He felt like he was drowning in the humidity surrounding him. Jesus, if he didn’t love his job so much he would never be subjecting himself to this. Promotion. Promotion, my ass. This was punishment. Exile to the South. Surrounded by rednecks and good ole’ boys and females whose mating call consists of "I’m sooooooo drunk."
What he needed was a cold beer, a lounge chair, a pool filled with Playboy models and two young things standing above him. One with a large palm-leaf fan and another willing to acquiesce to his every demand.
What he had was a tepid glass of water, an uncomfortable office chair, a broken air conditioner and three "trainees" who probably couldn’t be trusted to go to the bathroom alone. He wondered if he should paint a bulls-eye on the bottom of the toilet bowl - - just in case.
He still didn’t understand why they were setting up satellite offices in the South. It would be just as cost effective to fly potential clients up to their offices in New York, Chicago or D.C. and put them up for a week. Though, he admitted those ideas could stem from his complete hatred of the South. Everything down here seems so slow and dragging, not to mention archaic. He actually heard a man use "the N word" in public the other day. Other than in rap lyrics, he hadn’t known the word still existed. But the terms "South" and "Reality" are mutually exclusive, right? These people don’t even seem to realize that they lost the civil war.
Old Mrs. Beauchamp, who he only tolerated because she had more money than God, had come in twice this week and complained endlessly about the lack of cool air while she waited on her "Negro driver" to come back and "collect her from her appointments." Who talks like that? Moneyed women in the heart of Georgia. That’s who.
He’d give his right arm for a decent bagel, a cup of real coffee, a woman who could say the word "Yes" in only one syllable and a conversation that didn’t revolve around race or religion. He’d give his left pinkie for an employee that wasn’t out of his damn mind. Jimmy - trainee number one - had asked for grievance leave because his "best huntin’ dog had to be put down." Trevor had just sat there, mouth agape, blinking in confusion. "You need grievance leave. For a dog. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?" Jimmy had looked up with tears running down his face and said, "Yeah. For the fune’ral. We’re gonna send him off right proper."
He’d called his boss in New York, convinced this was a joke that corporate was pulling on him. A clever ruse to get back at him for all his complaining the past few weeks. Sadly, he was mistaken. In the end, he’d had to give Jimmy three days PAID leave and, AND, he’d had to send the family flowers - - to make up for the fact that he’d laughed him out of the office when he’d asked for the leave to begin with. All in all, he was out $373.62 when you factored in the paid time off, the flower arrangement and the new shirt he’d had to buy to replace the one he’d spit coffee down when Matt had told him that none of this was a joke.
He tried to remind himself this was only temporary. But, it didn’t stop him from wondering if this was Hell. It certainly seemed like it. And it was definitely hot enough. But, they don’t have "huntin’ dogs" in Hell, do they?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
And It's Not Even Thursday, Yet
He was screaming.
He didn’t mean to, he simply couldn’t control it.
His voice had slowly escalated from almost a whisper to a full-on shout.
" . . . and I can’t take it anymore. Everything’s this big secret. Everything’s so private. You can’t tell anyone anything. Not even your boyfriend. I am your boyfriend, aren’t I? I can’t really keep up. You run so hot and cold . . . "
She continued to ignore him.
Reason, she could manage.
Rationality, she could deal with.
But he was neither reasonable nor rational. He was a lunatic standing in her kitchen.
Her fingers tightened a little stronger on the handle of the sprayer. Had he been looking at her, he would have noticed the white in her knuckles. But it wasn’t about her, it never was. This was about him and his insecurities. His rant was about what he did, not her. She wondered if he even realized it. She began to rinse the last of the dinner dishes and tried to make her shaky breaths regain their natural rhythm. She told herself he wouldn’t end it. Not like this.
He saw it perfectly in his mind.
He crossed the kitchen floor, wrapped his hands around her shoulders, twisted her around and shook her until her teeth rattled.
The strength of the vision scared him. He’d never been violent. But something about the way she was standing, the casual way she ignored him, how she could continue to do the evening chores as though he wasn’t even there, let alone livid.
His blood was boiling with his anger. He was suddenly glad that he hadn’t proposed on their anniversary, though he’d had every intention to. Something stopped him. Now he knew what. He’d never known anyone so cold and unfeeling.
