You're on the right path

Barbara called the school because they marked Rachel absent in first hour.  She is able to see her daughter’s grades in real time.  Isn’t that terrifying?  Barbara said on this end of a phone call, “I don’t think my daughter has a teacher with that name.  Is it a substitute?” It’s not.  Barbara just didn’t know.  Which is strange because she constantly remarks on Rachel’s grades, she just doesn’t know how to do anything about it.  

For instance, she had been assigned a paper several weeks ago.  Because that’s how they prepare kids for college where papers will be due in a few days.  By dragging them out for weeks.  But Rachel hadn’t done any work on it.  Then, as goes the story, the teacher yelled at her.  Even “bugged out his eyes” at her.   But Barbara was trying to get hold of the teacher because her daughter just didn’t understand how to do the paper.  Rachel reportedly tried to stay during the lunch period one day, but the teacher said she had to go to lunch even though she doesn’t eat.  She’s actually been saving her lunch money but still asking her parents for money all the time.  

It’s hard to focus on one thing when I’m overhearing these phone calls. So much gets thrown at me.    

 

Going down?

This morning on the elevator a couple gentlemen were already talking and joking with each other.  The lone woman out of five people (myself included) on the elevator got off on the second floor.  The rest of us, a maintenance man, two suits and myself, rode to our floor. 

One of the suits, the submissive one in the conversation, said something about some professional therapy class he had to take.  The other suit replies with, “Jeeze, what is it?  Shock therapy?”

His counterpart laughed, “Yeah.  What, you haven’t had it?”

“Haha, I’ve been married for twenty years, I think that’s shock therapy enough.”  They chuckled.  I shook my head and walked down the hall as soon as the elevator doors opened.  They followed at a more leisurely pace. 

Adding to what he thought was hilarious, the dominant suit said, “I feel like I’ve been waterboarded already.  Nothing’s torture anymore.”

They guffawed until they were out of earshot. 

Tell me that guy doesn’t vote republican. 

Mmmm, minimalism

Can we not enjoy silence?  Can we not exchange a greeting and have that be the end of it.  Why are you always looking for some sort of conversation starter? 

“How’s that weather treating you?”  When the temperature drops outside, it makes me cold.  When it is higher, I am warmer.  You?

“You ready for the end of the year?”  No, I’m not.  I was thinking of putting it off for a couple weeks. 

I will say hello.   You will say hello.  If there is something about which we should speak, it will be spoken, if not, take your greeting and like it.  We have acknowledged each other.  End communication.  

Willful ignorance

Barbara knows she speaks incorrectly.  In a phone conversation, in response to something on the other end of a telephone, she said, “It don’t matter.” She paused for the other person to speak and then, in a sigh, “Dooooesn’t maaatterrr.” So she knows she is ignorant.  Isn’t that mind blowing? 

I'd like to thank all the little people

John has accepted a new position elsewhere on my floor.  The “I won’t be far” meter has started.  It is at two.  He has said it twice and it’s not even twenty after eight.  I’m going to start hearing him complain and moan and follow it up with, “But I don’t have to worry about it anymore.” Without the least bit of awareness that he is basically saying, “I am better than you now.  I don’t have to deal with these little problems anymore.” 

A woman's work

It worries me that Barbara is the brains of that operation.  Reggie always has her call to take care of his business.  And by business I mean consulting with lawyers and the unemployment office and therapists and doctors.  If it weren’t for her, I don’t know where he’d be.  Probably in the pocket and on the pedestal of some other sucker of a woman. 

Perspective

They were talking about a terrible car wreck that happened this morning.  Noreen said her husband’s boss said it happened behind her.  Noreen said she was lucky she didn’t get stuck behind the wreck.  Yeah, that would have sucked.

Put it in your pocket

So, the other day, the day before Thanksgiving, Margaret came around about 3:00 letting people know they could go home early.  It had turned into a pretty slow day so it was a nice gesture.  Noreen couldn’t leave.  She had to wait for her husband to get off since they ride together.  Then she told us that Sherry was stuck up front covering the phones, so she was going to have the chance to leave early today.  I agree.  Good move.  Very considerate.

John was also given the opportunity to leave early the other day.  But since he and Jackie ride together, he somehow also gets to leave early today.  Sherry’s inability to take advantage of the early release offer warrants her leaving early today.  John, however, wasn’t unable to take advantage of it.  He could have left early.  He chose not to.  So why does he get to reschedule that offer? 

Okay, okay, maybe I’m just bitter because I want to go home early today and still get paid, but I think I have a good point.  And for those who aren’t convinced that I should be remotely upset about this, a few minutes ago, he stood up from his chair and gave a stretch with a long sigh.  He turned to me and said, “Looks like you’re gonna be stuck here ‘til 4:30 today, huh?” Yep, looks that way.  What the fuck kind of comment is that?  Just rubbing in the fact that he took advantage of a nice offer by putting it in his pocket and saving it for another day.  It’s what he is so fond of referring to as, “Rude.” Listen, fucker, I know you get to leave early today.  I tune into every conversation on levels you can’t even imagine.  C’mon, baby tomato, ketchup. 

