Monday, November 26th, 2018
Dear Diary:
The day began like any other, which is to say, with me
chillin’ in a car I spent all day waxing. As the first day back at work since
Thanksgiving, I was in a rare mood (i.e. a good one). Things couldn’t have been
better. I had a great night’s sleep, I got up early to make my Momz a big
breakfast, I took an extra long shower (or what my sister refers to as “why is
the wall crying?”), and I was dressed by bluebirds before driving down the yellow,
brick road to head to the wonderful Land of Oz. “If ever o’ever a Wiz there was…”
Let’s try that again. The day began like any other, which is
to say with me tossing and turning before finally peeling myself off of the
floor before dragging myself upstairs to barely make what I thought was a 9 am
meeting. As it turned out, the meeting started at 11. Turns out that was a good
thing, because by the time my computer booted up, it was quarter to 10:00. “What?
Do computers take vacations? Is it Boxing Day? What the hell, Canada?!?”
The 11:00 went as do all meetings in every corporation across
the globe in which the participants are in different locations; as well as can
be expected. Here’s a typical meeting:
·
The meeting organizer arrives late, leaving the
participants to try, unsuccessfully, to engage in small talk.
·
Five to 10 minutes of technical issues
·
People saying one, more, or all, of the
following:
o
“Can you see my screen? Let me know when you can
see my screen?”
o
“Are you ready to present…Are you on Mute?”
o
“Sorry, I was on Mute.”
o
“Someone is typing / breathing really loudly.
Can you put yourself on Mute?”
o
“Did you guys have a chance to read the material
I sent out?” [Hint: No.]
o
“Does anyone else hear an echo? I’m hearing an
echo. (‘It’s probably your headset.’) “It’s probably my headset…Is that better?”
o
“Sorry, that’s my dog, my kids, the delivery
guys, and / or the contractors.”
o
“Damion, is your webcam on? I can’t see your
face.” [Okay, that’s probably just meetings
that I’m in. I cover my webcam, because they steal souls…I’ve seen ‘Tron’.]
·
Meeting either runs way over or ends “early”, because
people from the participants from the next meeting have their faces pressed up
against the glass and are tapping their watches in frustration.
I had a 2 o’clock, in-person meeting. So, I washed “strategically”,
threw on what was clean and “ironed”, said goodbye to Momz, ordered Mexican
take-out, and headed out the door. On the way, to pick up my lunch, I spotted a
car with a license plate that read “BBLUVDD”.
“Baby Loves Double Ds?!?” I thought to myself. “How did the Virginia
Department of Motor Vehicles green light that vanity plate while rejecting my proposal
for a license plate that read “DADY LYK”? [Editor’s
Note: Probably had something to do with the fact that the plate would be
attached to a white, panel van.]
Just as I was about to call the Virginia DMV and give them a
considerable piece of my mind, or piece of my considerable mind, the phone
rang.
“Hel-looo,” I answered.
“Damion, you said you were fine with us just being friends,
correct?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I was out last night, and I couldn’t help but notice a red
spot on my date’s shirt. I thought he had spilled some sauce on himself, then
realized it was a red dot…like from a laser scope…on a sniper’s rifle.”
“Ya don’t say…That’s odd.”
“Damion, did you hire a sniper to follow me on my dates?”
“Sni-PER???”
“Damion! You hired more than one?!?!”
“In my defense, you never would’ve noticed if your date hadn’t
been wearing all black. I mean, seriously, who wears all black. A person going
to or planning a funeral, that’s who. I might’ve just saved your life…You’re
welcome.”
“First of all, no, thank you. Secondly, I’ve seen you wear
all black, including a black trench coat, while driving a black car.”
“First off, I periodically do a tribute to Johnny Cash, for which
I will NOT apologize.”
“Nor should you.”
“Secondly, that trench coat looks awesome billowing in the
wind.”
“That notwithstanding, I need you to call off the snipers.”
“Fiiiiine.”
“Damion?”
“I heard you, no snipers.”
“…and stop following me.”
“Why do you think I was following you?”
“Who else drives a white panel van with a license plate that
reads ‘Daddy Like’?”
“That van was stolen.”
“Damion…”
“Fine! No snipers, no van.”
“No gypsy curses…scratch that, no curses of any kind?”
“No curses of any kind??? How many supernatural beings do
you think I know?”
“No drones…”
“I don’t know how to fly a dro—”
“You have nieces.”
“Okay, no snipers, no vans, no curses, no drones, no voodoo,
which falls under curses, no parabolic microphones, which would be in the van,
no trained squirrels…”
“Damion…”
“Whaaaatttt? What else could you possibly—"
“Love you.”
