“Bhopa or Bust.”
Sign over restroom door.

10:04 a.m.: The temp worker at front desk, who has been here for eight months, stops me on my way into the office. “Hey,” she says. “I’m really down and depressed. Do you have time to talk?”
10:05 a.m.: I've no time for self-pity or the shallows of loneliness but am passionate about both so I make the time, I say.
10:13 a.m.: As soon as I get to my desk there is a major disruption. Sales guy uses the word “pussy” and several women in the office jump all over him. “I thought that was the nice word to use,” he says. “I thought it was the other word you hated.”
10:13:22 a.m.: “Just call it a vagina,” intern says. “No! Don’t do that!” Marti says so adamantly we will forever wonder why but never ask.
10:13:31 a.m.: “I like club vajayjay,” red carpet girl says.
10:13:54 a.m.: “The wunda down unda,”’ Tiara says.
10:14 a.m.: Employees start shouting out names from “the great divide” to “bikini biscuit” but nothing is sticking.
10:15 a.m.: Get e-mail from coworker too shy to shout anything out. It reads: “i like honey pot.” : )
10:15:40 a.m.: i like honey pot too, I message back. :)
11:13 a.m.: Art guy who was sent to India two weeks ago comes strolling into the office and we’re all shocked. Right after our company outsourced our tech support to Bangladdesh, they also contracted to have human resources operate out of Bhopal, India and its become kind of an office joke.
11:14 a.m.: Every morning someone will go online to check weather conditions and shout out something like, “It’s a hazy 104 in Bhopal today with a chance of dust showers this afternoon. Don’t forget your umbrellas.”
11:15 a.m.: So that’s fun but the odd thing is that, even though we’re having across the board budget cuts in every department of the company, you have to fly to Bhopa to be fired.
11:16 a.m.: And that’s why we’re so surprised to see the art guy returning. “No, no, you got these new guys all wrong,” art guy says. “They’re much more understanding than our old HR people. The first thing Raja told me was its not sexual harassment if there’s no penetration. They call it ‘Eve teasing.’They’re playing by a different set of rules. You know, its OK in their culture to light someone’s shoes on fire.”
11:17 a.m.: While they’re wearing them? I ask. “You know, I didn’t ask,” art guy says. “I just assumed.”
11:17:31 a.m.: “Who’s Raja?” Tiara asks. “He is basically the entire human resources department in Bhopal,” art guy says. Most of the people in the village think that HR stands for Human Raja. He’s the man.”
11:18 a.m.: Boss comes out of his office. “What are you doing here?” he says to art guy. “We sent you to India to be fired?”
11:18:43 a.m.: “My sins have been forgiven,” art guy smiles. “India is the land of third chances. That’s what Raja says”.
11:19 a.m.: “What the heck did you do over there?” new guy asks. “Oh, they got films and stuff and a sexual deviant management class too,” art guy says. “Plus, Raja enjoys watching the Vietnamese soap operas he picks up on DirectTV. You think the Latin soaps are hot, you gotta see these.”
11:21 a.m.: “And most afternoons we’d go to the marketplace. Don’t worry, I got souvenirs for everybody,” he says. “I love it over there. The nightlife is awesome. In the city, instead of hansom cabs they have magic carpet rides and at midnight they put blaring lights on the streets so all the women’s suri evening wear becomes transparent.”
