They hear you in cubeland; do they want to?
Co-workers won't complain if your calls are colorful
We all make personal phone calls at work. Whether it's scheduling a doctor's appointment, connecting with our partner about evening plans, or speaking with the auto repair shop, there are private things that must be taken care of between 9 and 5. Colleagues with offices have it easy; they can shut the door and use their regular speaking voice. We cubicle folks must monitor how loudly we speak; that is, we have to use our quiet voices.
For those unable to use their quiet voices -- like me -- our conversations become a mini-soap opera. For those few minutes, our lives are an open book. Our cube neighbors can hear about our medical issues, financial woes, or child-rearing dilemmas. Which begs a question for the listener: When does overhearing a conversation turn into eavesdropping?
Once, a woman who worked in a cubicle nearby was on the phone discussing the equitable division of her remaining Red Sox season tickets with the other ticket holder. Although I could overhear snippets of conversation, I was able to tune her out -- that is, until her voice got louder as the conversation became more heated.
I started to get uncomfortable listening to her diatribe. As much as I tried to focus on my work, I was riveted by the tone of her voice, her inflections, and her logic on the importance of attending the Baltimore series over the Toronto series.
I felt as if I were watching an episode of "Lost": Had I crossed the line from overhearing the conversation to eavesdropping? Am I supposed to not listen? Should I leave my cube? Is she supposed to speak in hushed tones so as not to invade my hearing space?
With the discomfort of listening to the heightened tension of the phone call outweighing my curiosity, I put on headphones and blared the music.
Sometimes, even though we're probably not supposed to be listening in, circumstances dictate that we intervene, as a brave fellow cube mate of mine did.
A typically serene young woman, planning everything from her engagement party to her house purchase, was incapable of using her quiet voice on the phone. It was impossible to not overhear her conversations. The tipping point for my neighbor came when the woman and her beau were engaged in the "I love you. No I love you. No, you hang up. No, you hang up first" banter.
Finally, our bold hero yelled over the cubicle wall, "Why don't you both just hang up at the same time so we can get some work done?" A provocative, yet effective strategy that garnered us peace and quiet.
Now, I'm just as guilty. I have a deep voice. Unbeknownst to me, due to the acoustical properties of cubes, ceilings, and walls, I was broadcasting my own little soap operas out among the rows of cubes.
My boss pulled me aside one day and said a number of people had complained about my loud phone voice, that they were unable to concentrate on work. At first, I was utterly embarrassed.
Then, though, it dawned on me: My conversations were not eavesdrop-worthy. If they were, my colleagues would not have asked the boss to intervene . (Or perhaps worse -- my conversations were so salacious that I was embarrassing them and myself.) And why, I wondered, didn't our brave hero yell over the cube wall and tell me to keep it down?
In hushed tones, my boss and I spoke about this for a few minutes. I thanked him for making me aware of my foible. Going forward, I told him, I would either find a conference room from which to make the calls, or use my quiet voice.
To which the very brave woman on the other side of the cube yelled, "You don't have a quiet voice."
Everyone in the vicinity burst out laughing. They had overheard our conversation. Or perhaps they were eavesdropping. Either way, it didn't matter. I smiled, and joined in the laughter.
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