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?"