11:22 a.m.: All the employees are shaking their heads.
11:22:18 a.m.: And wondering what they need to do to get sent to India to be fired.
11:43 a.m.: Get e-mail from Tiara titled URGENT: “A new phrase to describe getting fired has now been added to the office vernacular. Getting axed is now referred to as ‘taking a magic carpet ride.’”
12:41 a.m.: Go to lunch at the park and eat alone.
12:54 a.m.: As I’m heading back to my car a little girl from a day camp stops me and says, “Can I shine my apple on your shirt?” Yeah, I guess so, I say.
12:55 a.m.: She quickly wipes it up and down on my shirt and runs off.
1:22 p.m.: Art guy is handing out souvenirs. I get a set off camel salt and pepper shakers. “The one with the two humps is the pepper,” he says.
1:23 p.m.: “A ganesha statue!” the new guy shouts. Red carpet girl is laying out a glorious linen bedding set in her cubicle. “Eighty cents,” art guy says winking at me.
1:25 p.m.: Carrot holds a strangely vicious looking embroidered tunic up in front of her and says, “Look, doesn’t it make me look dangerous, like I want to kill somebody?”
1:25:20 p.m.: You always look like you want to kill somebody, I say. “OK, but this makes me look like I’d really do it, right? Like it almost gives me permission.” Yes, the tunic gives you permission to kill somebody, I say.
1:28 p.m.: Go to bathroom and a sign over the door reads: “Bhopa or Bust.”
2:10 p.m.: Several members of the staff have been acting up all day, apparently hoping that HR (Human Raja) will be called in to deal with them, so the boss comes out of his office and announces: “If anyone thinks they’re going to get a free all expenses paid trip to India to be fired they are sadly mistaken.”
2:11 p.m.: “So you really can’t be fired anymore? Can you?” Tiara asks.
2:11:39 p.m.: “That may be the case but we’re still working on it,” boss says. “It’s just one more piece of the transformative change puzzle is all. I’ll have a firm answer for you in about two years.”
2:11:45 p.m.: All the employees immediately close their eyes and envision the boss’s shoes going up in flames.
2:12 p.m.: While he’s wearing them.
2:41 p.m.: Intern excitedly shows me her new suri body wrap. “Later I’m going to put it on and climb a ladder up to the florescent lights so everybody can see through it,” she says. “Stick around.”
2:42 p.m.: I’d like to but I remember I have an errand to run. I have to stop by a friend’s house and feed her cat and finches.
3:12 p.m.: Feed the finches and make sure I shut the utility room door again so the cat can’t get to them.
3:14 p.m.: Go to the kitchen and while I’m making Tang the finches are making a horrible racket. The cat, Kaiser Roll, looks at me like “just let me eat them.” I tell her if they were mine I certainly would.
3:33 p.m.: Hanging out in the kitchen as if I never have to move again. I really do want to give up on …everything. But then you hit a day that’s wrapped in suri and full of shiny apples, magic carpet rides and honey pots.
3:35 p.m.: There’s a laptop on the counter so I go online.
3:37 p.m.: The skies are cloudless and it’s a dry 99 in Bhopa today.

