An Agreement on the Matter
“After pulling out her chair, she squeezed herself into the space under the desk, closed her eyes, and slept.”
DECEMBER 3, 2024
They discovered her one Tuesday afternoon on their way back from the canteen: the worker from station 27 was napping in the space under her desk. On other occasions she had spent the time between lunch and the afternoon shift resting on the armchairs in the lobby, always with her eyes closed but never switching off completely. Sometimes she acted as if she were waiting for a meeting and other times she refused to pretend, curled into a foetal position, not caring that the soles of her shoes would scuff the faux leather. She had even nodded off briefly at her desk itself — in those weeks that the worker from station 6 was on leave and they had to divide up her duties — only for five minutes, moving the computer keyboard aside so it wouldn’t leave a mark on her face. But that Tuesday afternoon, the worker from station 27 ignored the armchairs in the waiting room, the chipboard tabletop and the mouse mat. She pulled out her office chair and lowered herself into the hollow beneath the desk.
To fit her body into the space, the worker from station 27 shrank in on herself. With her legs bent, arms wrapped around her knees, back curved and head bowed, she became a curled-up ball of an account manager. One with dozens of clients to email and call with the intention of keeping their accounts active — I hope you’re well, can I help you with anything else, you might be interested in this new product — and who processes registrations for new clients, for whom she would also be responsible. However, during that time, in the half hour between arranging her body in the gap and the other account managers returning to the floor, the worker from station 27 forgot her list of pending calls, that morning’s loss of a cooperative which had ceased its activities, and the final refusal of a freelancer who had requested information, and slept.
The worker from station 39 argued that everyone could use the space under their desk however they liked — even shit there as long as they cleaned it up — and the worker from station 53 refused to take a position. The worker from station 11 assumed it was wrong, without giving her reasons, and the worker from station 12 thought it was fine, although couldn’t explain why either
Sleeping was a struggle for her; she could no longer recall a deep slumber, one that gave her the rest she needed and the subsequent cheerful return to work, whistling with joy like in the movies. At night, an hour of sleep was accompanied by several of insomnia, and she’d yawn throughout the day, after her first coffee and after her second. At midmorning she’d lock herself in the toilet cubicle to catch a few winks and relieve her exhaustion. On the metro on her way home — an hour and a quarter there, an hour and a quarter back — she’d close her eyes but never manage to disconnect, instead listening to her thoughts with greater attention: the profits to explain to her clients and the percentages to explain to her bosses — or vice versa — the need to find another apartment perhaps further away from work — no more than three or four stops on the same metro line — for which she would pay a little less now that she was covering the rent alone. One night she tried to fall asleep by reciting her clients’ details like counting sheep. She dozed off muttering ‘Martín Rico, Alfonso’ to herself, but woke up a few minutes later whispering ‘Mendoza Aguilar, Rosa María’.
They discovered her one Tuesday afternoon. The workers from stations 11 and 12 had returned a little early — they’d skipped dessert — and the alarm set by the worker from station 27 went off just as they began to whisper, far away enough to observe without her realising. Perhaps the worker from station 11 noticed that someone had moved the chair next to the filing cabinets, and, curious, leaned over to take a look. Perhaps the worker from station 12 heard a loud, contented sigh, and pointed out its source — there, there, look at 27 under her desk — to the worker from station 11 with a nudge. By the time the worker from station 27 abandoned the space under her desk, stretched her arms and legs, and brushed off her trousers in case the fabric had picked up any fluff, the workers from stations 11 and 12 had been joined by the worker from station 39, who ate her packed lunch in the common room and often used this time to speak to her family, and the worker from station 53, who could make it to her mother’s house for lunch in ten minutes on her motorbike. The worker from station 39 argued that everyone could use the space under their desk however they liked – even shit there as long as they cleaned it up – and the worker from station 53 refused to take a position. The worker from station 11 assumed it was wrong, without giving her reasons, and the worker from station 12 thought it was fine, although couldn’t explain why either.
