Saturday, October 24, 2009


I decide to let him figure out on his own that he's already fixed the problem. I don't want to explain my to-do list to him.

"We did this last week. See. It works fine."

"Oh, crud. I'm sorry, I totally forgot. Crap. Um..." I try to think of something I can give him. "I'm such an idiot." I take out my wallet and give him a Tower card for 15 dollars that I've never used.

"That's OK. Just be sure and check the problem before you call. And, by the way, I don’t need any hand outs, thank you." I realize he’s black and I’m white and that by trying to give him something comes off as racist. I think it’s because he thinks everyone who is white wants to either really hurt him, or really be condescending to him. I know this because...shit, I’ve got to meet that Melatonin chick. He gives me a look that says I'm another piece of shit he has to wipe off his day and turns to leave.

As he walks away, I put the Tower card back in my wallet and get a giddy feeling of having gotten away without having to give him my 15 Tower dollars. I think I do this to escape the incredible embarrassment of having brought him up here to fix the fixed problem and for what he took as some form of condescension.

The monitor flipped to black and I notice that my "Wazzzzzzz Up" screensaver turned on and I feel embarrassed all over again. I want to go back under the desk.


I keep thinking about how I have nothing to think about.

Work is work, and after work there's TV, beer, and food. That's as far as my mind can take me.

A tap on my shoulder. I wait and think in my head who it is before I turn around. It's like a game.

It could be Big Red. Big Red is the woman who lives in a trailer who works for my department, Usecase. She’s pushing three bills and enjoys wearing jackets that have religious passages stitched into them. She says that each passage represents a time in her life when the Good Lord tested her. She has a shock of red hair that would scare the strongest sailor out of his wits, should he see it in morn’.

It seems petty to rip a person apart about their physical appearance. That is, until you find out she’s a total bitch. The woman proofreads documents that she finds in the trash to find errors she can call you on. The woman will tell the boss when you’ve left early. The woman will promote herself by making statements like this one, to no one in particular, “Oh, dear, it looks like I’m going to have to put in another ten hour day.”

Whether she puts in the ten hour day or not is not the focus here, the focus here is she makes sure everyone knows how wonderful she is by talking to herself, out loud. In most societies, this would seem like a form of dementia, but in the confines of cube town, it’s seen as:

“Oh, Barbara, just go home! I mean it this time.” That’s my boss, and she doesn’t mean it. She’s playing along with the kiss ass, overachieving cunt – but, I’ve gone too far.

My boss is another piece of trailer trash, but she has money. She worked from the poverty of Walmart, to the riches of Dynacorp. That would be commendable, if she didn’t remind everyone of it with such remarks as “Well, I guess you wouldn’t understand what it’s like putting a ten hour day in, when you started so high up in the company.”

That’s for me having the gall to go to college and get an English degree instead of working at Arby’s during my earlier years.

No comments: