Machine Gun Eileen

An older co-worker speaks like machine gun bursts.  She won’t wait her turn.  I find conversations go like this;

“Hey, older co-worker,”

Yessir

“I finished with the”

Oh you finished awesome

“stuff you needed me to do but”

Uhoh is there a problem

“I have a question about this address on”

Which one? That one?

“The last one.  Should I use”

Whyntcha just do it as is and I’ll let them correct me?

“The full P.O. box or just a partial since it doesn’t fit?”  

It's exhausting 

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.  

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.”

 
 
 

 

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?

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.