In front of her computer once more, refreshed and alert, the worker from station 27 performed like never before: she finished a report that she’d put off for several weeks, had witty and animated conversation with several clients and managed to adjust the terms — in the company’s favour, aware that she had knowingly concealed certain points — for three of them, took down the complaint of a small business owner who was threatening to move her account elsewhere, and feigned complicity — darling, of course, I understand com-plete-ly: for the first time the words tasted sweet in her mouth — but didn’t process it. Buzzing with energy, she avoided the doses of caffeine with which she usually consoled herself at that point in the afternoon and the corresponding snooze in the bathroom. She felt so good, so rested, so energised, that when the clock showed six thirty in the afternoon, she ignored the workers from stations 11, 12, 39, 53, and all the others — each of them now aware of her nap in the space under her desk — and stayed in front of her computer, feeling ambitious, ready to secure and expand her list of accounts, and to present her ideas for a new product which would allow the company to increase its profits. A little before eight o’clock, when she calculated the time it would take — an hour and a quarter — to commute home and find something for dinner in the shop next to the metro station, she switched off the computer and left. Before pushing in her chair, as she did every time she left her station, she peered down gratefully at the empty space under her desk.
She tried to continue making phone calls from the metro: her ex-boyfriend, her best friend, her younger sister. Nobody answered, but her desire to share what had happened with someone persisted. She sent a few WhatsApp messages, not with greetings or confessions, but various emojis which summed up her surprising experience. None of them depicted a woman curled into a ball under a desk, or even a desk itself, so she selected a ball, a computer, and a face that was sleeping because a z, another z, and another z were streaming out of its mouth. The chat with her mother was marked with two ticks in blue. Her mother responded with a flaming heart and added: kisses my love. With seven stops to go, the worker from station 27 remembered reciting the periodic table at school. Her body was made up of ten basic elements in unequal percentages: sulphur, calcium, carbon, chlorine, phosphorus, hydrogen, magnesium, nitrogen, oxygen and potassium. To this unbeatable combination she added the space under the desk on the account managers’ floor, in the high-rise building in the business district.
She bought a packet of Chinese beef-flavoured noodles for a euro. A splash of tap water, a few minutes in the microwave and they’d be ready to eat straight from the container, without dirtying pots or pans or crockery. With her afternoon’s productivity at work and her emotional productivity on the metro, she felt invincible, but once she’d closed her front door the worker from station 27 felt her circumstances start to return and take shape. It wasn’t just an idea or a feeling, she could see them in front of her, could touch them: her small, dirty apartment, the constant bickering of the family next door from the other side of the living room wall, the constant sex of the couple upstairs — her bedroom ceiling was below their bedroom floor — and the chart hits that never stopped playing in the internal courtyard. The worker from station 27 felt the noise in her hands while she heated up the noodles. She then turned on the television, sat on the sofa, and flicked between channels until she got bored.
In bed she longed for the peaceful sleep of her nap in the space under her desk. Lying on the thin mattress, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. There was shouting from here and there, the languishing music, thoughts of the graciousness of the hardware store owner who had trusted the advantages explained by the worker from station 27 — she had glossed over the small print — and the manager of a clothes shop’s refusal to speak to her because she already had customers, but the worker from station 27 sensed the truth — that she didn’t have any customers – and so resumed the discourse of keeping calm during difficult times, and the manager agreed to digitally sign the renewal. Nothing helped her to sleep that night for more than a few hours, carved up into little spells of fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, then five, and insomnia once again.
The next morning, after the momentum of the previous afternoon, the worker from station 27 returned to feeling the same as always. She dragged her feet on her way to the metro, through the underground passageways, and to the office, unable to lift them off the ground. She responded to the greetings of good morning from her colleagues, the workers from stations 11, 12, 39, 53, and the others, with a monosyllabic yes, yes, replied the worker from station 27, yes. Throughout the morning she put off several calls that she’d scheduled the previous afternoon — she’d deal with them some other time – and discarded her notes for the new plan — she considered it unattainable, a delusion. The worker from station 27 couldn’t stop yawning and drank endless cups of coffee. In her lunch break she nibbled a sandwich from the vending machine — the cooked ham had the same flavour as the slice of cheese and the piece of stale bread: the taste of nothing — poured herself a glass of water, discussed the news with the worker from station 39 and others — four women, five with the one from 27, six with the one from 39 — while sitting around the table. She ate hurriedly: a few mouthfuls, munch, munch, munch, and done. She went to the toilet — decided against trying to snatch five minutes of sleep there – washed her hands, brushed her teeth, returned to her workstation and repeated her movements from the day before. After pulling out her chair, she squeezed herself into the space under the desk, closed her eyes, and slept.
