I don’t smoke so I poke around
Coworker watch ’07: while nobody knows exactly who the four foot miscreant eating Mr. Subb in the break room is, or precisely what he does here, numerous people have seen him washing his face in the same break room sink, tiny hand towel particles stuck all over the countertop. Often times on getting coffee you will perchance to spy his particularly grime stricken countenance as he proceeds to scrub away with nonchalance, as though he’s not actually using the break room as his own personal grub shoppe. One might be moved to wonder if the pygmy hut he resides in does not contain the accompanying outhouse, with washroom amenities. Or if whatever back breaking nine to five schedule he works here does not allow the more traditional home-based personal hygiene measures. But whatever the case, it is freaking me and KJ out. An additional item on his agenda, apparently, is eating all of the Pop Tarts in the thrifty vend, as he seems always to have a half-eaten pop tart in his hands, which may just explain the incessant hand washing. Often times on looking in there, I ask myself just who eats this stuff, and the answer lies front and center, in the groveling hands of the four foot beholder. Although, sometimes the table he’s sitting at may include any number of items from the machine, and often times several at once. One more pastime and affront to the general sensibilities includes almost continuously hanging out with the jerry curled woman, and incessantly hanging around in the bathroom, as nearly 75% of the time I go in there, I will see him lazily hanging around in the corner (in some admirable late day appropriation of the Fonz--office portal as unofficial business/ rec-room). While many facts remain uncertain, one thing’s for sure and that is that there’s a lot of information to be ascertained, a lot of work to be done. And the weird thing is, I’m pretty much sure that we’re representing the same temp agency. Which could just be conversational fodder, and introductions to entire worlds unknown.

I look through transparent things and I feel OK
I have reached the end of the walkway this morning when I hear my oft-appearing neighbor David calling from the doorway of his home. “Hey!!” I hear someone saying, as I look around to see. “Over here!!!” I turn back and am astonished to see him on the porch in full sleepwear regalia, telling me to have a good day. His voice resonates for everyone within a five mile radius to hear. It’s some curious mélange of Kermit the Frog and someone with a severe case of dementia, and there really just is no way to sufficiently respond. I raise my hand firmly aloft, signaling to him from the street, a gesture which is intended to imply that I have received his transmission, and am returning that same well wishing, with earnest and sincerity. And then in one swift motion he disappears behind closed doors again, vanishing within the entryway of the home, to do who knows what.

I am at work, having arrived this morning with the over exuberance of someone whose eaten a large breakfast. The sugar of Cap’n Crunch cereal coagulates somewhere in the intestine and disperses to more or less obnoxious behavior patterns. Already today I have discussed the program Wifeswap with a coworker, talked over the perils of drinking exorbitant amounts the night before a coworker’s liver exam, and have been told that I’m stupid for the one hundredth time by one KJ, who resides in a neighboring cubicle. More and more now, she does this, and I never can tell if she’s being serious. It seems at once to denote endearment and derision, and confusing things further is that she’s never consistent. Just a while ago, for instance, I was telling her how to maximize free time away from work, which has something to do with doing the exact opposite of what you normally be doing at work, which is sitting under neon lighting and sitting before a computer. It’s particularly liberating, I explained, because we process dog licenses, and what could be more demoralizing than that? She processed this information, thinking it over a moment before having no apparent idea what I was talking about, and then issued forth, predictably, “Boy: you’re so STUPID.” And either way, really.

I don't make no jokes about bombs or guns because they take them seriously
ONE day off from work, and no idea what to do with myself. I am not a creative person and left to my own devices turn inward and grim-seeming. Last night L. Trela told me that I seem to be declining steadily and firmly, and this point is reiterated by a two-day old friend who makes fun of my hair. “Being unkempt is one thing,” she said, “but this is something else entirely.” And it’s all true: if the outward appearance is some signal of what is happening on a more cognitive level, everything’s a mess. I walk around with a mountain man shirt on all day and the accompanying sense of ennui. There’s no solid deduction that I could offer you, no firm answers which wouldn’t crumble under tenuous footing. I need some sort of vacation, I think, but I don’t really like to travel.

A couple of months ago Adam Lynch and I inexplicably attempted to lie our way into Canada, en route to Montreal. The whole idea being that we appear to be sketchy terrorists and it would circumvent the whole interrogation process if we said we were going to visit a friend, totally unprepared for the interrogation which would follow when we did in fact deliver this excuse. Two oversized Canadian officials produced and searched the car, holding up a bottle of half-empty whiskey before wanting to know the address and phone number of our imaginary friend. Adam stammered a bit before producing a phony contact number and then proceeded to turn an almost sallow color that skin is wont to produce. We talked over the myriad possibilities in the hard chairs of the border waiting room, the actual telephone number of the person he had just given, the confusion it would elicit, and the grim shadowy descending these answers produced. The border patrol person returned moments later, with the grim determination of finding out our real business in Canada, which is blowing up buildings and destroying landmarks. We noted the handcuffs and gun as we stammered to find something to say. He fixed on us boldly, before asking something more typical of third grade classrooms. “Do you know what happens to liars?” he asked rhetorically. Oh dear god, we thought, are we going to be taken away and locked up under some obscure Canadian law? We paused a bit, thinking of the possibilities before he issued forth an answer. “THEY GET SENT BACK TO THE USA,” he said, pointing at the prominently displayed USA sign, with the little U-turn symbol that is the international symbol, apparently, for you just fucked up the whole trip. I snickered uncontrollably in full earshot of the patrolman, and then we turned the car around and headed back across the imaginary line, with the clear and articulate direction of the sign. And so some things you just can’t escape, it seems.