By the time my phone tells me it’s 9:50am, I’m muttering obscenities into my glass as I take one last swig of OJ, say goodbye to my wrestling kittens, then fly out the door to my Subaru. Luckily I’m able to make it to the Go Media front in about 8 minutes flat — as long as that creepy white van doesn’t go 10 the entire shot down Madison.
Nowadays I’m rolling onto Franklin Boulevard around the same time Jeff and his bride-to-be are wandering up the sidewalk, bagged lunches in hand. Not far behind is Comella, windows down and tunes cranked — if I look close, I can usually catch a sparkling Sicilian smile as he cruises over to his parking spot. Without fail, I know that Heather, Katie, Romsey and the “Adams” are already inside, booting up their machines and replying to emails.
Bill doesn’t dwell on soaring gas prices like the rest of us — his commute is just a few stairs. As I walk up to the kitchen, I know he’s already started the coffee. The aroma of an Eight O’Clock French Roast wafts through the air, and guaranteed it’s made about 12 scoops stronger than anything you’ll get at Starbucks. Sometimes Tim and I wrestle over the last drop in the pot, but one of us eventually caves in and brews another batch.
As I trip downstairs and bumble over to my desk, I get a slicing look from Tekno, the lion-sized cat. He dutifully guards Bill’s seat, glaring at anyone who makes an attempt to steal the headphones from his desk (I try this every day). Calling his bluff, I pat his tangled mane as he pretends not to like it. By this time, Oliver has made his way through the front door, out of breath, his trusty yellow road bike in hand.
I boot up my Apple and begin the day with some emails and RSS feeds, trying frantically to catch up on the latest and greatest. Since I’m the only estrogen-fueled body downstairs, Monday morning conversations all sound to me like girl troubles and action flicks, but the fellas would surely deny it. It’s a boy’s world no doubt, but I can bring it with the best of them. Bill jokes that I’m the only one in the room with a girlfriend, but take note all you rockin’ eligible ladies — these guys are quality, and none-too-bad with a mouse!
Occasionally, super-project-manger Heather pops her head downstairs like a bird from a cuckoo clock to let Bill know he has a phone call. Lately, the chats have been about building estimates, solar panels, and security systems. His latest pet project is something we all take pride in — the new Go Media building. Not far down Lorain in Ohio City stands our design kingdom, in all it’s dusty glory, eagerly awaiting warm bodies, humming machines and a good washing. We’re all dreaming of the day when we have to yell down the length of a vast space to take Chipotle orders.
Although we’re a laid-back bunch, our casual attitudes are just a cover: once we’ve settled in for the day, we’re intensely on the move, crankin’ out T-shirt graphics, website templates, package designs, video tutorials, and the like. Behind the scenes, Romsey pounds out mad-code, Kim pumps out payroll, Heather whips us into shape, and Adam W. makes sure we’re kickin’ ass in the marketplace.
Around 2 o’clock, we’re all feeling the hunger pangs as we dive for Romsey’s famous stash of Lance-brand peanut butter crackers. Later he’ll suggest a run to “The King” — he’s known around the studio as the Burger King champion, and can go for days on nothing but the dollar menu. Most times for lunch the staff just gathers around kitchen island, like elephants at the water hole, munching on some PB & J or the fresh vat of salsa Bill made the night before (now with corn!).
Before we know it, 6 o’clock is punching us in the face and Bill clicks over to Rhapsody to play a few choice songs. This is usually the cue to pack up our crap and get the hell out of his space, but some of the more stubborn types linger to tie up loose ends and post some final proofs.
Yes, being a Go Media employee is a grueling existence — but we all manage somehow.
So, dish it out — what’s it like where you work?