She spent a few minutes thinking — I can’t remember the last time I slept properly, at home in my bed, like everyone else. Not even for eight hours, but five or six, enough to be productive in the office.
The alarm on her phone sounded five minutes before the end of the lunch break but she didn’t hear its metallic tune. In burst the workers from stations 11 and 12, their heels clicking, and the sound of the worker from station 53 shouting at her partner down the phone, yet the worker from station 27 slept on, oblivious. The worker from station 39 walked over and woke her up: it’s time sweetheart. The worker from station 27 — sweetheart — opened her eyes, refreshed, feeling as though she’d slept for at least a century, and regained her energy for the afternoon ahead. She called clients, extended plans, acquired two new accounts, and still had time — in fact she left the office at eight in the evening again — to pause and begin calculating the terms and costs of the proposal she’d present to her bosses. Superstitiously, she repeated her movements from the previous evening: the calls which nobody answered, the emojis to which nobody responded — except her mother again: I don’t understand my love but all fine kisses — the packet of Chinese noodles from the shop next to the metro station — she was hungry — and the hopping between television channels. That night, again, sleep eluded her. Was lying horizontally the problem? The worker from station 27 wandered around her apartment looking for a space in which to instal herself. Not in the kitchen — too much body for the minimal space under the sink — or in the bathroom — perhaps the shower might work? — or in the living room either. In her bedroom, the wardrobe was her best bet: she moved a pile of sweaters and boots she’d never worn, shrank in on herself like she did in the gap beneath her desk, closed her eyes and waited.
Nothing happened; the worker from station 27 saw the sunrise. She started the day just like all the other days: awake and exhausted. Then the metro, the yawning, the coffee, her inability to maintain the pace of the previous afternoon, a chicken sandwich from the vending machine, and a piece of chocolate cake which one of her colleagues brought in to celebrate her saint’s day and share with the others in the lunch room — those who ate there to avoid spending money outside or because they lived far away. The dishwashing liquid’s run out, announced the worker from station 27, ignoring the irony that no machine other than their hands, soap and the scouring pad would ever wash anything for them. Go to the cleaners, replied the worker from station 39, I think they keep it there. And the worker from station 27 — sweetheart — obeyed.
The cleaner was taking advantage of the gap between the shelves to have a nap herself. The worker from station 27 admired her ability to plan ahead: she had reorganised the chaos of her predecessor, covering the walls with shelves to store the products and utensils. Undefeated by the cramped space, she had fitted a mat on the floor that covered almost all of the tiles. There lay a curled ball of a cleaning woman with her blue smock uniform and a cushion as a pillow filling the empty shelf. It was the lowest one, which she usually kept for her personal possessions: the cushion and the mat when she wasn’t using them, a gold framed picture of her children, a little image of the Virgin of Altagracia, a large toiletry bag and a microfibre towel. The worker from station 27 reached out to take the washing up liquid, and closed the door carefully so as not to wake her.
She returned to her colleagues, washed up a few dishes — enough to disappear without judgement — and continued the tradition of her nap in the space under her desk. She didn’t even bother to set her alarm; she knew that the worker from station 39 would tap her on the shoulder, gently at first, then firmly, to rouse her from sleep, sweetheart, sweetheart, it’s time, one of the bosses might catch you. Until the worker from station 27 opened her eyes, stretched her right arm, then her left arm, stood up, stretched her right leg, then her left leg, searched with the palm of her hand for fluff or a speck of dust on her clothes, sat in front of her computer and dialled the first number of the accounts she managed, the worker from station 39 didn’t dare to leave her alone in case she fell back asleep and the supervisor noticed something unusual: not the worker from station 27’s absence from her desk, but rather her long nap underneath it. The worker from station 53 refused to comment on the subject to avoid offending either those who were in favour of naps or those who were against. For the workers from stations 11 and 12, she had already integrated into the landscape, that girl in the cheap suit and flat shoes — she might as well come in trainers — who made the most of the space under her desk to sleep during the lunch break.
Instead of focusing on her calls or the new plan, the worker from station 27 prepared her speech to win over the security guard: I can’t sleep at home. I just can’t. I can’t rest there. I can only truly switch off here.
