Offices: Where we spend our day

Offices, just as with jobs, relationships and fast-food, have their pluses and minuses.

When I first laid eyes on my workstation for the College of the Arts at a Big 10 university - you've definitely heard of it - my heart dropped through my stomach and straight down to my the soles of my feet.

It's not that I expected opulence: The arts communications and publications office, after all, was in a three-story warehouse. Boxes and battered filing cabinets took up much of the dark, large room.

“And here's your desk,” my new boss said, extending her arms to what surely was a board stretched over some packing crates. A solitary light bulb sputtered a few feet overhead.

No wonder I spent much of my days not hunched over my board-cum-desk, trying to decipher notes about an art history project, but across the street at the yogurt shop, or at the dance department in the next building, with its charming, early 20th century architecture and its charming, late 20th century dance students.

Once, while construction was under way for a contemporary-art facility next door, the power suddenly went out. Fzzzap - and gone were the lights, computers, phones, air-conditioning and everything else.

The rest of the staff and I sat there in complete darkness for a few minutes, then a little longer ….

Then I figured, well, it looks like fate to me. I felt my way around my board/desk, slowly edged over to the still-lit fire exit, quietly pushed open the door … and then bounded down the steps and out into daylight.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at the yogurt place. Or maybe at the dance department. Studying the architecture.

My next job I took for two reasons. One was the salary was a heck of a lot better.

The other reason certainly was the office. On the 28th floor of a 30-floor building in downtown Columbus, Ohio, the home of a giant insurance carrier's publications department was a wonderful thing.

The north-facing windows in my office went from my ankles to the ceiling. I swear if I craned over far enough, I could see Dayton.

Straight ahead was the Olentangy River.

A little to the right was the Old Peniteniary, where legend has it O. Henry, while a guest of the state, wrote his famous short story, “The Gift of the Magi” - and the south wall of which I just happened to witness collapse onto a line of parked cars. Lots of noise, soot and gnashing of teeth followed.

Farther north was the bustling Short North arts-and-restaurant district, and beyond that the campus where I used to work. A bit farther, on a clear day, I thought I could glimpse Clintonville, the neighborhood where I lived.

That building, being the corporate headquarters with 7,800 employees, also housed restaurants (the classiest of which was on the 30th floor, just above the executive offices), newsstands, a travel agency, a bank, even a dry cleaner.

My next position was for a business publication in Michigan, where we were sequestered in what long had been a fur coat store. During our early days there, animal-rights activists would storm in to make sure this wasn't just a front, to catch them unawares.

My office was way in the back, by the massive fur vault's door. The office was sizable enough, though the lack of windows gave it a bunker-like feel and reminded me that nuclear Armageddon could be going on outside and I'd be none the wiser.

Feng shui wasn't even a consideration.

My favorite office of all time, though, was during the years I was with a general-interest magazine in Ohio, when we temporarily were housed in the Neil House Hotel, at Broad and High Streets.

Facing the state capitol, the 1882 hotel was famous. A statue of President William McKinley still stands across the street, waving to his wife who was staying in one of the suites.

Our offices each had their own bathrooms - you could bathe in the middle of the day, if you were so inclined. Once in awhile, drunk conventioneers inadvertently would find their way to our offices and stay for a visit.

We had room service.

The hotel boasted all the amenities an old-style hotel used to offer, including an immense white-linen restaurant, and stayed open quite late. The food wasn't that great, mind you, but we squandered many an hour there, ordering appetizers and chatting with the waitresses whom we'd come to know.

And on a really good day, you'd bump into the governor or maybe Bob Hope in the elevator. Hey, what more could you want to brighten your work day?