Every so often I notice a baby cockroach on my desk, or maybe it’s one of several baby cockroaches that take turns coming out for some fresh air. Several papers are taped together covering a hole in the ceiling just a little ways away from being directly above me. The window shades are perpetually drawn closed because, despite there being so much flora throughout the office, these plants are apparently partial to fluorescent lights. Bearcat sometimes keeps a large electric bug zapper on under her desk. I hear *ZAP* every now and again.
The teaching rooms are of varying size, shape, and comfort as not all of them have fans or air conditioning, nor do they all have white boards and functioning markers. The rooms have such names as Harvard, Columbia, Stanford and MIT. The walls are clear, half-inch thick glass with sliding doors that don’t all close smoothly. One of them requires a good amount of force to close it. There is no set schedule for who gets what room, which means Underpaid Pharmacist and I could be stuck with hot, stuffy, small rooms while a part-time teacher who comes in twice a week gets the Rolls Royce of teaching spaces: Oxford, which has its own water cooler and a Swedish-made air filter outside it’s sliding glass door.