After following the same pattern on Tuesday and Wednesday, on Thursday the worker from station 27 varied one of the elements: she didn’t start work immediately after her nap. She didn’t dial the next number on her list or check over the new plan that could lead to a promotion, a desk on the top floor, and more space to rest her head on the chest of drawers without having to bend her neck. Instead, she spent a few minutes thinking — I can’t remember the last time I slept properly, at home in my bed, like everyone else. Not even for eight hours, but five or six, enough to be productive in the office. Did she sleep well when she got this job? Did she sleep well when her ex-boyfriend left a few months later? Or when she distanced herself from her best friend? Do the voice notes to her sister help her to get to sleep? Do the emojis to her mother help her to drift off? The space beneath her desk served as a parenthesis for the worker from station 27: she would isolate herself between the chests of drawers and take refuge under the tabletop.
The worker from station 27 wondered what would happen if she spent a whole night in the space under her desk. Why not try eight hours of sleep? She didn’t know the security guard on the night shift, but had struck up a friendly rapport with those who worked during the day. Surely they wouldn’t deny her if she explained her situation. In the first few months of her insomnia — when have I ever slept well? — she turned to employee services and made an appointment with the psychologist. She needed to talk about her stress and anxiety, not with her — then — boyfriend, not with her — then — best friend, or with her — still — sister or with her — kisses — mother, but with an impartial professional. She felt she could trust the worker from station 39 who was a mother to her daughters, to her own mother, and to some degree to the whole floor of account managers. So the worker from station 27 confessed to her: I cry all the time, I never sleep, my boyfriend is fed up and my friend is fed up and my sister is fed up and I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I don’t even have the strength to be fed up, even though I have so many reasons to be. The worker from station 27 told the worker from station 39 that she would visit the company psychologist and plead for a bottle of pills to help her sleep and ease her panic attacks at night – because the day would come — and in the morning — because the day had arrived. No, said the worker from station 39, they’ll find out. And if they find out, said the worker from station 27, connecting the dots, they won’t renew my contract.
Instead of focusing on her calls or the new plan, the worker from station 27 prepared her speech to win over the security guard: I can’t sleep at home. I just can’t. I can’t rest there. I can only truly switch off here. And then she’d point at her desk, not her desk, but the empty space — higher than it is wide and just deep enough to fit her tired body — underneath it. The security guard would look at the worker from station 27, look at the gap, look at her again, shrug his shoulders. Okay, but don’t do anything strange, anything that draws attention. Easy. The worker from station 27, feeling victorious before even having tried, thought ahead to Friday’s nap and the hell of the weekend, and longed for Monday to arrive, for the soothing sleep after lunch, for the luminous night at the office, safe from reality.
And so came Friday’s nap, the hell of the weekend, and Monday’s nap once again. That morning the worker from station 27 had walked to the metro with a small, lightweight backpack, salvaged from the time when she’d joined a gym – bought for a few euros in a sports shop to carry her wallet, a spare T-shirt and a bottle of water — and in which she had now packed her toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, spare underwear, two or three panty liners, a large slogan T-shirt and shorts, flip flops, and a little pot of moisturiser. Had it run out? She’d bought it as part of a travel set at the airport. She’d stopped wearing make-up a long time ago, but the dry skin on her cheeks felt rough. She stored the backpack in her top drawer, the one used for her personal effects — the secretary of one of her bosses had defined it as such on her first day: personal effects — and throughout the morning she worked at a good pace. Not with the frenzy that had followed her naps, but with a sense of anticipation for the night ahead. Her excitement had stirred her appetite and as well as the surimi and corn sandwich she’d bought, she eagerly accepted some of the stew that a colleague had left over, and saved a piece of fruit she was offered for later. She went to the toilet, washed her hands and brushed her teeth, went over to her workstation, pulled out her chair, took refuge underneath her desk, and slept until the worker from station 39 came to wake her up. Through the afternoon she renewed accounts and renewed accounts, and opened accounts and opened accounts, and kept a document on her desk with her — ever-increasing — notes for the plan she was developing. At a quarter past nine in the evening — none of the security guards noticed her during the changeover, nor did anyone in the office show any interest in her, and there were no calls or messages — she bit into the banana inherited from the worker from station 8 and walked with her backpack to the bathroom.
