When I arrived at work this morning, I paused outside the FEMA trailer that I call my office to enjoy the ambiance of September in New England. It was a fine autumn day The air was crisp and the sky was bright blue. The morning sun cast a glow on the wisps of steam rising from north forty compost pile. I thought of a huge golden volcano about to explode.
Reluctantly, I went inside. The usual crew was already there. Lardass, in his filthy orange work suit, sat in the recycled folding chair drinking from a large Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. He was animatedly arguing with Clooney, who had, as usual, bogarted the lazy-boy recliner so he could sit back with his feet up[1].
Clooney, who has recovered from his recent medical crisis, had reverted to dressing in his former dump-chic outfit: Faded navy blue tee shirt, olive work shorts, black socks and decrepit brown dock shoes.
Achmed, the new guy, was reading the paper, seated on the teak bench that he had salvaged from the take-and-leave section.[2] I couldn't’t help noticing that his outfit – recently laundered blue Levi’s jeans and denim shirt and Rockport work boots made the others look, well, shabby. He had a good haircut, too. Some of the other guys look like their wives cut their hair with pinking shears.
“Hey guys,” I said, giving it my best cheerful and friendly tone. Counting heads, I looked around. “Where’s Bill?”
Achmed was the only one who responded. “Ah Good morning, Boss. Can I get you a coffee?”
I nodded paternally. I was beginning to like this kid.
Clooney finally acknowledged my presence. As he usually does, he squinted over his black framed granny glasses, glanced toward the wall clock, then back to me, “Well, well, good afternoon. Glad you could make it.“
I just gave him the I-happen-to-be-the-boss-and-I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think look.
“Where’s Bill?” I repeated.
“Bill Who?” Lardass said instead of good morning, boss.
Achmed came back with my coffee. “Ah, here you go, Boss. Um, Bill called-in a while ago. “
“Oh, he’s out sick again?” I was getting tired of his frequent absences.
“No, not exactly.”
“Well, is he coming in or not?” Exasperation was shoving its nose into the tent of my composure.
“He called to see if anyone else had a cold or anything. He didn’t want to come in if anyone else was sick. He was waiting to make sure you were feeling ok.”
“Yes I’m fine,” I yelled, “Call him and get him in here right away!”
He punched in Bill’s number and related the message. Bill said something and Achmed told him to wait a sec. He held out the phone to me.
“Boss, he says he can’t go anywhere without his new puppy.”
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[1] I have on several occasions reminded Clooney that in some Eastern cultures, it is an insult to force another person to look at the soles of your shoes. He invariably gives me the annoyed look that he usually reserved for the parents of noisy kids in restaurants. If he is invited to your house for dinner and you do not let him put his feet up on your coffee table, he will leave right after desert.
[2]. Achmed has a finely wrought sense of humor. He has a distinct middle eastern appearance and has a fake suicide vest that he wears to costume parties and sometimes to scare people. As he was dragging the bench onto the dolly, he was accosted by two burly residents who thought they had seen the bench first. He opened his jacket so they could see the fake sticks of TNT and the wires. “Shall we let Allah settle it?” he asked in his best crazy Arab accent. The two jumped into their Lexus SUV and peeled-out.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The New Guy
I was sitting at my desk in the FEMA trailer that I call my office when Clooney came in the door. I was reading the death notices in the local paper. I noticed that a lot of them tell you to send a donation to some research or religious outfit in lieu of flowers. If I was a florist, I'd be annoyed.
I started composing the last few lines of my own obituary:
"....The DFM hopes all his grieving friends and relatives will remember how much he loved flowers. Now that he is dead, there is no point in sending any more money to the incompetent researchers who couldn't find a cure in time to save him. So, in lieu of wasted contributions, he requests big expensive bouquets of brightly colored, fragrant flowers."
When Clooney came through the door I glanced up to see who it was coming in too late for morning report but too early for morning break. He looked like hell. He was pale and was limping like he always does when his 'rhoids are acting-up. He was carrying a small container or something under his coat. It was late summer and 85 degrees WTF was he wearing a coat for?
