My Desk Neighbor Only Communicates Through Interpretive Dance
My desk neighbor, Brenda, only talks using interpretive dance. It sounds like a bad joke you would read in a comedy sketch, but it is my real life. We work in a cubicle farm where the gray walls seem to close in on us by mid-afternoon. Our desks are pushed right up against each other, separated by a thin piece of fabric that does nothing to block out the performance art happening mere inches away. We share a temperamental printer that constantly needs coaxing and a coffee machine that produces sludge instead of espresso, and now, we share a silent language that is slowly driving me to the brink of insanity. It started small a few months ago. I thought it was just a strange quirk, similar to how Dave from accounting insists on wearing mismatched neon socks every week. At first, it was just a subtle wrist flick when she needed a staple or a little rhythmic shimmy when the office internet connection slowed to a crawl. I ignored it, thinking she was just stretching out a stiff back. But Brenda’s moves grew increasingly elaborate. It was as if her internal rhythm section was finally turned up to full volume. Soon, she was doing full-blown dance routines in the middle of our professional floor. One day, I was hunched over a particularly difficult spreadsheet, trying to reconcile a balance sheet that refused to add up. I was frustrated and squinting at the screen when Brenda drifted over to my desk. I expected a simple 'Hey, can you help?' but instead, she started waving her arms like a frantic conductor leading a symphony that only she could hear. She twisted her body into a perfect question mark, her spine curving with alarming flexibility, and pointed a long finger at her own monitor across the aisle. I was beyond confused. Was she upset about a deadline? Did she want me to go grab coffee? I finally stopped typing and asked, 'Brenda, what do you need?' She stared at me, then acted like a puppet with cut strings, collapsing slightly before thumping her chest with a hollow sound. I took a wild guess and asked if she wanted me to look at her computer. She nodded hard, her face lit with relief, and I sighed as I stood up. When we got to her desk, she walked me through the data error by dancing it out, finishing with a shaky, overly dramatic curtsy that made me wonder if I had accidentally walked onto a Broadway set. Brenda also uses movement when she gets angry. When the office copier jammed for the third time in a day, she didn't curse like the rest of us. She let out a sharp, bird-like sound, stomped her foot on the carpet like a localized earthquake, and spun around like a figure skater preparing for a jump. She ended by shaking her fists at the machine in a way that looked almost violent, despite her lack of actual words. The rest of the office just watched from their cubicles, frozen and deeply distracted by the display. Her dancing makes it incredibly hard to focus on my own tasks. When she is in a good mood, she does a little jig with high kicks that make me worry she’s going to kick the neighbor’s monitor. If she manages to finish a big project, she leaps into the air with her arms raised like she just won a gold medal. It is like working in a silent musical where the soundtrack is missing, and I am the only audience member who hasn't been given a playbill. I finally tried to have a real conversation with her about it. I cornered her by the water cooler and asked, 'Brenda, why do you communicate like this? Is everything okay?' She didn't answer with words or even a head shake. She just did a series of graceful, flowing moves, her arms tracing arcs in the air, and ended with a perfect, balanced pose on one leg, staring at me with a serene expression. It was beautiful, honestly, but it was completely unhelpful. My coworkers are just as confused and overwhelmed as I am. We have developed a silent system where we just exchange tired, 'you seeing this?' looks whenever she starts a new routine. It is easier to look away than to deal with the sheer strangeness of it. She never speaks, even when it would be so much faster, and she just dances more to compensate for the silence. Sometimes, late at night, when the office is mostly empty and the fluorescent lights hum with that eerie buzz, I watch her through the gap in our cubicle walls. I wonder if she is a professional dancer who got stuck in a dead-end corporate job, or if she has just lost the ability to use vocal cords. Is this how she lets her personality out? Is she trapped in this body and this office, and this is her only way to scream? I feel a bit lonely trying to figure her out, but I have learned to decode some of her moves out of necessity. A heavy stomp means 'no,' a slow, languid arm sweep means 'wait for me,' and fast, fluttery finger moves mean something is 'urgent.' It is like learning a complex new language with no textbooks, no teachers, and no chance of a translator. Still, we have formed a weird, unspoken bond. When she is sad, we leave a cookie on her desk. When she is happy, we all smile and try to play along. I don’t know if she will ever talk to me again, or if she even remembers how. It is very distracting, and it certainly isn't the most efficient way to manage a workflow, but it is also the most interesting thing that happens in this boring place. I even find myself copying her moves sometimes, doing a little arm sweep when I need to reach for a pen, or a stomp when I am frustrated. I hope I am not losing my mind, but in a place where nothing ever changes, Brenda’s performance is the only thing keeping me awake.