Because the company I work for decided (tragically, somewhat sensibly, to close their office in Boston until the COVID stuff dies down a little more, those of us who were desirous of getting out of our apartments were generously granted WeWork passes. As I like separating my paid-work and my life when able, I have therefore been bopping around various WeWorks in the Boston area. As I end to go in early (in addition to shamelessly recycling sentence structures), whereas many of my coworkers go in somewhat later, and because I like to amuse myself, I’ve been writing them brief introductions to the space(s) in the team WeWork Slack channel, and I figured some of them were fun and worth sharing. Am I merely struggling for content? Perhaps. But I, at least, think they’re kind of fun, too.

The following are non-chronological and all locations and most other identifying information has been redacted.

Spacey chill synth vibes this morning at [REDACTED]; it’s like a less sad “the xx” (remember them?) but with a stronger drumbeat. It’s a little warm but maybe that’s better than the AC bumping. Visibility into the city is good, The dark roast is very weak; I can report back on the light roast once I’m done dumping this cup down my gullet.

It’s real quiet at [REDACTED]. The loudest thing right now is the press of computer keys; the music is all light bubbling synths and vocal harmonies. The main room is fairly empty; I believe someone has brought a makeup artist back to one of the larger offices, and there is a fashionable woman dressed in all black carrying a camera bag, and I’m thinking it might be headshot day, it just might be.

It’s a wet, somewhat humid morning, but the [REDACTED] WeWork has got us in more of a desert mood: middle eastern scales and clean, trilling guitars and swung, low drums. The monitors are, indeed, clutch, as it was this day that I finally remembered to bring the adapter thing.

At [REDACTED] there is yet no music, only the gentle hum of the HVAC and the occasional closing of the refrigerator door, the whir of the coffee grinder, mutterings amongst the workers. There is a man in a maroon mask that matches his beanie. Someone in the distance is wearing high heels that click pleasingly on the wood floors. The sun is shining. The coffee is black and acrid. I am 99% sure I figured out how to use the scanner.

It’s a frantic kind of day at [REDACTED] — or maybe that’s just me. The ambiance is meant to be a kind of “chill” drum-and-bass heavy kind of thing with floaty vocals over it, but all I can hear are mouse clicks and the slight whine of the A/C. Also this guy having a loud video call in Spanish a few tables over. It is, at least, not very crowded, and someday I will remember that I brought headphones. Visibility out into the city is fairly clear, though it begins to get hazy the farther one stares into Cambridge. The coffee appears to have been strongly brewed.

They were playing jazz when I walked in, but from where I’m sitting you can hardly hear anymore save a gentle hum and synth and the rattle of coffee mugs being returned to their brass-colored shelves. It is now the kind of weather where one departs with perhaps one too few layers and arrives with perhaps one too many; the cold air does help with the sleep, however. The seltzer tap on the [REDACTED] floor is broken, though I heard whispers of something on the [REDACTED] (which I was not — and am not — sure is an option). But in any case the sun is out, it shaln’t be too warm today, and [REDACTED] finally sent me back the index review; all is fine and well.

So apparently, the weather can be different on one side of the river from the other. In fact, it seems to go town to town: as soon as I crossed the border over into Cambridge the sky grew grayer, and by Central Square I was in the midst of the most ominous mist, which only increased as I made my way across the bridge into the never-ending clusterfuck of Mass Ave between the bridge and Comm Ave, and by my arrival at [REDACTED] I was indeed somewhat soaked through. Luckily I had (most of) a change of clothes. Unluckily, they seem to have taken the chairs away from my favorite table(s) and moved them against the wall for some reason, I’m sure, is detailed in the emails they send me that I quite frankly never read.

All quite on the [REDACTED] front…​ there seems to be a smattering of folks in the private offices but as far as I can tell I am alone with the WeWork workers, my thoughts, and the private-office guy who keeps finding himself answering text messages right in front of (and blocking) the coffee drips. Luckily, this means I was able to secure my corner and a monitor. Breathy synth-pop rains down from the speakers above, dream, baby, dream shouts out in caustic neon-blue from behind the front desk.