"Where the fuck have you been?" I yelled, referring to the past three weeks.
He gave me one of his raised eyebrow looks that is usually reserved for meddlesome strangers. He selected one of the chairs in the break area across the room, but facing my desk. He took his time answering. Always the thespian, he let my question dangle in the wind for a bit, picked up a magazine, rattled it open in front of him, scanned it momentarily and intoned, "I was in the hospital. Being operated on. I couldn't work. You need a note from my doctor?"
"You look like hell." I said. I was trying to show that I believed him and we would not be needing a doctors excuse. Then I thought, crap! What if he had been having plastic surgery? No one needs to hear that they looked worse after the chin tuck or whatever. Hmn, his ears did look smaller. Maybe it was my imagination.
"What's with the coat? It's fucking 90 degrees out!" I said to change the subject. He grinned; it was what he had been waiting for. He held open the coat to reveal a quart size plastic bag attached tothe inside of the coat. There was a small tube that went from the bag through a small slit his pants. There was about pint of yellowish fluid in the bag.
"That's not what I think it is, right?"
"Oh, yes. It is indeed."
I sighed. I was trying to think of a nice way to tell him that his job had been taken by an undocumented citizen - on the grounds of job abandonment - he had not called in sick nor had he made any attempt to keep me informed.
Just then the new guy, Achmed, came in for morning break.
"Hey boss, it's hotter than Kabul out there." He strode over to the fridge and got himself a frosty Sierra Nevada, eyeing Clooney. He popped the bottle cap with his thumb, took a long swig and sat down a few chairs from Clooney.
"Hey dude," he said. "What's with the coat?"
I started composing the last few lines of my own obituary:
"....The DFM hopes all his grieving friends and relatives will remember how much he loved flowers. Now that he is dead, there is no point in sending any more money to the incompetent researchers who couldn't find a cure in time to save him. So, in lieu of wasted contributions, he requests big expensive bouquets of brightly colored, fragrant flowers."
When Clooney came through the door I glanced up to see who it was coming in too late for morning report but too early for morning break. He looked like hell. He was pale and was limping like he always does when his 'rhoids are acting-up. He was carrying a small container or something under his coat. It was late summer and 85 degrees WTF was he wearing a coat for?
"Where the fuck have you been?" I yelled, referring to the past three weeks.
He gave me one of his raised eyebrow looks that is usually reserved for meddlesome strangers. He selected one of the chairs in the break area across the room, but facing my desk. He took his time answering. Always the thespian, he let my question dangle in the wind for a bit, picked up a magazine, rattled it open in front of him, scanned it momentarily and intoned, "I was in the hospital. Being operated on. I couldn't work. You need a note from my doctor?"
"You look like hell." I said. I was trying to show that I believed him and we would not be needing a doctors excuse. Then I thought, crap! What if he had been having plastic surgery? No one needs to hear that they looked worse after the chin tuck or whatever. Hmn, his ears did look smaller. Maybe it was my imagination.
"What's with the coat? It's fucking 90 degrees out!" I said to change the subject. He grinned; it was what he had been waiting for. He held open the coat to reveal a quart size plastic bag attached tothe inside of the coat. There was a small tube that went from the bag through a small slit his pants. There was about pint of yellowish fluid in the bag.
"That's not what I think it is, right?"
"Oh, yes. It is indeed."
I sighed. I was trying to think of a nice way to tell him that his job had been taken by an undocumented citizen - on the grounds of job abandonment - he had not called in sick nor had he made any attempt to keep me informed.
Just then the new guy, Achmed, came in for morning break.
"Hey boss, it's hotter than Kabul out there." He strode over to the fridge and got himself a frosty Sierra Nevada, eyeing Clooney. He popped the bottle cap with his thumb, took a long swig and sat down a few chairs from Clooney.
"Hey dude," he said. "What's with the coat?"
