For I have discovered Caster Circles[sup]TM[/sup] in a 60-year-old building on board a southeastern Naval Air Station. Before you dismiss me as another wacko crazy woman, please do me the courtesy of hearing me out. Indeed, I’d scoff had I not seen them with my own eyes, stepped upon them with my own feet, dropped upon them my own sandwich crumbs. Allow me, then, to tell my eerie tale.
It was less than a year ago that the northeast corner of Bldg. 2, one of the oldest buildings on base, was given a long-overdue remodeling. Ancient coffee-stained carpeting was torn out and replaced with shiny new tiles. Decrepit, mismatched partitions were discarded, peeling walls were scraped and patched, discolored acoustic ceiling panels were tossed. When the workers packed the last of their tools and carted away the last of the debris, what remained was an ergonomic delight!
Four-person cubicles, each corner an identical workstation, complete with file drawers and overhead storage. Muted colors surrounded engineer and technician alike with a soothing, professional environment. New lights, new phones, a few plants, assorted personal items to add warmth to individual zones – it was truly a triumph! Visitors were numerous – coming to admire the polished, renewed space. Life was good.
Alas, it was not to last.
In retrospect, I suppose it happened gradually, subtly, unnoticed until it was too late to stop. Centered in each work area, they mocked us. Caster Circles[sup]TM[/sup]. Rings of black upon the otherwise beige flooring. Indisputable evidence of a devious and undoubtedly superior intelligence mocking us. The geometry was too perfect – exactly matching the diameter of the office chair bases if they were permitted to roll unfettered within the confines of the workstations. Even the traces of material deposited on the tile – exactly matching the chemical makeup of the complex polymers used in the manufacture of the caster wheels. These bastards are devilishly clever.
We study the Caster Circles[sup]TM[/sup] uneasily. When did they do this? The building is locked up tight at night. We’re right across the street from the security guard – he’d no doubt notice nefarious goings-on in the dead of night. Surely a security professional in the employ of the Federal Government would not be derelict in his duty. Or perhaps they lurk unseen in the cubicles even as we toil. Perhaps in our very chairs??
I shudder as I write these words – words I dare not speak. Yet if these fiends can read minds, I’m done for. My only hope is to post my story so that if I disappear, there will be at least this tale for a clue. But for now, the black beneath my wheels taunts me. The matching marks at adjacent desks and in neighboring cubicles bear silent testimony to the evil that surrounds us.
Dare I submit a work order? Dare I ask that the floors be scrubbed and waxed? Dare I risk offending them?
Should I suddenly be gone, please remember me kindly.
Or not – your call…