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.

One for the price of none

John went to the store last night because he and Jackie wanted some ice cream.  It’s a trip I’ve made dozens of times before with different girls.  That’s not what I want to address.  He was looking forward to cookies and cream.  Again, I don’t blame him, I love cookies and cream.  He said she was going to get something for herself and he was going to get “ice cream ice cream.”  Turns out, one of the local brands was on sale for a dollar forty-nine for the brick.  Surely they got excited.  Every time they get a remotely good deal on something, I get to hear about it.  Kind of like this time.  It’s like he was so proud of the deal he got that he was entirely willing if not eager to emasculate himself.  Anyway, once she saw how cheap the ice cream ice cream was she decided she wanted ice cream.  The way he told me the story, it’s like he sets up what I’m least hoping to hear.  This is how he did it.

“I mean, a dollar forty-nine?  You could get two for less than the usual cost of one!”

I wanted to ask him which two he got knowing my girlfriend and I would have opted for a variety, especially for that price.  I wanted to ask him but I knew he would tell me anyway.

“That is a good deal,” I reassured him.  “I might have to stop by there on the way home,” knowing I would be taking the bus home and wouldn’t stop.  I did consider it though, if it makes it any better. 

“Then she saw how cheap it was and was like, ‘Mint chocolate chip!’ and I was just like (to himself is how this was implied) but can’t we get both? (here we are, five minutes from when he told me and already I am viewing it through several days of exaggeration.  I picture him with the aw-shux, pebble-kicking, didn’t-get-picked-at-recess dejection. 

“I do love cookies and cream,” I said, waiting for the kicker to the story.  I was hoping – if I were a praying man, I would have been praying – he would zing me with, “So I ate a whole thing of cookies and cream last night!” or, “So I put my foot down and we came home with a super cheap brick of mashed up cookies and vanilla ice cream,” or at least, “We got both and we were both happy!”

“Me too, I could have eaten the whole thing of it.” 

But.

“Buuut I guess the mint was a little healthier.  Oh well, I’m better off without it.”

Sadly I knew the story before he told me.  He’s told me many times.  What it boils down to, the essence of every him/her story is, “She got her way because her happiness is more important to both of us than my happiness.”  

Now that's a healthy relationship.

Woe is you

If I hear Margaret complain one more time about how much time she has to spend taking her incredibly talented daughters to soccer games or practices or student council stuff or whatever I’m going to freak out.  She’s mad because she can’t get to the lake this weekend because she has too much other stuff going on.  It should be illegal for people above you at work to complain to you about their personal lives.  I just want to grab her and shake her and scream, “You make so much more money than I do that I don't care one bit about your problems!  You have brought them on.  You over-committed yourself!  Stop trying to bask in the glow of your daughters.  I am tired of hearing the same story four times as you travel to each of my surrounding cubicles and relay the same information.  Sometimes you even sit on my desk and talk to the guy next to me.  I’m trying to work (most of the time).  Your behavior is inappropriate.” 

I don't regret to inform you...

 Nobody wants to be the bearer of bad news, but people love it anyway.  Especially Barbara.  “Did you hear about Jane Johnson? – she died.”  Why else would she say it like this?  The only reason is for shock value.  The person on the other end of the conversation has time to think, “You know, I haven’t heard anything about her in a long time.  I wonder how she is doing nowadays.”

Then they are crushed with the news that the person is dead.  A better way to go about it would be to ask, “Did you hear that Jane Johnson died?”  Of course, died isn’t always the best word either.

One Sided Phone Conversation: John with his Sister

I started writing down everything my coworkers say during personal phone calls.  I figured if they were careless enough to chat away with me in earshot, they had forgone their right to privacy.  I present the first installment of One Sided Phone Conversations.

Today: John's side of a conversation with his sister about friction in planning his wedding.

It looks like I need to stick up for myself.

Afraid of her?

She just thinks I don’t care. 