The Update:

John left at 3:00 on the dot.  En punto.  He told me that if I needed anything up until 4:00 to call him at Jackie’s extension as that would be where he is spending this hour.  The question I have to ask at this point is, “How is spending an hour sitting in Jackie’s cubicle on a Friday any different than it would have been on Wednesday.  Oh well, I’m ducking out at 4:00.  I win.   

Just because you're wrong doesn't mean you're lying

Scale is an interesting concept.  One of my earliest memories is of petting a cow-sized dog that ran its endlessly wide tongue up the left side of my face.  His name was Bosco.  He was a black lab.  I know; Labradors are not cow-sized.  It took me a long time to realize that.  As I got older I retold the story of this animal.  Other kids would be talking about their big dogs or their uncle’s big dog, or a dog they saw on television.  I’d step into the conversation with the assurance of an oil-boom prospector. 

Thinking of it like that makes me laugh.  I picture stepping into the middle of a heated discussion quelling all other conversation.  I picture myself as a four year old in a loose-fitting linen suit.  I stretch out my suspenders with my thumbs and clear my throat as I rock heel-toe gathering the attention of interested parties.  I imagine myself with a drawl, speaking slowly and deliberately.  “Now, we’ve all been hearing talk about gargantuan canines.  Many of you claim to have seen – or even touched – some monstrous animal calling itself a dog.  The tale I have to share, pardon the pun of course, will cast its shadow over all other accounts. 

“I was at eye level with the chest of the magnificent beast.  Its teeth as long as my fingers and its tail longer than I am tall.  I approached the creature cautiously, as any man would do, and was astounded when he seemed as docile as a lone cow in a verdant pasture.  His gaze caught mine and for an instant I was terrified.  He turned his massive head toward me and parted his lips.  I started to sweat.  Images of my long, fruitful life passed before my eyes.  Just as I prepared myself to feel his teeth pulling my flesh from the bone (this is the part when all the townsfolk, hanging on my every word, lean closer and stop breathing for as long as it takes this next detail to emerge), I felt the warm, wet roughness of his tongue coating me from chin to cowlick.”

“How did you ever get over that?  I reckon I’d’a just fainted!” one woman would say.

“Based on the detail, there is no way that account is skewed,” the town doctor would agree.

Everybody would applaud my story and use it to trump others should the topic ever reemerge.  I’d be the talk of the town.  But in reality, I was just an ignorant little kid that had no concept of how big things actually are.  It turns out, as you get older, things that used to look huge turn into manageable sights.  Dogs are dog-sized.  Cows are cow-sized.  But those memories still feel just as big. 

Stolen Conversations II

 Reggieeeeee.  No you don’t put bleach on colored clothes. 

[pause as he explains something] 

Well maybe it just depends on the material; I bet that’s what it is. 

[pause] 

Well yeah, with lighter colored stuff. 

[pause] 

Well, as long as it wasn’t none of my work clothes. 

One Sided Phone Conversation II

I know it is.

He don’t get two years backpay.

What?  Why?  Uh huh.

Well, she can’t go on Thursday- miss three days of school that’s all there is to it.

See, it’s hard for her.  It’s hard for her to get caught up when she’s been gone.  It’s hard to get caught up in high school.

Mmhmm.  Yeah. It’d been better if it coulda been in the summertime.

Yeah.  Yeah.  Yup.  Yeeuup.  What’s the sleeping arrangements?  Where’s she gonna stay?

Is that where your daughters are stayin?

Mmhmm. I thought Marsha wanted to stay with Natalie.

Uhhuh.

Where they catch the airplane at?

I just hate her missin’ school.  She’s having a hard…

You don’t understand how much homework she has that she gets. Even when she’s not doin’ anything she still don’t wanna do her work. Mmhmm.   

Okay, I’ll call, let’s see here, I think I got your mom’s number.  I’ll call you Monday.  Mmkay.  Mmkay.  So who’s gonna bring her back once it’s Monday?  Mmhmm.  Mmhmm. 

Where d’they live? In Omaha?  Oh, okay.

Okay, well I’ll talk to Marsha and call you on Monday.  Mmhmm.  Yeah. 

[Chuckles].  Mhmm.  [Chuckles]. 

So where’s the wedding gonna be?  That where the party’s gonna be too?  Mhmm.

I just don’t want her to feel left out.  There’s all you guys drinkin’ and then there’s Marsha. 

Yeah.  Uhhuh.  Yeah.

Well that’s good. 

They said he prolly won’t find out for 90 days.  Or less.  They wanted to make me the payee over him.  Because they don’t like to give social security to people who drink. 

Naw naw, his truck’s broke down.  So his mom and step-dad will be pickin’ him up to come get Marsha. 

