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We finally bought such a house, and I am typing these words from such an office. But I can't say there haven't been problems. Most of them turn on the simple issue of communications. If I am on the third floor, people on the other floors can't hear me unless I walk to the stairwell and scream down it. There was no screaming in the dream.
The issue is complicated by electronics. We have two phone lines, one for the home office, one for the family. The family line has outlets everywhere; my office line has outlets on the third and first floor only. The phone guy who put it in had to run lines from the pole to the basement, then up a chimney pipe to get to the third floor, and he was none too happy about the job, which took two whole days. I was too ashamed to ask for outlets for my office phone on every floor.
Somehow, my contacts must sense when I am in either the basement or the second floor to call my business line. Because not a day goes by that I am not charging up one or more flights of stairs, dodging toys and animal cages, and picking up the receiver just before the third ring, when the answering machine kicks in.
If I'm lucky, I will pick it up in time, and the person will say, "Wow, you sound like you just ran the Boston Marathon." You try not to gasp as you struggle for air, but that only makes it worse: "Hello? [gasp! gasp!] This is Al Gore [gasp! gasp!]."
If I'm less lucky, I pick up the receiver a millisecond after the answering machine takes over, and the caller hears not only my pre-recorded message but me apologizing for the pre-recorded message: "Hello, you have reached Future Shoes. I'm not in right now"/"I'm sorry, I can't turn this damn message off right now, please be patient [gasp! gasp!]"/"Hi, this is Al Gore."
It gets worse. My 7-year old son is a good person, but he can't tell the difference, down in the den, between the office ring and the home ring. Or, he'll pick up the phone when it's set to my line and start dialing one of his friends:
"Hello, Mike? This is Al Gore."
"Yes, Mr. Vice President!"
We hear another click, and the beeps of a number being dialed. A ring, and a pick-up.
"Hello, Alex, you wanna play Micro Machines?"
"Jonathan, get off the phone!"
"Mike, is this a secure channel?"
The worst of all is a physical, material visitor at the door. You would think a doorbell would solve most problems, but it doesn't. First, installing one is murder. I set up the button on the door, a transformer in the hall, and then laid wire along the moulding and through a hole I drilled in the doorframe. Then I used a staple gun to fasten the wire to the moulding. When I pushed the button I realized the staple gun had shorted the wire out in 47 different spots.
I switched to a wireless doorbell. Much better. You're working on the third floor, and the doorbells sounds: bing bong. You run down to the first floor, and you open the door, gasping.
"Wow, you look like you just ran the Boston Marathon!"
Or you're on the phone and the doorbell rings. First you make apologetic amends to the party you're putting on hold; face it, it is rude. Then you dash down the stairs, two at a time, dodging toys and animal cages. You fling open the door, just in time to see the Publishers Clearinghouse van pulling away from the curb, heading off toward the grand prize runner-up's address.
Or you can be in a very important conversation and the doorbell rings. "Mr. Vice President, can I implore you to hold on for one moment? I think the Publishers Sweepstakes guy is at the door downstairs."
You dash down the stairs, spraining ankles right and left, determined to catch the ringer, who turns out to be Alex, wating to know if Jonathan wants to play Micro Machines. You bound back up the stairs, hoping to salvage that very important conversation.
"Yes, sir, sorry for the interruption [gasp! gasp!]."
"Geez, Mike, you sound like you just ran the Boston Marathon!"
Technology could come to my rescue, I suppose. I would install an intercom system, except I have bad memories of poor walky-talky communications as a kid. "Come in, Zebra Base, over ... hello, Zebra Base ... Zebra Base are you there?" Eventually you back right into Zebra Base, but the walky talkies didn't give you away.
A better solution is to crate everything up and trundle it down to the first floor, and set up shop the way it used to be, just a few feet from the front door. Sure, you would lose the crows yakking in the catalpa. And the jet streams at sunset, the flutes of steam escaping from the neighborhood chimneys. And the occasional glimpse of Mr. Karpinski, hanging his socks up to dry.
But you'd see more of your kids, and all that great noise they make, and the interruptions. "Dad, have you seen my Micro Machine Death Bludgeon?"
On second thought, I'll stay right where I am. After all, I need the exercise.
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