For a time, not so long ago, I worked as part of an eight-person cleaning crew in a large Portland office building. The nighttime job wasn’t the most glamorous position, but I found the work and the people there interesting.

Crewmembers fell into two categories: College kids paying their way through school and older folks who worked primarily for the second income.

While my good-natured coworkers were a reason to show up night after night to clean the same old office building, what really interested me was the office environment itself, namely the endless rows of cubicles and the distinction many “cube dwellers” tried to achieve through customizing their work spaces.

Cubicles, if you’ve never seen one, have padded walls to dampen noise. These dividers can vary from in height depending on the cube dweller’s desired level of solitude. In addition, a countertop lines the perimeter of the cubicle, on which is placed a networked computer, a telephone and maybe a Rolodex. Overhead are shelving units and a wall calendar. Below are filing cabinets, possibly a footstool, an office chair as well as trash and recycling baskets.

As you can imagine, the rows of beige cubicles made for a dull place, and we cleaning crewmembers would routinely feel pity for the folks who were forced to spend 40 hours a week there. (Ironically, those same cube dwellers often vocalized their pity for us having to clean up after them. It seemed the proverbial grass was not greener.)

But, when faced with dull and soul-eroding confines such as the modern cubicle, almost all of these employees converted their humdrum environments into beautiful places to spend their day. While I don’t work there anymore, I can still remember some of the more memorable sayings and artwork that adorned the walls.

Certificates of achievement were popular decorations, the purpose of which I pondered frequently. Were they there to bolster the employee’s self-image and remind him that he had value? Or were they there to remind fellow employees, and cube visitors, that this cube owner was highly prized by the organization?

There were photos galore. While nature shots brought a bit of the outside world in, pictures of kids and spouses were the norm. Again, I wondered who the photos of family and friends were for. Were the pictures, which almost always included the cube dweller, meant as motivation to remind the employee of why he worked so hard throughout the day? Or were they to show fellow employees that this lowly cube dweller’s life was fuller than what appeared?

Another notable cube featured four identical posters of Marilyn Monroe in a glamorous pose. Whenever I passed by that cube on my vacuuming or dusting rounds, I would wonder if the owner was male or female, doubting a modern man in an office environment would employ pin-ups.

One cubicle had a “Wizard of Oz” movie poster. Another had a picture of a manatee in the form of the infamous Hindenburg zeppelin with the caption, “Oh, the huge manatee,” which I always thought was a little twisted.

The walls of another cube were covered with hundreds of dog pictures, all dachshunds. A poster of the latest trend in coin collecting, state quarters, adorned the wall of another cubicle, while a beautiful poster of apple varieties adorned yet another.

On and on it went. Almost every cubicle in the building exhibited the employee’s personality and outside interests. Walking up and down the rows, it was a sight to behold. Each cubicle had been personalized, beautified, civilized.

How great it was, I thought, that people turned their barren, beige confines into something unique. It’s what makes human beings different. Give a person desolation and he will bring something good from it. Something inside us yearns for beauty and meaning, and converting nihilistic cubicles is just one example of this instinct.

In the future, cubicles will probably cease to exist. Future employers will look back and wonder why creativity-robbing blocks of cubicles were built in the first place. But here’s hoping the amazing way that cube dwellers turned depressing lemons into beautiful lemonade will never be forgotten.

John Balentine, of Windham, once worked in a cubicle, an experience he hopes never to repeat.