Darla’s dad died over the weekend, and she called today to say she’s taking the week off. Again, I don’t know why she called me at my desk — she’s my boss, I’m not hers — but I offered my clumsy condolences, of course. Death sucks and I’m against it.
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I'm pretty sure drug deals at work are against company policy, but at break time, Kallie handed me the tiny bag of pot I’d bought, and ten dollars. “It isn’t great stuff, just good," she said, "so there’s a small rebate from the dealer.”
I offered her a pinch of it for her trouble, but she laughed and said, “What I have at home would get me life in prison already.” I slipped the weed into my pocket, and looked at the ten-dollar bill.
“This should be enough to pay our expenses at the Sincere Cafe,” was the line I wanted to say. A chance to show Kallie my favorite Chinese restaurant, since she’d shown me hers. To say thanks. To get to know her a little better ...
But I only said "Thanks." I don’t trust my instincts and witticisms until I've had hours to think it over, so I hesitated as usual, left it unsaid forever, and slipped the tenner into my wallet.
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And then, an hour later, I guess I did trust my instincts in the moment, and blurted out something fairly stupid at exactly the wrong time.
I had chased several suits around the office, searching for the elusive straight answer to a question, and I was in a hallway asking that question for the third or fourth time, this time asking two junior executives and Babs, who’s a senior executive.
One of the juniors said to me, “Marcia knew all that stuff, didn’t she teach you?”
I said icily, “I’m not Marcia, and I never will be.”
“That’s for sure,” he said, and started walking away.
“Hey!” I said loudly to this junior jackoff who’s two, maybe two and a half ranks above me. “If you’re going to give me attitude, I can just take my best guess, instead of bothering you guys with quarter-million-dollar questions.”
The hallway either got really quiet or it sure seemed that way, and the junior exec turned back at me with a glare that could shatter the silence. The moment called for a grand gesture — I should’ve belched or something — but instead I did the smart thing and said, “Sorry.” Meek and subservient, just the way they like it.
Babs said something managerial to me, or maybe to him, but I was too furious to hear clearly, and walked back to my crappy desk, and the crappy job I hope I still have.
Also, for the record, when I got pissed and said it was a quarter-million-dollar question, that was an exaggeration. It was a $100,000 question, tops.
♦ ♦ ♦
In better news, I got a post card from Factsheet Five, with advance word on their review of Pathetic Life #1. They didn’t hate it.
You know, PL hasn't gotten a rotten review yet, which surprises me. It’s a diary where, most days, nothing happens. Maybe I go to a movie. I never get laid. I wouldn't have the patience to read this zine if it wasn’t about me. I don't even know why you're here.
From Pathetic Life #5
Monday, October 24, 1994
I wondered too for a while, why am I reading about some stranger's day from 1994? because most days you make reading about it, i think, more fun than it was.
ReplyDeleteYou never make the shots you don't take!
ReplyDeleteI'm unarmed.
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