Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
The decision to make the Audi dealership my permanent home office happened gradually, then all at once, which is how most bad decisions occur, really. One moment I’m dropping off my car for a routine oil change, the next I’m spread across the conference table in My Office with my laptop, a breakfast burrito, and the unshakeable conviction that I belong here.
The faint industrial symphony of the service area humming through the walls: pneumatic tools and German engineering providing the perfect ambient soundtrack for serious writing.
This is where genius happens. Hemingway had his cafés in Paris; I have My Office at the Audi dealership, where the acoustics of grinding brake rotors somehow sharpen my prose. Working from a car dealership has never felt so right.
Hour One: Establishing My Dealership Office Territory
The key to any successful workspace takeover is confidence. I unpacked my laptop with the deliberate care of someone who’d just signed a lease. Notebook to the left. Coffee (from their complimentary station, naturally) to the right. Phone positioned at a precise angle that suggested both accessibility and importance.
Through the glass walls of My Office, I could observe the service advisors at their desks, the customers milling about the waiting area, the occasional salesperson prowling for prey. None of them realized they were now my colleagues. We were coworkers in this grand automotive service center, united by our shared workspace, even if they didn’t know it yet.
I opened my manuscript. Chapter 12 wasn’t going to write itself, and the ambient sounds of the dealership work area provided unexpected inspiration. The pneumatic hiss of air tools. The metallic clang of socket wrenches. The occasional frustrated muttering of a technician discovering that, yes, it was going to be that kind of job.
This was my car dealership office now. This was where art happened.
Hour Two: The Amenities Question at My Dealership Workspace
By 11:30, having polished off three pages of Chapter 12, I began to wonder about lunch. Surely a facility that provides executive-level office space also provides meal service. I’d seen the coffee station. Industrial, efficient, free. That suggested a certain level of institutional hospitality. Where there’s complementary coffee, there’s usually food, or at least the promise of food.
I emerged from My Office and approached the service desk with the casual confidence of a man who’d decided to make this automotive service center his permanent workspace.
“Excuse me, when does lunch service start?”
The service advisor (Marcus, according to his badge) looked up from his computer screen with the expression of someone who’d just been asked to explain quantum physics to a golden retriever.
“Lunch… service?”
“Yes. For customers working from the offices. The meal schedule. I’m in My Office.” I gestured back toward the conference room. “And I’d like to know the lunch arrangements.”
Marcus blinked. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Vending machines. The man said vending machines like this was a reasonable answer. Like I was supposed to sustain my creative genius on shrink-wrapped sadness and industrial snack foods while working from a facility with glass-walled executive spaces.
Hour Three: Infrastructure Concerns in My Car Dealership Office
The bathroom situation required immediate clarification. I’d been using the public restroom, a phrase that itself suggested the existence of a private alternative. When you provide someone with dedicated office space, certain expectations are established. A man can’t be expected to abandon his dealership work setup and wander the public concourse every time nature calls. That’s not how professional environments work.
I found Marcus again. He was helping another customer, but workplace infrastructure waits for no one.
“The restroom facilities for My Office. Where are they exactly?”
The other customer, an older woman getting her Q7 serviced, turned to stare at me. Marcus’s eye twitched slightly.
“I’m sorry… your office?”
“The conference room. My Office. Where’s the attached restroom?”
“There… isn’t one attached to the conference room, sir. There’s the public restroom by the…”
“Right, but for extended stays. For people working here. There must be executive facilities.”
“Are you… planning an extended stay?”
“Well, I’m writing,” I explained, as if this clarified everything. “Chapter 12. Very productive environment. The service bay acoustics coming through the walls are really quite inspiring. I can hear the torque wrenches from My Office. It’s atmospheric.”
Marcus stared at me like I’d just announced plans to homestead on the moon.
Hour Four: The Intervention on My Service Center Workspace Plans
The service manager appeared. Donna. Forty-something. Sensible shoes. The kind of no-nonsense demeanor that suggested she’d dealt with worse than me, though I couldn’t imagine what.
“Mr. Lewandowski, your car is ready.”
“Already? But I’m only on page eight.”
“Your. Car. Is. Ready.”
“Right, but I was thinking, given the quality of My Office here, I might make this a regular arrangement. Weekly writing sessions. I could coordinate with your service schedule. Oil changes, tire rotations, just general creative maintenance. I’ve already got the space configured perfectly. It’s the ideal dealership office setup.”
Donna’s expression suggested she was calculating how much paperwork would be involved in having me removed versus just letting me finish my paragraph.
“Sir, this is a car dealership, not a coworking space.”
“And yet,” I gestured back toward My Office, “you provide private executive suites with excellent acoustics. I can hear just enough of the service area to stay inspired but remain focused. The sound isolation is actually quite sophisticated. Perfect for working from a car dealership.”
“That room is for selling cars.”
“Perfect! I’ll take one. Free, presumably, for long-term office tenants?”
Epilogue: Exile from the Automotive Service Center
They did not give me a free car.
They did not establish lunch service.
They did not designate executive restroom facilities.
What they did do was very politely but firmly escort me from My Office, hand me my keys, and suggest, with the kind of professional courtesy that barely masked existential exhaustion, that perhaps I might enjoy working from home in the future.
As I drove away, I realized my mistake. I should have negotiated for office supplies first. You can’t just assume desk amenities are available. Always establish the inventory parameters upfront when claiming a car dealership office.
My account now has a note in their system. I know this because I can see it on the service desk computer screen whenever I bring my car in now: “MR. LEWANDOWSKI REFERS TO THE CONFERENCE ROOM AS ‘MY OFFICE.’ DO NOT LEAVE UNATTENDED.”
Worth it. My Office misses me, I’m sure.
Key Takeaways
- The author decides to work from an Audi dealership, finding inspiration in the automotive atmosphere.
- He humorously claims the conference room as ‘My Office’, establishing a quirky workspace.
- Challenges arise, such as the lack of lunch service and proper restroom facilities for his extended stay.
- The dealership staff, including a service manager, politely remind him that it’s not a coworking space.
- Ultimately, he leaves, reflecting on his experience and the need for better office amenities.
Related Links
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His first manuscript was composed entirely of punctuation marks and confused sketches. He's since published "Not Bukowski" (poems that don't rhyme) and "Slop and Swell from a Festering Mind" (essays so concerning that bookstores check on his wellbeing). He once spent three hours photographing a rare bird that turned out to be a plastic bag, and he's the only person banned from church bake sales for "weaponized brownies." Inheriting absurdism from Vonnegut and Adams, sprawling narratives from Irving, and weaponized failure from Moore, he writes about conflicted everymen struggling through supernatural chaos. He remains unconvinced that birds aren't surveillance drones.
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