Writer squared

Freelancing is a lot like checking into a hotel. A really crowded hotel, with three conventions going on at the same time.

You never quite know what room, or in this case, cubicle, you're going to get.

As any freelancer will tell you, they stick you where they can. They also stick it to you where they can - usually in the wallet. But that's for another post.

The days where a hired gun could expect a spare empty window office to work in for the length of the gig are long gone. Now, they cram you into whatever space they can.

Lately I've been working in various parts of various agencies: open areas (supposedly better for creativity - total bulls@#%), the lobby, the kitchen, the (small) conference room (that I kept getting booted out of every time they had a meeting, which was every half hour because, well, it's an agency).

But there are cubicles then there are Cubicles.

The ones you see above belong to Chiat Day, and they are the most sought after workspaces in the agency. Rarely does a freelancer get to use them, although I have been lucky enough to work in them a few times while a staffer was on vacation. Everyone jockeys for these spaces, especially the ones on Main Street, which is the bottom row.

Say what you will about Chiat, aesthetically speaking it's nicer than any other agency to come into. It almost doesn't matter where they put you. There's always something to see: some interesting design or architectural detail to appreciate. And pretty people? The place is lousy with 'em.

Plus they let you bring your dog to work. There's a park. A basketball court. And a restaurant.

As far as walking into freelance gigs, I file it under "things could be worse."

Speaking of worse, a lot worse, I just finished working with an art director at an agency in Orange County. I've worked at this agency many times before, and all those other times I had an ordinary cubicle, the kind you're imagining right now. However this time, they put both of us in - well, room is too generous a word - a very narrow space about nine feet long and four feet wide. It was clearly one of those leftover spaces - not enough for an office, too much for a closet.

So it's the freelancer room.

As I broke a sweat trying to breathe while the table was smashed into me, and the chair was backed against the wall, the thing I made a point of remembering is that unlike a hotel, I'm not there for the accommodations.

I'm there for the love. Nah, just messin' with you. You know what I'm there for.

Besides, what did I really expect from an agency that thinks chairs like these are a good idea?