And another thing, I go, I go, umm, I go you guys are drinkers too and she’s gonna be around that.  He just said she’ll be with Natalie cuz she don’t drink.  She might be able to come back on Saturday with Melissa.  Then if not Saturday it’ll be Sunday and if not Sunday, Monday. 

Stolen Conversations

Sometimes I get snippets of conversations.  Out of context they are even more ridiculous than they were when I documented them.

Barbara: I called your counselor about that one class you didn’t know if you wanted to take.  What was it? – Language arts?

Pause while her youngest daughter talks on the other end.

Barbara: Don’t worry, you’ll do good.

[with reassurance like that, how could she not be?]

Barbara about her youngest daughter: Everyday she gives me a headache.  She’s such a brat.  I just hope I live long enough to see her have a family and kids and no money.  That’s all I ask.

[nothing could make a mother happier]

Margaret leaving early:  I’m out for the day, I have a visitation to go to.

Peon: Whose?

Margaret: Janet Doersky.  It starts at 6:00 but I want to get there before they start the rosary because I’m not a good catholic.

[I'd say she's got the hang of it]

John: “Our dog fell off the bed last night.”

Noreen: “Is that the end of the story or is there more to it?”

John: “No, that’s about it.  It was just funny.”

Noreen: “My son’s cat got run over this weekend.”

Matt: “Jesus Christ.”

 
 
 

 

It's mostly in my head

Sometimes I picture exploding.  Literally and figuratively.  Hearing John say something on the phone to his sister / wife / mother, I just want to throw things at him.  I never would because I know I’m just neurotic and can’t stand minor imperfections in other people.  It’s not always their fault.  But I’ll picture it.  The first thing within reach and usually already in my hand is my mouse.  I feel better when I fantasize about chucking it at him because I know its cord won’t reach that far.  I’d let go and it would fly toward him.  It’s close enough where it would definitely scare him.  But then the cord would pull taught and the mouse would fall, swinging under his desk and coming to a stop before he picked it up and handed it back to me after hanging up the phone.  

I think it’s my turn for a vacation. 

Does 5:00 still count if it's A.M.?

Sometimes these people seem so oblivious or carefree that I think they’ve been drinking.  How else can you explain the loose tongues and blathering?

The Return

John’s back.  The first thing he said was Hola.  He gets back from nearly two weeks of vacation for his wedding and honeymoon and the first thing he does is unintentionally brag about being in Mexico.  I haven’t looked at him yet because I don’t want to be jealous of his early winter tan.  After he said that, I chuckled.  Not exactly with him either.  More at him.  I also did it without looking at him.  This is going to be a long day.  I wasn’t looking forward to it in the first place. 

Rats.  Turns out everything went perfectly. 

Lowest common denominator

 We just had a meeting about teamwork.  Margaret asked if anyone had a word or a short phrase that illustrates an important aspect of teamwork.  I offered empathy and reciprocation.  After the meeting, Barbara told me I should use smaller words that she can understand. 

By any other name

Keep in mind this was relayed as a funny story.  

One night when Barbara was pregnant with her youngest daughter, her husband-at-the-tme was yelling at her loudly enough to draw the police.  They came and arrested him.  Later, Barbara went into labor. 

The next morning, he showed up at the hospital mad about having to spend the night on the floor of a jail cell.  “You had a rough night?” she asked.  “I had a baby!”  Then he got madder because, for some reason (which really illustrates the level of intelligence I’m dealing with here), she named her daughter Rachel West-Trumbo.  Her husband’s name was Trumbo.  Her EX-HUSBAND’s name was West.  Since Barbara wanted all her daughters to share a name, she extended the name of her ex-husband to her current husband’s daughter.  Since he was in jail at the time and not around to sign the birth certificate, he had no say.

And to this day, he still can’t remember her birthday.  Why do I know these things?

There's someone out there for everyone

Barbara just said, “I just thought I lost my bus pass.  Boy would Reggie have been mad.”  For those following along at home, Reggie is illiterate, alcoholic, unemployed, lazy, verbally abusive, and a terrible step-father.  He gets by on Barbara’s salary which can’t be that much. 

Then somebody said, “Yeah, then you’d have to pay for the bus every day.”

“Never mind that,” Barbara added, “he’d have to take me and pick me up every day.”

That’s right, the person who owes her for food, shelter, affection (ick), and god knows what else for the last several years, would be upset if he had to drive her to work for a couple weeks.  Jesus.  How do these people find mates?

The land of the litigious

Barbara got some medication for a sore under her nose.  She also had a sore in her mouth, so she put some of the medication in her mouth.  Now her face is numb.  Where did thought go?  And she called her illiterate, unemployed, sleep-til-noon husband to make sure they had enough information in case there ended up being a lawsuit.  Thisfuckingsociety.

