It's about time that I give mention to some of the folks who work in the same building. They work for the other companies, so I don't know them personally, but they cross my path almost every day.
First are the Eastern European guys who work at the hedge fund. Other people in their office dress like Gordon Gecko, they prefer the vintage flannel shirt and a Nordic beard. Odd, but just fine. What bothers me is that they gather in the communal kitchen to chat during lunch. They talk in rushed, muted tones. If I walk in, or even go by the doorway, they clam up and glare at me as if I were some corporate spy trying to eavesdrop on their discussion of feasible cold fusion. This honestly wouldn't bother me if it weren't for the fact that they jabber in some Eastern European Slavic language to which I am utterly clueless. Perhaps if they were speaking high school French or Spanish I could glean the slightest inkling of their diabolical agenda.
Tuesday the 26th, 12:44 PM. Target 1 asked Target 2 if he had seen his suitcases. Target 2 replied by asking for directions to the biblioteque. End transmission.
The other character is The Ginch: a cross between Dr. Strangelove and Wallace Shawn from the Princess Bride. He is short, which already flares my prejudice that short people have an agenda, wears glasses that darken with bright light, and holds his cigarettes in a most peculiar, Strangelove-like fashion. The fact that The Ginch seems to snarl with his thin upper lip doesn't help matters. He doesn't actually do anything to me; it's merely that seeing him gives me the "maybe I shouldn't have cut through this dark alley to save three minutes walking back to the car" kind of feeling.
Totally unrelated: I channeled my immature fascination with automobiles into its own blog. Confessions of a Car Slut. Link is on the left hand nav bar as well.