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.” 

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.   

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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]