Reprieve #1

He’s gone.  John’s gone for two weeks while his clusterfuck of a wedding plays out.  He’s gone and his cubicle is vacant and dead like a powerless robot.  A sign is draped over his monitor like a toe tag or a hood on an execution victim.  His “wedding countdown” on his whiteboard, the countdown inspired by my daily baseball stat tracking, is gone.  Counted down.  Dwindled to marriage.  Now, the only thing on the board is a picture of his house that he drew.  Were it not for me, the thing would look wonkier than you can imagine.  Somehow, he got through primary and secondary schools and college without any concept of perspective.  Something tells me he’s not the most artistically inclined individual.  Or perceptive.  He seems to be just a ball of clay waiting to be slammed into somebody else’s Play-Doh press.  Jackie will make him a multicolored pile of spaghetti with no hope of regaining his original shape and consistency.  If he ever had one.  I think he likes the way he thinks it makes him look.  That can be the only explanation.  

 Anyway, he’s gone.  How does someone step into his empty cube and start a conversation with me about him.  These people must think we’re friends.  Honestly, he talks about himself so much, I would rather not add any of my words to the fray.  I don’t know how I could compliment him any more than he already does.  So how the hell did I have an entire conversation based on his dogs and his upcoming wedding and that fucking drawing of his house?  And what kind of question is, “You going to the wedding?”  A simple one, I guess.  But doesn’t it imply that I am an important enough person in his life to be invited to his wedding?  The question hinges on this assumption.  The truth is, I thanked Whomever when I found out they were at capacity and I had not received an invite.  No chance of having to say no, I thought.  But it’s still an entirely too presumptuous question. 

            And even if I had been invited and was excited to go, I’m not sure a conversation about him would be what I was looking for late on a Friday afternoon.  Yes, his absence makes my job busier.  It gives me a bit more accountability.  But I would be better off without him here.  I would have to know the answers instead of asking the questions.  Instead, I let him have his dominant role.  I don’t want his responsibility.  What I do want is my own personality.  People who see me here see me with John.  They assume we spend time together outside of work.  They assume we know everything about each other and are interchangeable.  Well, they assume I am interchangeable.  “Well,” they seem to say, “John’s not here, but I can have this same shared interest conversation with Matt.  He’ll know the ins and outs of John’s dogs’ lives.”

The saddest part is that I did.  I knew the answers she was looking for.  I fulfilled her conversational needs just enough to keep her from realizing that John was gone this week.  I don’t know that people ever really see me here.  They see That-Guy-That-Sits-With-John.  They see my long hair and my green hoodie.  If they look closely, they could see that my pants go unchanged to ease my morning routine.  Or that I shave about once a week.  They could see that, while I do exemplary work and nobody complains about me, I don’t have a particular gusto for my job.  They can see that I avoid work friendships that transcend nine-to-five confines so I can forget about this place every night until the next morning.  But, instead, they see someone else who hasn’t heard the story of their “crazy” weekend.

Ruin life, get paid

John and Jackie had their “work” wedding shower today around lunchtime.  I didn’t give them any money and I don’t feel bad about it.  When he got back to his cubicle, I asked him how it was as I left before it ended.  He said it was good.  Then he removed a wad of cash from his pocket, held it up and said, “Yes, it was very good,” as he flipped through the bills.  Fuck that.  I know you just got a bunch of money.  You don’t have to brag about it.  I’d rather not have that money and not have to spend the rest of my life with Jackie. 

Manufactured emotions

 John’s talking about some card that he found at target for Jackie, and he said it almost made him cry.  Seriously?  There’s something mass-produced on a greeting card at target that can affect him to the point of tears?  What the fuck?  Those are manufactured emotions.  I guess it’s not like he can really put his own thoughts into words.  Honestly, I would be surprised if he can read good. 

He’s constantly on the phone with some member of his family.  Talking about the wedding and the guest list and the food and his plans for what he’s going to do to make himself feel like a fucking Don Juan.  He will stay on the phone for tens of minutes.  Usually, the only thing that will get him off the phone is if somebody comes up to his cubicle.  Even then he’ll make them wait.

He just said he doesn’t have time to sit here and talk to a co-worker for fifteen minutes about something small but he can be on the phone for ten or twenty or forty minutes at a time with family members or future wives about a wedding.  Pick your battles and remember why you’re fighting. 

There's a time and a place

Somebody came over to hand John some paperwork and asked how he was doing.  He sighed and said fine obviously hoping for more questions.  He got one about Halloween and skirted it and started talking about his wedding.  I’m sure he's frustrated with the planning, but just say fine and get on with it.  Nobody cares about your drama. 

Sadly, I’m wrong.  People want to hear it.  They want to be involved.  Everybody wants to be a part of something.  Even if it is someone else’s misery.  I just overhear / eavesdrop, whatever you want to call it.  I try not to involve myself too much.  

Later I heard him talking to his sister through a clenched jaw.  I don’t get why his she has to be so involved in the whole thing.  Probably for the same reason that people want to hear about all his problems.  THE WORKPLACE IS NOT THE ARENA FOR THESE CONVERSATIONS. 

“We’re gonna get gifts from these people and then Jackie is going to get mad when we open them and she’ll ask who all these people are and why they were there.”  Jesus.  Gift horse lookers. 