That’s just how I express myself.

[Lots of yeahs and okays]

No I haven’t involved you in any of this.

Yeah.  

 Okay.

I’m glad I called you first. 

Yeah. Well, we didn’t cut her friends, they just weren’t on the list.

If she would have told me at random like that, they wouldn’t have been sent out.

Well, and that’s…

That was the only thing I tiptoed around her like that.

Well what else was there?

Mmhmm

Cool.

Alright.

I’m just trying to make peace by her.

Just keeping the peace.

Yeah.

I mean, in a sense yes, but no. I mean, I agree they should be invited, but should we invite Mark and Bob’s kids?  I didn’t know the neighbors until [blah blah] at Mom’s work.

He was gonna tell her in a nice way they were trying to keep the numbers down.

And we are and we have to. 

Whatever happens happens.

I know.

Yeah.

People are gonna do what they’re gonna do. 

She just couldn’t sleep.  It was bothering her.

[Mumbles]

I think in a week she should be fine. 

We’ve got a rehearsal dinner tonight and a wedding tomorrow.

Oh, I know, I know.

I think she’s mad at Mom because she knows we had to cut and she invited them anyway.  There’s room for about 200 people.  Some people will probably stand.  So if we get like, 220, I’m sure the capacity is slightly larger than 200. 

She’s just stressing out about everything.  I don’t know if she’s just blaming it on this or if…

Honeymoon!

Yeah. 

That’s it.

Okay. 

[I had a phone call and had to stop listening for a few minutes.]

Mmhmm.

Is it cause she’s a brat?

Oh, okay. 

Yeah.

Uhhuh.

Nice.

Uhhuh.  Cool.  Well, now you know. 

Cool dill, pickle. [I can’t believe he actually says this.  It's not the first time I've heard it from him.]

[Long pause while I stopped paying attention]

I think that’s what she’s really stressing about.

That’s what she’ll get better about.  Not get mad at me.

I think that’s what’s bothering her.

I mean, if there’s seats…

[it goes on like this.  I just couldn’t keep up with the inanity]

Free

It’s like getting out of college had me blasted into space moving at however many thousands of miles a second away from everything I’ve ever known about security and the future and the world.  I felt the acceleration all through high school.  It was building.  At least that’s what everybody told me.   

Then graduation.  Just a curve in the pneumatic tubes pushing me along my lifeline.  It took more air to move me along in college but I kept accelerating more quickly.  I went from being a willing passenger begging for an increase in speed to trying to grab hold of something, anything that would slow it down enough for me to make important decisions.  The faster I went the faster I went as my entrance to the real world became imminent.   

Then, I was there.  Graduated again.  Floating.  Searching.  If gravity would have been present I would have prayed for a parachute.  Instead, I waited for a meteor or comet or whatever to come close enough for me to hang on to it and let it drag me away from the sun.  Initially, you feel the change in direction and it feels like an improvement.  Then you get used to the speed.  Millions of miles an hour is no longer desired.  I would settle for the same rate, but only if it was moving in a direction.  Space is cold out past the planets.  Orbiting on this rock will not take me any closer to the warm center of the dream. 

Play it again, John.

I just heard John tell a story about his dog to someone on the phone.  As soon as he hung up, he called someone else and told the same story.  I don’t get it.  People just don’t care about who is around. 

Then he tried to tell me the story.  He said, “Did you hear what I told my sisters about the dog?”  I thought for a second.  I wanted to see if he would tell me the same story that I had already heard twice.  Instead, I said, “Yeah, about her being afraid of laundry?” 

He said yeah, and then proceeded to tell me the same thing in a slightly different order.  Seriously.  How ridiculous. 

Then Jackie, his girlfriend, called, so he told her that he told me about the dog’s phobia.  Jesus Christ.  When does it end?

Going up?

