I wrote earlier about my first day at work.
Today’s post details what transpired the previous Friday – my last day at my previous job.
This is my story.
It is about 9:00 in the morning and I am at my computer saving files and other documents to a shared network drive so that the next person who takes my position will see what I have done so far on this project.
My task is interrupted by a gentleman walking into our collective cubicle farm and calling out my name. When I raise my hand to hail his official-looking gentleman over to me, he asks if I drive a grey car.
Being asked what type of car you drive by an official-looking gentleman is rarely a good sign that you have won the PowerBall.
When I confirm that I am indeed the owner of a grey vehicle, the official-looking gentleman informs me that my car has been involved in an accident.
Sigh! It is going to be one of those days.
I follow the official-looking gentleman out to our office’s parking lot where I inspect the damage done to the car. Busted tail light – check.
Indented bumper – check.
Popped-out panel – check.
Kudos, by the way, to the bloke who injured my car. After backing into my vehicle and hearing that oh-so-delightful crunching sound, he did go to our guard pavilion and alert the men in uniform as to his transgression.
Ah, but here was my question as we walked back to the office. How did the guards know it was my car? How did they know to come fetch me by name?
One answer could be that the guards ran my plates and registration and saw that I was the owner. That would be one answer and it would be the wrong answer.
The guard who walked me back to the office pointed out all of the cameras (which I had never noticed) that graced the parking lot and the corners of our hallways. He said that they ran the surveillance tape from the parking lot backwards until they saw my car pull out of my parking spot. Then they ran the tape forward and the cameras caught me leaving my car, approaching the building, entering the building, taking the stairs up to my proper floor, and then into my workspace.
Sometimes, the surveillance state works to your benefit.
That’s my story.
P.S. Oh, but how did the guards know my name? Well, that’s a story for another day.