“Do you know why I don’t think I could tell Jackie about all this?  Because it seems like, to us, that this wedding is not about us at all, it’s about everybody else.”   

Nope, you’re wrong, it’s about Jackie, and you fucking know it. 

If you don't know, now you know

I don’t get how people can be okay with making public their private matters.  I would never have a conversation on the phone AT WORK about my fucking wedding program and whether or not I’ve mentioned my sister.  Granted, I don’t know the whole story, even though I’m sure I’ll hear it later. 

Seriously, he is everybody’s bitch.  Jackie, his mom, his sisters. 

The issue with the programs (I knew I’d find out) was that John wanted to thank his parents, and both of their families and friends.  Jackie said no.  She doesn’t understand why he wants to do that.  Her parents are mentioned because they’re dead.  But his haven’t earned that right since they are still living.  He said he is going to ask her again tomorrow.  Then, if she says no, he is going to ask why.  I told him to stand up for himself and tell her what he wants to do and work to an understanding.  That way, the ball is in both courts, instead of him trying to gain control once she already has it.  But I guess it’s always been too late for that.

Coffee politics

On days where tempers run hot, I secretly hope somebody will snap.  Instead of talking to everybody else about what he hates about a person, maybe he will talk to that person.  “Stop stealing food from the refrigerator!” he’ll yell.  Or “Who took the last of the fucking coffee and didn't make more?”  Or “Clear the copier after you make ten copies!  You made me wast paper!”  Instead of bottling it up it’ll come out for all to see.  People will peek their heads out of their cubicles to see if they can get a good look at the scene.  Then they’ll probably update their Facebook or their classmates.com page.  Whatever.  “Look, I was a part of something!” they’ll exclaim.  “I was there and I saw it first hand!  Now you get to see it secondhand!  Awesome!  Aren’t you lucky you know me?”

Oh, you were finished?

John went to a visitation last night.  I only know that because it was the background for his story about a bunch of people who reminded him that his wedding is six weeks away.  I was waiting for more to the story.  You know, something about a dead person.  I didn’t get more to the story. 

Time and time again

I understand being pleased with yourself after something you did in a rec-league softball game.  But when it comes out unprovoked and meaningless, why did you tell me?  Sure, you may be good, but tooting your own horn crushes the reliability of your information. 

And why is it that I can sit here and listen to your utterly pointless story for minutes on end while typing important emails or unimportant ramblings and respond like a normal human being.  And then, when I start to talk about something work related, your eyes lock on your computer allowing your ears to pick up every third word.  I have to say almost everything twice.  Once to the side of your head, and then once to your face several seconds later after you turn to me and say, “What?”  We work in close quarters.  Please allow for more conversational plasticity. 

Yes, ma'am

I will never get to the point where I am counting the weeks until my significant other is done being upset with me.  Especially when it is over something as trivial as a couple of extra wedding guests.  Well, fuck weddings in the first place.  I don’t want to be the official center of attention. 

John just told me that last night he was planning to get his tux.  He got in the car with Jackie after work and “asked if [he] could still get [his] tux.”  She debated silently for a moment and then allowed it.  Five minutes later, she said, “Just take me home.” 

He actually asked if he was allowed to get his tux.  I will never again be with a person who feels the need to control me like that.  I don’t know, maybe I just lucked out. 

He said Jackie just called him and told him that the more she thinks about it, the more upset she gets.  I was tongue-to-the-teeth ready to make fun of what she said when he added, “Which is cool, I just need to be very—attentive.”  That’s a good way to go through life.  Whenever you and your wife disagree, just give her space until she is ready to accept you again. 

People will tell you that all women are like that.  If they get upset they just need time (and control).  But it’s not true.  There is somebody out there that will let you have a little power. 

He just said, “Jackie is going to let me get my tux tonight.”  Jesus Christ.  She doesn’t own you. 

GIGO

Barbara, the one who has been on medication for her cholesterol, she eats the greasy foods they make here in the lunch room at work.  She eats them in the morning.  She came back today with hash browns and gravy and the excuse that she has lost some weight because she didn’t eat breakfast last week when she was at home.  Probably because she was sleeping.  Though it wouldn’t surprise me if she still ate while asleep. 

All in a day's work

The following is one day of complaints about John:

I keep getting updates on what the weather will be in Wisconsin where John will be taking his vacation.  Usually, I wouldn’t mind, but it’s getting aggravating.  I know the weather is nice in the north during the summer.  But seriously, stop telling me.  I don’t care. 

Stop talking about your vacation.  I have to stay here while you’re gone.   

He has a bit of an issue with bragging, I’ve noticed.  He has a trophy on his desk from years before he started working here.  Meaning that he was sitting at home one day and thought, "I want people to know I played baseball.  I know!  I'll take that trophy in so people will know I was good."

