Two years. That's how long he's sat at what was originally called a "temporary" desk right next to the printer, placed there in the interim while the seating chart got sorted out properly. It never got sorted out.
He's asked three separate times about it. Each time, the same response: "we're working on it." Nothing has moved since. Not the desk, not the chart, not the temporary label attached to a distinctly permanent situation.
He's made peace with the printer noise by now, mostly. Even developed a small, genuine friendship with the office boy who refills the paper tray, since that's essentially become his closest daily colleague.