“Whatever…love ya, too.”
After hanging up the phone, and wondering what I was going
to do with 300 trained squirrels [Hint:
Off-Broadway ice circus.], I went into Plaza Azteca to pick up my order of
chicken fajitas nachos. (“Plaza Azteca:
Where You May Get Hit in the Face by a Heavy, Wooden Door”.)
When I finally made it to my desk, I setup my computer, took
out my lunch, turned on Sirius XM, and put on my headphones. Now, most people
like to use inconspicuous, earphones or air pods to listen to music. This leads
to the inevitable “Hey, can I ask—sorry, didn’t know you were on the phone.” Conversation.
I, on the other hand, want people from across the room to know that I’m
unavailable. This is why I wear my very conspicuous, white, Skull Crushers from
Skullcandy. (“Skullcandy: Perhaps, they’ll
give me free headphones.”)
Although, I take these precautions, some people just don’t
get the hint.
“Hey,” a co-worker whispers, “are you on the phone?”
“No,” I say while pointing to my ‘candys, “Fugees.”
“Cool. I was wonder—”
“Ummm,” I say with voice slightly elevated and eyebrows
raised while, once again, pointing to my ‘Crushers, “Fugees!” That seemed to do
the trick.
After I finished the lunch that had been lovingly prepared
by the culinary master chefs at Plaza Azteca (“Plaza Azteca: Try to Steal Our Chairs, We F’n Dare You!”) I headed
to one of the meeting rooms for a “Meet & Greet” with one of my new
co-workers. For the uninitiated, a “Meet & Greet” is when two people sit in
a room and talk about what they do in order to see how their roles complement
each other. In other words, “Tell me why I need to pay attention to your emails
and meeting requests.”
After realizing that we didn’t really need to pay attention
to each other’s emails unless the people whose emails we did have to pay
attention to told us otherwise, I had an unscheduled meeting…with a toilet to
be named later. For Montezuma was exacting his revenge, and his weapon of choice
was an order of chicken fajitas nachos. There are levels of gastrointestinal
disturbance ranging from “I feel a disturbance in the Force” to “Hold all my
calls…and alert the villagers.” By the motion
in my bowels, this was gonna be an “alert the villagers…that their property
values are about to be lowered…for the next 20 years” kinda event.
Protocol in this type of situation is to move as far away as
possible without having an accident. Preferably, in a sparsely-populated area. Not
knowing how much time I had, I immediately headed to the fourth floor only to
find no empty stalls. Next up: the building next door. There happened to be a
cafeteria between my building and the next; a cafeteria with restrooms. For a
brief moment, I contemplated using the cafeteria bathroom thinking the smell
could be blamed on a culinary misstep. There were, however, unsuspecting innocents
nearby. I didn’t mean my fellow Associates, as a good many of them are
assholes. No, the innocents to which I was referring were the cafeteria
workers: the cooks, the cashiers, the florists / greeting card salesperson, the
baristas. These individuals are not paid enough to have to be subjected to as-yet-to-be-determined
horror. So, like a Batman taking the nuclear bomb out of Gotham at the end of “Batman:
The Dark Knight Rises”, I kept going. I made it to the 4th floor of
the next building only to find that someone had set the leftovers from a
potluck near the restrooms.
“Son of a--!!!” I exclaimed. I soldiered on with a bomb in
my bowels and no idea when the timer was set to go off. Why? Because you either
die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. [Editor’s Note: Don’t think about it; just
go with it.] I had one more decision to make: head to Building 5 or the
Town Center. There wasn’t time for both. I made my call: The Town Center. It
was an open floor plan with many restroom accommodations, and, if I timed it
just right, no one could trace it back to me.
And with the way things were feeling in my “lower 48”, there would
indeed be an investigation…and, quite possibly, jail time. I found a vacant, handicap stall (Please, that
would be the least worrisome of my offenses) right as Montezuma began to exact his
revenge. Was it as bad as I thought? No…it was much, much worse. This was a multi-courtesy
flush event. The type of bowel movement that felt as though it would never end.
The type of bowel movement where the perpetrator would experience the “phantom shitts”
(i.e. when you shit for so long that you feel like you’re still shitting 20
minutes after you’re done.)
Once I confirmed that the coast was clear, I washed my hands
for several hours, doused the bathroom in accelerant, and burned the bathroom
to the ground. (I dried my hands on my pants. I’ve read the reports about hand
dryers…No, thank you.)
I nonchalantly made my way back to my desk and resumed my
work as though nothing happened. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only, nor the
biggest, shit show I had to deal with that day. At the end of the day, I hopped
on the shuttle and rode off into the sunset wondering what challenges tomorrow
would bring.
