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"That *is* extreme... extremely dull." |
"All the boys in this town look like rock stars, even the ugly ones. It’s really creepy." Before I finish saying it I realize she won’t understand. We don’t share a brain anymore. She says I’m lucky to be out here on the west coast in the land of the rock star boys. She wishes she had one. I remind her that her boyfriend is cute as hell and in a funk band. She finally finished school and moved in with him. I hear her eyes roll over the phone. "He’s not that cute," she says. "He is the man," I say, "with the three mile long lashes." She sighs. She’s reconsidering how dreamy he is. She’s constantly rediscovering his cuteness like a new landmass. Every time she thinks of him a new continent of cuteness appears. "I guess you’re right," she says. "The thing that really freaks me out is that they all wear the same damn pants. The same glasses too. It’s like they all shop at the same store." "How do you tell them apart?" "Well, the really cute ones have bedhead... The other night I was at this show and I saw this guy I couldn’t quite place. Was he the guy who I went on a horrible personals date with, did I have a class with him, did he used to be a telemarketer with me?" "You were a telemarketer?" "Yeah, it totally sucked. Anyway, he turned out to be this guy from one of my classes that I used to have a horrible crush on. He needed a ride home." "Anything happen?" "Nothing. I think maybe he tried to hit on me. It’s hard to tell when you’re driving someone home. They’re usually way too busy being grateful to be their normal, shitty selves." "Look, I’d better go. Derek is gonna be home soon and I promised I’d finish knitting this hat for him." "Can’t you talk and knit at the same time?" "Uh, no. Well, I can talk and knit, but I can’t listen and knit." "Later," I say. "Yeah, later," she says. I can hear the door open and close. Derek says "Hello." He is such the rock star. They don’t grow on trees in the Midwest like they do here. She’s turning her head to kiss him hello. "Gotta go," she says. Click. I hang up. I’m hungry but I don’t feel like eating. Burnt my tongue on hot cocoa and my tastebuds haven’t regenerated yet. The phone rings. It’s one of my friends wondering when I’m going to pick her up. I forgot. It’s her birthday and we’re supposed to go to the 1201 to drink and be loud. I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten: God bless mommy and daddy and the 1201. I convince her that I’m running late because my long lost friend from the Midwest called. She reminds me that I better come bearing gifts. I tell her payday is Monday, she’s going to have to wait. Sorry. Don’t worry about it. See ya soon. Bye. Click. I head to the closet to pick out some non-neutral clothes. I’m still dressed business casual from work. My office clothes are selected for maximal gray tones. The same color as the cube walls. That way I can pretend I’m not really there. My supervisor is really into wearing gray. He’s made middle management even though he’s fucking his assistant. It’s the camouflage of gray that allows the horrible smoochy affair to be ignored and flourish. I hum a few bars of this song I kind of like, "Fear of a Khaki Planet," while I pick out black velvet pants, black shirt, mod scarf, and safety orange jacket. I molt out of my work clothes and climb into my other ones. I take three short steps over to the pantry, grab a protein bar, rip the wrapper off with my teeth, and jam it in my mouth. Despite my disengaged tastebuds it tastes as much like a mealy Tootsie roll as ever. The phone rings. Mmmmph, I answer. It’s the birthday girl. She wants to know why I’m not there yet. I yank the protein bar out of my mouth. Gotta eat before I get drunk, I say. Look, don’t get your panties in a knot. I’ll be over in about five minutes. I realize it may take me some time to find my keys. Ten minutes max, I say. Promise you can come over and kick my ass if it’s more than ten minutes. Ten minutes is enough time for me to get my shit together. Driving over to my friend’s house I turn on the radio. It’s the alternative corporate alternative station. They’re playing one of the same twenty songs they always play. I switch over to the old people station. Ah, Dean-o. Much better. I pull over to get the birthday girl. She must have been listening for me because she jumps in and belts up before I have a chance to say that I want to use the comfort station. No matter. It’s not that far to the bar. We get on 99E and head over the Tibetan prayer bowl metal grids of the Hawthorne bridge. We luck out and find a parking place by the Jefferson XXX. Birthday girl heads into the bar first. She wants her free drink(s). I head for the ladies. Someone’s already in there, but they finally replaced the door to the second stall. Relief. As I head back to the bar I notice a familiar mop of hair slumped against a Video Poker machine. It’s my co-worker, the Teen Queen of Mean. I can’t tell if she’s passed out or not so I kick her in the shin. She snarls and looks up. "Whadja havta goan do that for?" "Just checking