The booger chair needed oil, bad. My chunky frame had tested the chair’s integrity like it had never been tested for a longer epoch than it was designed to withstand. I loved making it squeak. I’d lean back on purpose real slow-like. And wait for the editorial people to notice.
Or I’d mix my devil brine (coffee) in my porcelain mug and intentionally let my spoon hit the sides for a longer-than-necessary time. All the while, staring at the one guy we (not me alone, but quite a few of us) had pegged as a candidate for “To Catch A Predator”, waiting for him to make eye contact. Then stopping.
Tink! Tink! Tink! Tink! Tink! Tink! Tink!
Tink! Tink! Tink!
Slower and slower.
Can you picture it?
So aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyhow, the chair is squeaking and I ask the maintenance guy to bring me a can of the WD 40 (which stands for “Water Displacement 40th Attempt–true story!) and he does, but a collection of three people (me, my manager, and the janitor) trying to figure out where we need to put the nozzle to get the squeaking to stop. It really reminded me of my honeymoon. The squeak didn’t stop, though, and I continued to use the sound as a weapon against nobody. A weapon against nobody.
That was my favorite day.