About the things people are buying you for your wedding, I care even less than I do about your vacation.  I think it’s selfish to want people to buy you new flatware.  Especially two sets of it because you want more spoons.  I understand that spoons get used more than other utensils, but buy them yourself.  “Hey, I’m already asking you to come to my wedding, you better bring a present, too!”  He checks his, I mean, her registry information on a regular basis. 

He drew a picture of his new house and yard on his dry erase board.  If I would have let him keep it the way it was, it wouldn’t have been recognizable as a building.  Yes, he was the only one who put marker to white board, but I told him about perspective and realism and scale.  Otherwise, it would have looked like a kid drew it.  And not one of those super smart Doogie Howser kids.  A regular, run of the mill, oblivious child.  Somebody the other day asked him if he did it.  He said yes.  She said it’s great! All I wanted was, he helped me a bit.  Well, all I want is to be listed as the art director, but I’ll settle for a little credit. 

He keeps counting down the hours to his vacation.  I hope he realizes, even though I know he doesn’t, that it just makes my day last longer.  If I could, I would cover up all the clocks in my cubicle in hopes that time would pass more quickly. 

Now he’s telling me about who he thinks bought what on his list.  Like I’m keeping tabs.  I understand sharing, but this is obviously oversharing. 

He just got off the phone with his fiancée because a coworker was waiting to talk to him.  The way he ended the conversation, in that lovey, crazy-girl-gloves tone of voice, made me start shaking in disgust.  Gross. 

Everything's a dollar

 There’s an account where the deceased left $1 to her daughter.  If the daughter disputes the dollar, she doesn’t even get that.  All the woman’s money was left to an insurance agent.  Weird, right?  When the trust was first created, she had her daughter listed as a beneficiary with access to the income from the account and the principal balance.  Then she took away the principal access in the first amendment.  Then she didn’t mention her in the second.  Then in the third, she gave her a stipulated dollar.  Rocky. 

Youth is wasted

I’ve never really spent a lot of time around small children.  Until I was seventeen, I was the youngest member of my family that I saw on even a remotely frequent basis.  I don’t know how to talk to them.  I spent my entire life trying to be more grown up so I could be around the rest of the family.  Yeah, I have a brother who’s a couple years older than me, but that only served to further facilitate my maturation.  I would do anything I could not to seem young.  I’d steer clear of toys and clothing styles that would label me an obvious child.  Though, if you look at pictures of me growing up, it didn't always work.  

 I always tried to appear older than I was.  In grocery stores, if, for some reason, I had one of my parent’s car keys, I wouldn’t pocket them.  I would spin them around my finger hoping some cute girl would see me and think I could drive.  I could have been as young as twelve but I thought I might be able to pull it off.  I couldn’t have.  It never worked.  Even if it would have, we would have gotten to the parking lot and I would have had to explain to her why I led her to believe I could drive just so she could laugh at my age and my dad’s Chevy Tracker. 

Take off your gloves

I hear John on the phone and it makes me wretch.  The same voice I used to use in nowhere relationships.  "Oh, sweetie, oh, I’m so sensitive.  I'll do whatever you want.  I sound like a pussy?  No I don’t.  I sound like a boy who loves his girl."   

No you sound like you have lost any power you might have had.  I’m not saying be gruff and burly, but if you have to baby her, she’s not worth it.  On the other end, a woman afraid to upset her man is just as bad of a situation.  Treading lightly will get you nowhere.  And if it does, you should consider heading the other way.

Double beetloaf

John just said, Jackie’s making her meatloaf tonight and made the kiss-your-fingers Italian oh-it’sa-gonna-be-a-so-gooda motion.  He did it three times.  I didn’t know people like this existed.  I thought they were all just bad caricatures in movies.  You know, the ones you’re supposed to be repelled by.

Inattention to detail

John had someone RSVP for four when they only meant to invite two.  So naturally, Jackie completely freaked out about it to the point that it was the first thing he said when he came in this morning.  I love how he expresses these situations.  It’s so bizarre how powerless he makes himself seem.  He’s terrified of her.  It’s hilarious and depressing at the same time.  He also made sure to call his mom so quickly after he got here that he had to ask her, “ Am I calling too early?”  Apparently he had to ask mommy to call the RSVPers for him to straighten things out.  There are some weird familial complexes going on over there.  Too close.  It’s creepy. 

It's too early

In this office you have to be a rapid-fire salutation machine in the mornings.  People stream down both sides of our cubicles lobbing grenade greetings.  By the time we can return fire they are already pulling the pin on their next hello.

Bass ≠ Race

The streets outside the office are busy.  Not New York busy, but not deserted either.  From time to time, we get our windows rumbled by passing car audio systems.  I don’t really think too much about it other than asking myself what kind of hearing damage it’s doing on the inside.  

I love bass.  I love how it sounds and what it adds to music.  I love how it feels in my chest and how, after long enough exposure, I can feel its absence.  I love having everything blocked out by all-encompassing 808.  I know it’s all ridiculous and usually a waste of money and a big middle finger to good taste.  But I still love it.  I know it brands me as being from my particular suburb.  That’s my excuse.  “Oh, you have a super-loud system in your car?”  “Yeah, man.  But don’t worry.  I’m from [my suburb].”  “Oh.”