to see if you were still alive." She reeks of tequila. I wonder if she’s going to make it in tomorrow. She’s like thirty and hangovers aren’t as easy for her to blow off for her as they are for me. "You want me to call you a taxi?" She doesn’t have a car and she’s not with anyone. "Yeah, cool." She mumbles something about Jean the Mean already having gone home. She hands me a ten. "Call me a taxi and buy yourself a coupla facelifts." I give her the confused face. She’s just as poor as me. "I’ve got a profitable side career in Video Poker ok?" She hugs the machine. "I love Video Poker." She tells me I look like Rhoda. I call Broadway for a cab and tell them they’re gonna have to give the Queen a little assistance. I hang up. I turn back to the Queen. "See ya tomorrow." She’s out of sick days, I finally realize, and so am I. "Yeah, see ya." She puts her head back on the Video Poker machine, like it’s her prom date. "I love you," she says. I don’t know if she means me or the machine. "Yeah, me too." I head back into the bar and flump down into my friends’ booth. "Sorry, ran into someone." I steal some cheddi-fries from the middle of the table. My burnt tastebuds exclude all flavors but salt. Turns out our favorite waitress is working. No one knows her name; she brings us free stuff so it would be awkward to ask. She plops down in the chair across from me. "Hey Blondie, what’s up?" "Same old, same old. Crappy job. You know how it is." She looks at me with that amazing compassion that only the world’s best doctors and food service workers can manage. "It’s like that some days. What can I get you?" "I need a facelift." "Excellent." She takes the rest of the table’s orders and takes off. "That woman," says the birthday girl, "is a national treasure." "Agreed," say I "She’s a goddess." "You are in a MOOD." accuses one of my other, already drunk friends, pointing at my skull. "I am not." "Don’t deny it. Quit that dumbass job and be happy for once in your life." The world’s best waitress is back with our drinks. She’s not only quick, she’s compassionate. She brought me two facelifts. She says she messed up someone else’s drink order. Yeah, right. I drink both facelifts in quick succession and follow up with a squadron of Men from U.N.C.L.E. Suddenly the bar is closing. The birthday girl offers to drive me home. Next thing I remember is waking up. I’ve already slept through the first ten minutes of my alarm. Dean-o’s on the clock radio. Same song as last night. Guess even the old people station has a playlist. My mouth tastes all syrupy. I look over and see a tetrapak by my bed. I drank one of those cranberry juice concentrate boxes sometime during the night. I’m fortified with 1600% of the US RDA of vitamins A and C, but I still feel like crap. I put on yesterday’s shirt, a pair of pants from the clean pants drawer, and a Microsoft gray wooly cardigan. I grab my bag and head out. It takes me another ten minutes to find my car. It’s parked halfway between my apartment and the birthday girl’s. I’m running twenty minutes late. On the way in I listen to the same guys I listen to every morning on the high school station. They’re really into playing Wesley Willis while they smoke out. You’d think the school would’ve figured it out by now, but they haven’t. I park and walk the last mile. I take my time. My job sucks, why hurry? Nod at the guard on my way in and move on before he can hit on me. I don’t actually look over to see which guard it is, but it doesn’t really matter; they all have a crush on me. I wait for the elevator with two heart-attack fat women. I get in as the Lo Rider gets out. He’s this stoner from my department who calls in sick every Monday. "Late again?" He chuckles and heads out for his coffee. I press four. One of the heart-attack women presses two. Both of them are panting from the effort it took to get on the elevator. The one who pressed the button is panting a little bit more. They get out on two. I get out on four. I punch in the securicode like I do every morning and head in. Almost immediately I get stopped by my manager. She’s cool. I’m surprised they haven’t busted her for telling dirty jokes yet. "So what’s the problem, missy? You’re twenty minutes late, wearing yesterday’s shirt, and you look like shit." "Car trouble. Had to get my landlord to give me a jump." Obvious lie. At least I make an effort. "Very funny, but don’t ever try it again." She gives me a noogie. Ow. "I’ve got some ibuprofin in my office if you need it." "Thanks. You’re a life saver." I’ve got some at my desk, but they don’t pay me enough to refuse free shit. I hear the clicking of her heels though the carpeting as I follow her across the floor to her office. She hasn’t crapped up her office with pictures like most of the other execs. We’re not allowed to have more than three photographs in our cubes. Just to be nice, she doesn’t put up any more than that. She hands me four Nuprin. "Betcha can’t take just one," she says and hands me four more. "Now get back to work." I stuff the ibuprofin in my pocket. I walk back to my cube, which is equidistant from the inbox, my supervisor, the