She blinked rapidly. Focusing her eyes on the children playing under the street lamp through the kitchen window. She wouldn’t let him see her cry. She was tired of being the only one that would cry for them. She was sick of being the only emotional one. They could never work. She’d been a fool to think that two people who were such complete opposites could come together and form anything but chaos around them. But beneath all of it, she was still praying. Don’t let him leave me. Please.
He couldn’t take it anymore. Her deaf act was the last straw. The neighbors had started banging on the apartment walls. Hell, people in the next town could hear him. He wouldn’t stand still a moment longer. He shouldn’t be held accountable for whatever happens after he gets within arms reach of her. She brought all of this on herself. She was destroying him. She was ruining them.
His strides were strong and hurried, quick but long. He reached her before she’d known he’d taken the first step. She dropped the last dish as he grabbed her shoulders and turned her. She hoped he mistook the wetness on her cheeks for back splash of the sprayer.
He saw the tears on her face and his anger dissolved as quickly as it had formed.
-- "I'm going crazy. I'm standing here, solidly, on my own two hands, and going crazy." Katherine Hepburn as Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story
He didn’t mean to, he simply couldn’t control it.
His voice had slowly escalated from almost a whisper to a full-on shout.
" . . . and I can’t take it anymore. Everything’s this big secret. Everything’s so private. You can’t tell anyone anything. Not even your boyfriend. I am your boyfriend, aren’t I? I can’t really keep up. You run so hot and cold . . . "
She continued to ignore him.
Reason, she could manage.
Rationality, she could deal with.
But he was neither reasonable nor rational. He was a lunatic standing in her kitchen.
Her fingers tightened a little stronger on the handle of the sprayer. Had he been looking at her, he would have noticed the white in her knuckles. But it wasn’t about her, it never was. This was about him and his insecurities. His rant was about what he did, not her. She wondered if he even realized it. She began to rinse the last of the dinner dishes and tried to make her shaky breaths regain their natural rhythm. She told herself he wouldn’t end it. Not like this.
He saw it perfectly in his mind.
He crossed the kitchen floor, wrapped his hands around her shoulders, twisted her around and shook her until her teeth rattled.
The strength of the vision scared him. He’d never been violent. But something about the way she was standing, the casual way she ignored him, how she could continue to do the evening chores as though he wasn’t even there, let alone livid.
His blood was boiling with his anger. He was suddenly glad that he hadn’t proposed on their anniversary, though he’d had every intention to. Something stopped him. Now he knew what. He’d never known anyone so cold and unfeeling.
She blinked rapidly. Focusing her eyes on the children playing under the street lamp through the kitchen window. She wouldn’t let him see her cry. She was tired of being the only one that would cry for them. She was sick of being the only emotional one. They could never work. She’d been a fool to think that two people who were such complete opposites could come together and form anything but chaos around them. But beneath all of it, she was still praying. Don’t let him leave me. Please.
He couldn’t take it anymore. Her deaf act was the last straw. The neighbors had started banging on the apartment walls. Hell, people in the next town could hear him. He wouldn’t stand still a moment longer. He shouldn’t be held accountable for whatever happens after he gets within arms reach of her. She brought all of this on herself. She was destroying him. She was ruining them.
His strides were strong and hurried, quick but long. He reached her before she’d known he’d taken the first step. She dropped the last dish as he grabbed her shoulders and turned her. She hoped he mistook the wetness on her cheeks for back splash of the sprayer.
He saw the tears on her face and his anger dissolved as quickly as it had formed.
-- "I'm going crazy. I'm standing here, solidly, on my own two hands, and going crazy." Katherine Hepburn as Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Better Late Than Never?
Red Ragtop reminds me of him
The contents of my past
A shakily written letter
A sealed envelope
I’ve burned in my mind
But when that song plays
I resent who I was
And who I would have become
Had I kept holding on
Instead of burning my past
And blazing a new trail to my future
The damage that remains is negligible
I forget it’s even there
Until I hear the sad notes of the song start
And it rises to the surface
Lighting a fire in my chest
The ashes of the letter turning to embers once again.
The contents of my past
A shakily written letter
A sealed envelope
I’ve burned in my mind
But when that song plays
I resent who I was
And who I would have become
Had I kept holding on
Instead of burning my past
And blazing a new trail to my future
The damage that remains is negligible
I forget it’s even there
Until I hear the sad notes of the song start
And it rises to the surface
Lighting a fire in my chest
The ashes of the letter turning to embers once again.
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