So when one drove down the street today, before I could think, “I bet those are 15s,” John leaned over the half-wall between our cubicles and asked, “Can I make a racist comment?”

I knew where it was going.  Obviously.  It doesn’t take fucking Kreskin to see that one coming.  I chuckle and tell him I suppose so.  “I bet it’s a black guy,” he said. 

I said, “That may very well be the case.  Or he’s white trash.” 

“Yeah, a whigger,” he added.  “You wouldn’t find guys like us playing music that loud.” 

I raised my hand.  “Actually, I had a very loud system in my car before I got a new one.  I still have it I just don’t have it hooked up.”  He couldn’t backpedal fast enough.  I agreed that it is ridiculous and cannot defend something as earth-rattlingly loud as what we had just heard, but I think I got my point across.  You cannot pin me down so stop trying.  I don’t fit your molds so stop shoe-horning me.  I’m not a snob, I’m not trash, I’m not white bread and I’m not cutting edge.  I hate “men” and I’m embarrassed of my whiteness.  So only judge my book by what I put on the cover, not what color the leather is. 

Dew support

I bought a Mountain Dew last week when I was about to pass out after lunch.  I don’t really drink pop anymore.  Not as a crutch anyway.  In high school I would have two a day.  Always Mountain Dew.  I even saved the cans in my locker.  Empty and leaking their last drops they filled it up.  I should have earned an engineering degree the way I got them all to stay.  I didn’t count them when I emptied it out.  Maybe I should have.  But since my principal was watching me, I think I was just trying to get it done.  Apparently bugs had begun to gather.  Gross.  I know. 

So even after a pretty healthy addiction like that I was still able to cut it loose.  I drank pop religiously into college.  My sophomore year I stopped.  Not consciously or even purposely.  I just realized one day that I hadn’t had it in a month or two.  I didn’t need it anymore.  And I still don’t.  Normally. 

But I did last week.  I had been up late a couple nights prior and it was finally catching up to me.  I made it through the morning, but after a meager lunch I was drained.  Lunch is usually a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of chips.  I drink water.  We are supposed to get 30 minutes for lunch.  Ever since I started, my counterpart takes a full hour.  So I take a full hour.  Usually.  After I eat, I read.  It’s a nice little escape in the middle of the day. 

As my eyes scan the page they start to close.  Every millimeter feels amazing.  The closer my eyelids get together the more my chair starts to feel like a featherbed.  I am relaxed.  It’s like the words on the page hypnotize me.  My eyes close.  The voice in my head, delirious with exhaustion, tells me it’s okay.  It makes sense at the time.  I don’t question it because it feels so good.  The line between asleep and awake, I’m walking it.  My arms start to sag and the spine of my book rests on my desk.  When my hands go limp the cover of the book snaps shut on my fingers.  “That’s not right,” some rational voice yells out.  Why not, I wonder.  In the bed in my mind I have pulled the covers up around me.  I find that position of ultimate comfort.  No stress.  No alarm clock.  Just the seemingly divine mattress and thick heavy blankets.  The pillows are perfect.  Supportive, but not hard.  My body is cradled.  I bet this is what the womb feels like. 

The book hits the floor and that rational voice chimes in again.  I can’t make out what he’s saying, so I focus harder.  It’s still muffled but getting clearer.  The blankets disappear and the bed is ripped from beneath me.  My eyes shoot open and try to make sense of the thick plank of wood under my head.  My book is on the floor and I’ve lost my page.  The right corner of my mouth is cold from the beginnings of an embarrassing drool puddle.  I snap upright in my chair and try to shake the tired out of my eyes.  I consider slapping myself but the office is quiet.  I don’t want to raise suspicion.  “Fine,” I tell myself.  “I’ll resort to caffeine.” 

The good thing about cutting something like that out of your life is that when you need it, it will work hundreds of times better than it ever did.  I make sure I’m actually awake before I try to stand up.  It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll fall over and hurt or embarrass myself.  I just know that if I hit the floor, I might fall asleep.  I’m that kind of tired. 

I stand and get caught in an unavoidable stretch.  I give every muscle in my body a flex.  It starts with my quads.  My legs lock straight and my hips push forward to arch my back.  It forces me to stand up straight.  My arms in the muscleman pose, my elbows move toward each other at the back to stretch my chest.  This is when I lose control of the stretch.  It happens to all of us.  My body takes over.  It tells me what I need to stretch.  My elbows swing around in front of my chest making my back round and tight.  It arches the other way like I’m trying to touch my toes.  My brain kicks back in and notifies my body that if I lean over too far, I’ll get a headrush and pass out.  I breathe and see stars and relax my body and the exhaustion comes back.  On my feet, I take a step toward the door. 

The cheap pop machine is on the first floor by the loading dock.  This is where the smokers take breaks.  When you enter the dock area, non-smokers judge you by your supposed addiction.  It’s a strange feeling. 