woman he’s having an affair with, a vent that blows freezing cold air on my head all day long, and my lead, who likes to call me lazy while she’s reading rat pack biographies between smoke breaks. Luckily, my supervisor and his special friend are already off mating somewhere. "Hello," says the lead, "And where have WE been this morning?" I briefly consider giving her the finger. "Car trouble. Had to get a jump." She smiles back with her voice, hating my guts, "Well, I SUPPOSE I’ll let it go this time." I give her the finger, but she can’t see it because I’m under my desk plugging in my tape player. "I left a stack of credit applications on your tray. I hope you don’t mind." "No." I give her the finger again, for good measure. She comes in at six because there’s no work to do before eight. Sure enough, when I emerge from under my desk there’s a huge stack of applications on my tray. The lead and the heart-attack-fat Christian woman have gone on another smoke break. They’re nowhere in sight. No one who cares is around so I put half of the apps back in the inbox and stuff my magnetic place holder behind my stack to fluff it. I already have permanent nerve damage in my arms. I finally turn on my computer to make it look like I’m working. I pick four of the ibuprofin, now fluffy, out of my pocket and dig through my bag for anything else that will make the day more bearable. I find a generic antihistamine/decongestant and an Ativan and head off to the water cooler in the copier room. There isn’t too much foot traffic; the coffee maker’s on the other side of the floor. I put the pills in my mouth and take a couple of swigs of Aquacool. I’m caught in the act by the rock star boy from the next department over. He’s got Sick Boy peroxide blonde hair , a beer gut, and the same damn glasses as every other boy in Portland. "Vitamins," I say. "Uh huh," he says "Like mine." He opens up his hand. Four generic ibuprofin, a Benadryl, and a Vicodan. Hardcore. Some of the gelatin letters on the pills have started to wear off on his sweaty hands. He swigs. I refill my cup. We both leave the room. I go back to my cube and scrounge for some breakfast. I find a Ding Dong and a protein bar. I rip the protein bar wrapper open with my teeth and jam it in my mouth. It tastes a little more like a mealy Tootsie roll than yesterday. My tastebuds are recovering. I pick up the Ding Dong and pretend it’s a UFO. "Take me to your leader." It’s fun so I say it again, but in a Beavis voice. "Take me to your leader." "Dammit Beavis." It’s the Teen Queen of Mean. She looks like hell. Worse than me. She’s draped herself over my cubicle. "You wanna go get coffee? The bitch is back." She motions with her head at the lead who is returning from breaktime with the mega-Christian; they’re barely out of earshot. "Yeah, sure." We go to Jean the Mean’s espresso cart. She’s got a hangover too. The Queen gets a latte and I get a chai and a banana. "How can you eat that?" says the Queen. "What? I’m hungry. When’d you get in anyway?" "Couple of minutes ago. Still beat the worst worker in the world in." He usually makes it in before lunch. Usually. "That guy pisses me off. I’ve been here three times as long as he has and he makes more money than me." He’s gay. And litiginous. Thus unfireable. Everyone in the office wants to kick his ass, especially the queers. We go back to the office. Our fifteen minutes is up. I settle in at my desk and eat my Ding Dong while filling out my time card. My boss and his special friend are in his cube making kissyface. They think I can’t tell because he has high walls. You can still hear the smoochie noises. I walk in on them. They try to pretend nothing is going on. They disengage, smooth their hair, and nervously glance at one another. "I quit." I hand over my time card. The assistant looks at me. "But why? You have everything you could possibly want here," she says. She might as well have taken a crap on me. "Nobody likes it here," says one of my clerical coworkers, from the other side of the wall. She has a degree in industrial psychology. She let me see it once. The assistant’s annoyed. "We don’t need that kind of negative attitude around here young lady," she says to my coworker, even though they’re the same age. "Even I don’t like working here," says my supervisor. The assistant shuts up. "I hate my job. I don’t want to be here anymore. I quit." I say "And if you think I don’t know what’s going on between you two you must be stupider than you look." She’s shocked, like I smacked her. I wish I had. She’s personally jerked me out of a hundred and fifty bucks of overtime. "You little bitch…" The supervisor looks scared. He gives her a look and she shuts up. "I have nothing else to say." I leave the cube, steal a plastic bag from the maintenance closet, and jam all of my stuff in it. I walk to my car, drive home, and put my PJs and pink rhinestone tiara on. I turn the stereo on and crank it up. I kick all of my gray clothes into a corner by the patio, open the door, and kick them outside. I feel more like a rock star already. |
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