The Big Cheese

The big cheese (his real name is Russ Limberger) came strolling in at his usual time, around 10:30 AM. I know that, when he makes entries in this journal, he claims that he is often the first here at the dump, even before we open at 7 AM. This is balderdash. He never arrives before 10 … and even then he is most often disheveled and smelling of smegma. Anyhow, this morn he was even more surly than usual. I wrote this off to the fact that he didn’t smell of smegma. But he wore his usual mufti – pajama bottoms, partially open at the fly, a Vassar sweatshirt, and a cat hat. The latter was not the normal yellow visor cap with “Caterpillar” emblazed on the front … but the dried skin of an actual cat (Siamese perhaps?) worn Dan’l Boone style.

He immediately called us into a lineup for roll call. This was unusual since we had redundant attendance procedures: a sign-in sheet, an old IBM Tabulator punch-in clock with punched cards that we had gotten from Florida after the presidential election of 2000 (Bush, meant “here” … Gore, meant “gone”), and a bed check by Rajeed usually between 7 and 8 AM. Although these systems weren’t foolproof, they exceeded the OSHA standards that normally kept the town pols out of our hair. Any problems with these systems were glossed over with any solan with a gross of reconstituted condoms that Lardass salvaged from the dumpsters and soaked overnight in Clorox. (The fact that this made them very likely to fail under the slightest friction was somehow never discovered.)

Anyhow, after calling the roll, Russ discovered that we were at minimal staffing – 6 out of 18 FTEs. The Dumptemp, Bob, and Hobart Melancholy, the intern, were here along with myself, Susan, Lonny, and, of course, Russ. The rest were AWOL. Russ was livid. He pointed his finger at Susan shouting that she must know were Bill was. She responded nonchalantly that she hadn’t the slightest idea. In fact she said she barely knew Bill (or was it that she knew him barely?) and then suggested that he might have run off and joined a “Jews for Jesus” cult. Russ’s vein on his temple stood out like an interstate on a Smartroutes map. He screamed that this dump couldn’t function at 1/3rd strength … and besides he was tired of employees strolling in late. We all sniggered (can I still use this word?) At this, Russ shouted that those missing were summarily terminated and that, if they wanted their jobs back, they would have to paint his house, inside and out. He then added that they might also kickback ten percent of their salaries to him for the next six months. (As it was Lefty only took home 20% of his full paycheck … the rest keeping Russ in porn-site fees.)

After ranting on for another half hour, Russ looked at his watch. It was 11:30. If one looked closely, one could see the Pavlovian beer saliva form at the edges of Russ’s parched lips. With a flip of his hand, Russ twirled and started out the door. “I’ve got an off-site meeting that should last the rest of the day,” he intoned with an attempt at managerial seriousness. And he was gone in a flash.

The rest of us pulled out the poker table and stoked the wood stove.