 I boarded the elevator on the first floor.  A guy who must have got on in the parking garage under the building was already there drinking his coffee and reading the paper and trying to step off before he should have.  He looked up in time to realize the elevator had not climbed enough but not in time to not look foolish.  “This isn’t my floor,” he said, stopping and stepping back awkwardly.

“Not quite there yet?” I asked hoping to alleviate some of his tension. 

“Not yet,” the quickness of his response impressed me, “I think I need some more coffee.”

I chuckled.  Usually I wouldn’t, but at that moment it was funny. 

“First day back from vacation and I just can’t quite get it together,” he said.  I didn’t pry.  I don’t care where he went on vacation.  I figure if he wants me to know he’ll tell me anyway.

“Just gotta hit your stride,” I said waiting for him to decide how he wanted the conversation to go with one floor left between us and his destination. 

“Don’t I know it.  Six days straight in Colorado, fly fishing, it was beautiful.”

“That sounds amazing,” I reassured him. 

“It was.  Now I’ve got to get back to the grind.”

“Good luck with that.”  Then he exited and the doors closed. 

It's A Good Life!

I feel dirty when I do it.  I know it’s wrong but I feel compelled.  Exclamation marks.  I loathe them.  Rarely does somebody speak in such emphatic tones.  It just seems there’s no grey area when it comes to that particular punctuation.  It’s either calm speech or yelling.  Maybe there should be a middle ground mark. 

The reason I bring it up has to do with work emails.  Since the written word generally comes with no markers for playfulness, business emails often come across like they were written by robots (ahem, I’m not saying, just saying).  So instead, people litter them with exclamation marks so the receiver is aware they are not upset.  It makes me write emails like this.

            Good morning!

Blah blah serious blah blah cost basis, blah blah not our responsibility, blah blah, let me know if you need anything else. 

                                                Thanks, Jenny!

Maybe this is because people are so sensitive or waiting to be angered that we have to walk on eggshells all the time.  To me, it feels like handling that Twilight Zone kid who got whatever he wanted.  When people would talk to him, they would reinforce that whatever he was doing was a good thing.  “That’s good that this is the twelfth email I have sent you on this topic!  I don’t get tired of writing this over and over at all!  In fact, you can disregard this message if you are too busy!  I’ll just send another when I think enough time has passed!  Thanks!  Buh Bye!”

  

So take the chip off your shoulder, people.  Let’s leave the exclamation mark where it belongs:  Behind rants and in student fiction.  And don’t even get me started on ;) and CAPS LOCK. 

Barbara

The woman who sits behind me annoys me unmercifully.  She makes loud personal phone calls that would embarrass me were I the subject of them.  She repeats stories to everyone around until she knows everybody has heard.  I know about her husband’s drinking problem, her father’s rapidly waning life, her rocky relationship with her sister, her powerfully troubled daughter, and her triglyceride count.  Do these things bother me?  Of course.  Do I want them to continue?  Of course.  She offers me a window into a severely dysfunctional family.  I didn’t have one of those.  The best part is that I don’t even have to try to eavesdrop.  Her eaves drop themselves on me.  They stumble over the cubicle wall and distract me from doing my work.  John said he tunes her out these days.  I wonder how a person can do that.  I understand how one is able to not pay attention to something, that’s not the issue.  What I wonder is why wouldn’t you want to drink in every last bit of it.  This is pure gold, comedy of the most human variety.  This is real life.  The reason it entertains me is that it’s not my real life.  I get to observe from a distance.  I don’t care if her daughter brings home another D in band (seriously?  A D in band?).  I don’t care that her husband (ahem, her illiterate and out of work husband) is a recovering alcoholic.  It turns out, though, that he is only re-covering his hiding spot every time he sneaks a drink.  He’s not supposed to drink on his medication, so he told his therapist he was going to stop taking it because he is “feeling better.”  He also told him he had learned that he doesn’t need alcohol to be happy.  Quite a revelation for someone who was hiding beer in a cooler in the basement.  Why do I know these things?