There she ran into the cleaner. They greeted each other, good evening, good evening. The cleaner was rubbing at the black smudges around her eyes in front of the mirror. Even with a cotton wool pad and a squirt of cream, she couldn’t get rid of the mascara. The worker from station 27 noticed her pink cotton nightgown and fluffy slippers, the lime green plastic clip she used to put up her hair. While she locked herself in the cubicle to take off her suit and change into her makeshift pyjamas, the cleaner sang a refrain which the worker from station 27 recognised from the songs played in the internal courtyard. You’re from accounts, right? the cleaner asked. You’re in the accounts team? I didn’t think I’d run into anyone from accounts. You’re all well paid, aren’t you? Yes, the worker from station 27 answered, yes, she said. I’m from accounts, they pay me well compared to what you get paid. I don’t earn much, obviously, the cleaner giggled while she wiped her mouth, perhaps spraying a constellation of toothpaste drops on the bathroom mirror. Can I ask you something? The worker from station 27 said. Will the security guard notice me? Don’t worry, the cleaner reassured her, they soon get used to it. To what? To us. The worker from station 27 changed her panty liner while the cleaner explained. Four girls sleep on the first floor: two cleaners, one secretary and one of those young girls. An intern or an assistant? The worker from station 27 wanted to know, but the cleaner wasn’t sure. No idea, I’ve only caught a glimpse of her. And on the second floor? On the second there’s an intern, that small redhead who limps a little, and sometimes the cleaner when she can’t afford her room. On the third floor, it’s me and now you too. Is it only for tonight, to try it out, or will you stay longer? I don’t know, the worker from station 27 cut in. I’d get a roll mat, the cleaner advised. The floor hurts and you’ll ruin your back. The cleaner picked up her toiletry bag, said goodbye — good night, good night — and left the worker from station 27 alone in front of the mirror. She looked at herself, with her degree and her masters and the scholarship-funded stays in the UK to perfect her English, wearing the huge TOLDOS RODRÍGUEZ T-shirt that her ex-boyfriend had forgotten in a drawer.
Nobody stopped the worker from station 27 on her way back to the space under her desk. She crossed paths with the night security guard who seemed to accept without question the presence of an employee in pyjamas. From the small common room where she ate lunch with her colleagues during the day, she overheard a night-time conversation, also between women, discussing the finalists in a music competition. I’ve never been above the third floor, the cleaner had said. The worker from station 27 imagined the office building as a nocturnal city, with women in pyjamas and nightgowns sharing XXL-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body lotion — family discount — washing their armpits and vaginas with hand soap from the dispenser, contemplating the other city — so far away — through the reception windows on each floor. The worker from station 27 pictured it while she positioned her body in the space, shrinking in on herself, legs bent, arms around her knees, back curved and head bowed.
The dreams that the worker from station 27 had accumulated over the last few years came flooding back that night. She flew above the city where she was born and above the city where she lived, she was chased by a cruel and mysterious man, she swam peacefully in the ocean, her teeth fell out, she walked naked down the main road, she had sex with her ex-boyfriend – and didn’t like it — and with a previous ex-boyfriend — and enjoyed it a little more — and with a guy — this one she loved – that she sometimes ran into on the metro, who got on three stops after her and must work in one of the towers nearby. From the moment she closed her eyes to the moment she woke up, an hour and a half before her colleagues would arrive, just enough time to make herself presentable and get dressed in her suit from the day before — grey and functional, who would notice? — nothing disturbed the worker from station 27 — sweetheart. At last, eight or nine hours of uninterrupted sleep in the space underneath her desk.
At nine in the morning in front of her computer, the worker from station 27 opened her email account and typed the name of her line manager in the recipient box. She drafted a concise message — during her studies several of her professors had praised her clear, direct style of writing — and hesitated just before sending it, did she fancy a coffee? No, she could wait a few hours. She amended an expression that she thought imprecise and decided to send it.
Dear Sir,
I hereby request a meeting regarding my wish to move my permanent residence to the space under my desk at my workstation. As you will have confirmed from the last few days’ statistics, my performances during the afternoon — after my nap in said space — show excellent results in terms of plan renewals and client recruitment to our service portfolio. As an employee of the company and therefore invested in its growth and profits, I would consider this change to be of enormous advantage to both the business and myself, and I’m confident that we can reach an agreement on the matter.
Yours sincerely,
Sara Rodríguez Navarro
Account Management Department (station 27)
This story was published in the anthology Doce visiones para un nuevo mundo (Fundación Santander, 2021).
✺ Published in “Issue 23: Deadlines” of The Dial
