How Do You People Title These Things??

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?