed to include everyone who wasn't in my department or sales. His right-hand man was tall, quiet Tom. Tom's hair was short, spiky and green. He and Brett had been in a band together. Now they were doing this.
And then there were the others: Lucy and Julie who sat together in the middle, Sally the human resources director, André the database guy from Quebec. Kevin the sports specialist, and someone who worked for him. Peter, the militant open-source programmer, who did a little bit of everything but was the IT guy when one was needed. A hippie named Allison. Also in charge of data. I tried to smile. I tried to act like I belonged.
Bob passed me off to Peter, who set me up with a desk and a computer. While Peter sat punching in settings and fiddling with the cables my new neighbor wheeled over.
"I'm David!" he exclaimed, and heartily shook my hand.
"Paul," I replied.
"What do you do?"
"I'm a writer," I said. "I'm an editor. My realm is personality."
He smiled and nodded genially.
"What do you do?"
"I'm the information architect!" he said. "It sounds like we'll be working a lot together."
Peter got up from my desk and indicated my chair with a grand sweep of his hand.
"It's done," he said. "Now get to fuckin' work."