The people I work with are your usual lot of bureaucratic government types. Cliques, alliances, just like a reality TV show. I keep my head down and work just hard enough to look like the gullible butt-kissing new guy that I am not.
Where I work is the basement of a building built in 1941. It's an odd mix of style and architecture from seven decades. The predominate colors are 1970's beige and burnt orange. Stenciled on one wall are instructions for an Air Raid siren next to a box painted Battleship Gray. 5 gallon plastic buckets, on the cement floor, catch drips from poorly repaired pipes. Along one shabby wall is the door to "The Head" (aka the restroom).
Outside the head lay a surplus property cage and a non-decrepit 1 x 1 meter metal box. Upon closer examination the box looks like (and is) a pre-historic paper shredder. Thick paint still covers it's dense metal case. A gallon-sized plastic jug of lubricating oil is fed by a copper tube to the cutting blades. It is industrial, and probably the only thing to keep working after a Soviet first strike.
In my two months, I've never seen it used. However, I did note the paper taped to the side of the beast. It read:
"Extracted from The Watergate Towers, Washington, DC. Shreds really well. Just ask Nixon."
The bureaucracy outlasts the bureaucrats. Just ask the shredder.