I’m still on the third floor waiting for the elevator.  I stare at the illuminated orange button pointing down.  I picture it as a sun; promising and warm.  It reminds me of the bed I wasn’t just in.  The bell dings and the sun burns out.  It’s cold again and I remember that I’m tired.  I step in the carpet and stainless steel elevator and light another sun.  The doors slide shut and it begins its short descent.  It’s slow and labored but it rocks like a bassinet.  My weight is diminished by the change in gravity and I’m back in bed, back in the womb.  The elevator car vibrates and hums and I could live there.  I hear a distant bell but know, even in this state, to wait for the second one before I open my eyes.  The doors open again and the covers are ripped off me again and my eyes spring open again and I take a step forward onto the cold granite floor of the main lobby.  My shoes squeak unavoidably as I zombie my way to the dock.  I don’t notice much of anything except for John eating lunch with his fiancé.  I don’t know if they see me, but I can feel their judgment as I pass through the dock doors.  Even if I did on a regular basis, he wouldn’t know whether I smoke.  I don’t reveal much of myself at work.  I don’t think it’s the place for that kind of disclosure. 

The machine is in my sight.  I’m going to make it.  One sip of that highly-caffeinated beverage and I will be ready to sprint toward the finish line.  I know what you’re expecting.  All this build-up, there has to be a disappointment somewhere.  “I bet the machine was out of order,” you might guess.  “Exact change only?”  Not an issue.  “Out of Mountain Dew?”  Nope.  Everything went fine.  I plugged a few coins into the slot and waited for the thud of a full can slamming down the chute into the little opening.  Just for me.  That drink was that afternoon’s salvation.  It would rid me of the sin of sloth and keep me from getting fired.  I picked it up and it felt like I knew it would.  Vacuum sealed and frigid; a solid cylinder of liquid.  Just holding it I felt revived and confident and ready to attack the rest of the day.  I turn around and begin the trek back to my desk. 

I clutch the can with my thumb on the top and my pinky on the bottom.  It’s too cold for me to hold in my palm.  That and I want to make sure my coworker sees it so he knows I wasn’t smoking.  I’m just not fond of revealing things about myself.  Especially when it would be fuel for judgment.  Yeah, I’m weird, but I think the word manipulative or controlling works better.  After all, who else would I trust with my image?

I walk by them again but I don’t say anything.  I never do when I see them at lunch.  It’s not me being a dick or anything.  I just hold the lunch hour holy.  I see him at his desk all day.  I don’t need to be involved in his lunch too.  This is a mistake that too many people make.  Just because I know you doesn’t mean I need to say hi every time I see you.  I saw you.  You saw me.  We can discuss it later if you really want to. 

This time the floor doesn’t feel as cold and my squeaking shoes do so quietly.  The rhythm is soothing.  I push the up arrow at the elevator and wait for the doors to open.  I don’t know what it is about this building, but wherever I get on the elevator, it seems to be somewhere else.  I’m always waiting.  This time, my fingers are getting cold so I switch hands.  Ding.  The ride up seems quick. 

Out of the elevator and down the hall and I’m feeling better.  I’m not fighting my eyelids anymore.  My body feels revived and I haven’t even opened the can.  I want to see how long I can go without drinking it.  I put it in the fridge and return to my desk.  Knowing it’s there is enough for me.  A security blanket.  I stay awake the rest of the day and the rest of the week and the can remains in the fridge.  I check it every morning when I retrieve my water bottle.  Every morning I give thanks to all the people who didn’t take it.  My confidence in them grows.  Why would any of these people need to take my pop?  There are other machines and cafeterias where they can get what they need, my drink is safe.  Yeah effing right. 

This morning I pulled my water bottle out of the refrigerator in the break room and noticed the bright green can missing.  I check the other shelves and behind and under things and it’s not there.  It was right in front, so obviously not belonging to anybody else.  Who would take it?  Who, in this setting, would take a lone can of Mountain Dew out of the fridge, knowing damn well it wasn’t theirs?  I would understand more if it was an open twelve pack or something.  That’s a little easier to hide.  Its owner might say, “I don’t remember drinking three of these already.  But I bet I did and just don’t remember.”  But a single can?  One can?  That is obviously there for a fucking reason.  Somebody bought it, decided they didn’t want it right away, and kept it in the fridge for an emergency situation.  Since when is there a statute of fucking limitations on a can of pop in the fridge?  Did I miss the sign?  The sign that says, “He who leaves unattended soda in the fridge for more than a day doth hereby surrender all rights to said soda.  This soda shall become public domain and shall be consumed by the first one who finds it unattended.”  Yeah, I must have missed that sign. 

My next step is to get another can.  Write on it, “This soda is and will remain property of the purchaser in perpetuity.  No length of time or lack of attention shall result in transfer of said ownership.  Anyone other than the purchaser who consumes this beverage will do so unjustly.”  Maybe I’ll get it notarized or something.