There’s a three-story atrium in the building where I work. Any moment of my workday, I might overhear people talking with others who are present or connected by cell phones. Some voices murmur their way to me, while other voices cut through my consciousness, inspiring me to post passive-aggressive status messages on Facebook wishing harm to the distracters.
I’ve learned a bit about people’s behavior: for example, how many people are simply not aware of how loud they are, or don’t care. Until this fall, I spent ten years working in an office that was tucked away in the basement level of another building on campus. While my new building is hardly Grand Central, I feel more connected to other human beings during my workday, which is equal parts blessing and curse.
Eavesdropping is good writing practice. It’s important to consider how information is conveyed through wordless sound rather than just dialogue, and how to put words to wordlessness. If I describe the sound of footsteps as Clydesdales, is that accurate, or is it too easy, or too harsh, or will a reader even know what I mean? Sometimes I hear sounds I don’t recognize–a squeak or a boom that doesn’t sound threatening but leaves me wondering what’s going on in the building I spend so much time in.
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I’ve heard the atrium described as an echo chamber. I don’t think that’s quite right, at least not in the pure sense of the story behind the word “echo” in which a nymph was robbed of her voice except to parrot others’ words.
It might work if I made “echo” an adjective, but I can only find “echoey” in a few online dictionaries (so, I mean, is it a “real” word?). Is “reverberation” closer to what I mean? Kind of, but that makes me think of a controlled environment like a recording studio. The atrium is, decidedly, a sonically uncontrolled environment, as if a version of Pong goes on there with blips of sound instead of pixilated light bouncing in three and then four dimensions.
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I almost forgot to mention that the focal point of the atrium is a pendulum attached to the ceiling three stories above. The pendulum hovers above a compass, but usually points directly to the center. In all honesty, I don’t understand its purpose, but it’s quite a conversation piece for visitors. Whether or not they ask about it, their eyes usually lock on it and follow the cable upward. (Looking up is the universal sign of the tourist.)
Those of us who dwell there daily forget about the pendulum. Occasionally, I’ll walk by it and go, “The pendulum. Oh, yeah.” I’ll actually say the words out loud sometimes, forgetting how easily sound carries through and beyond the atrium. If I had any class, I would hang my head in hypocritical shame instead of rushing to the stairwell before anyone can see me.
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Guarding the pendulum is a railing that comes up to my waist. It’s impossible for me not to think about leaping over the barrier and swinging on the cable. I honestly feel no desire to do that. Even if someone with authority gave me permission, I would decline the offer. I’m just thinking “what if”; it’s what I do.
What would that scene be like if someone (if I) behaved that way, with or without permission? Swinging on the cable might be fun, but what would that accomplish? If I had superhero strength, maybe I would climb to the top. What then? Would the skylight open so I could fly away? What would have happened on the first floor to make me want or need to do that?
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The pendulum’s presence suggests the building was designed around the atrium, but that part of the building was added 30 years ago, extending the existing structure of low-ceilinged rooms and hallways. The entire building was renovated last year, making room for my staff and me, among others. If someone hadn’t told me the history, I wouldn’t have guessed it wasn’t originally built this way.
I would say the revision has been convincing, although the revised intention is hard to describe. Maybe it’s more accurate to say the building is (present tense) organized around the atrium? Architecturally, I suppose so. Culturally, not really. There’s something impressive about looking out into a vast rectangular prism of open space flooded with sunlight. People loiter there, pass through, look over railings to see what’s going on.
From the second story where I work, I see colleagues going about their business a story up or down around the pendulum. I can see students through the windows of the study rooms. Sometimes those other people wave at me. Sometimes I can tell they regret catching my eye, or they keep their heads down to avoid me. Sometimes they can probably tell I feel that way.
It’s a far different experience than a typical office building that feels like a beige maze. Wherever you work in the building, it’s likely you’ll pass through the atrium at some point during the day, even if just to enter and leave. The atrium’s openness promises a break from the maze feeling, connecting us, whether we like it or not.
James Black is a founding member of Book Writing World. He earned a masters degree in English literature with an emphasis in creative writing at the University of Missouri at Columbia. His work has been published in the anthology The New Queer Aesthetic on Television and in the journal Anon. He’s writing his first novel about the family of a closeted, gay soldier stationed in Iraq. Check out his blog, Quota. He contributes to the BWW weekly!