Posted by T Shine at 1:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

An Army of One Less - Part 2

I’ve got your back…and I’ve got your front.
- Brad Paisley

11:50 a.m.: “Ahh, look at the baby horse,” Jessa says lowering her window. “And that calf. I like anything babies.”
12:03 p.m.: Sign along highway reads: Drive the speed limit or PAY THE PRICE!
12:04 p.m.: “Let me drive,” Jessa says. “I don’t’ like being threatened like that. There’s no reason to threaten us. Pay the price. Fuck them.”
12:04:22 p.m.: You really want to drive? I say. “Yes. Pull over at the next rest stop. I have to go to the bathroom anyway,” she demands. OK, I say.
12:18 p.m.: Reach over to change the radio station and Jessa slaps my hand. “That’s Faith and Tim, asshole.”
12:31 p.m.: Pass graveyard. “I read somewhere that when you’re buried with fake breasts they’re the only things that will remain intact,” Jessa says. “So if they dig up your coffin after two hundred years all that will be in there is a set of silicone breasts.”
12:32 p.m.: “In a thousand years they’ll be nothing of me left,” she says. “Real breasts are fleeting.”
12:33 p.m.: “You can write that down if you want,” she says. “I know you like to write shit down.”
12:34 p.m.: Write it down.
12:36 p.m.: Hey, I say. I was reading the other day about this superstitious guy who whenever he bought a coke would have to open several of them first because he claimed he could tell by the sound of it opening whether it was a lucky coke or not.
12:37 p.m.: “Your nonsequitors are tiresome,” Jessa says. “We passed a graveyard, that’s why I told you about the breast implants. You’re just blurting out stuff. Plus, now you’re making me thirsty. You should have packed a cooler.”
12:38 p.m.: You caught me off guard, I say.
12:42 p.m.: “How’s Katee doing?” Jessa asks. She’s like all the people I know who are going to start their lives tomorrow but never do, I say. “Like you,” Jessa says.
12:45 p.m.: “When we get near your house I want to go to the bank and get all my money out of the ATM,” Jessa tells me. “If the military can direct deposit they can direct withdrawal. I’ve got to get to the money first.”
12:46 p.m.: “Oh, and I need to get Q-Tips. You can get everything on base but Q-Tips. I don’t know why. You know I’m going to have to stay with you guys for awhile.”
12:46:14 p.m.: I figured as much, I say. “I just don’t want to surprise my parents with this right now. My Dad won’t understand,” she says.
12:47 p.m.: What about your mom? I ask. “She’s been fucking her boss and telling my Dad she’s been going to Curves. I don’t’ think she’ll care one way or the other,” Jessa says.
12:48 p.m.: What do you want to do when you get back?
12:48:43 p.m.: “I don’t know, apply at Spencer Gifts.”
12:49 p.m.: “And I want to go to the Warped Tour. Will you drive me to the Warped Tour?” Sure.
12:50 p.m.: “Am I the only one looking forward to Rush Hour 3 (italics) coming out?”
12:50:14 p.m.: No.
1:03 p.m.: I don’t see any official rest stops coming up, I say. Do you want me to just pull off and find a gas station? I’ve got to get gas anyway. “I’m not going to the bathroom at a gas station but do what you have to do,” she says.
1:12 p.m.: Stop to get gas and Jessa goes into convenience store.
1:17 p.m.: Almost done filling tank when Jessa comes up from behind and pops open a coke about two inches from my face. “Lucky enough for you,” she says.
1:18 p.m.: Did you use the bathroom? I ask. “No way,” she says. “The sight of that bathroom made me never want to go to the bathroom again. So I’m not.”
1:18:14 p.m.: We can go to the Bob Evans across the street. “What for?” she says. “I no longer go to the bathroom.”
1:20 p.m.: Jessa takes the wheel and we begin to make very good time.
1:41 p.m.: “I told you about Matthew”, Jessa says. “What about you and what’s her name?” She doesn’t’ think she can love me but I think she can, I say. “You’re such an optimist,” she says.
2:13 p.m.: Go to bank and Jessa is feverishly trying to get all her money out of the ATM. I remind her there’s a limit at the ATM and she neds to go in the bank. “I don’t want to go in a bank wearing camouflage,” she says. “It scares people. Besides, if you wait a few minutes between withdrawals the machine forgets you. Here, here’s 20 dollars. Go buy yourself something pretty.”
2:20 p.m.: Walk over to the car and try to get love bugs off the hood by spitting on it.
2:25 p.m.: Jessa comes back with wad of cash and tells me to hold it for her until she “gets her motherfuckin’ shit together.”
2:31 p.m.: Katee is ecstatic to see Jessa. “You look great. You’re all clavicle-y. And I love your pants,” Katee says hugging her. “When people wear faux camouflage I think it’s stupid but when it’s real it’s cool.”
2:31:31 p.m.: “Trust me, nothing’s cool about these pants,” Jessa says.
2:32 p.m.: Tell Katee that Jessa no longer has to go to the bathroom. “Ever?” Katee says.
2:32:12 p.m.: “Ever,” Jesse says.
2:32:23 p.m.: “That’s awesome,” Katee says.
2:33 p.m.: “How’s Matthew?” Katee asks. “Useless,” Jessa says.
2:33:21 p.m.: He can’t do the fucking motion anymore, I say.
2:33:29 p.m.: “Oh, that’s too bad,” Katee says. “Let me try on your Army boots?”
2:36 p.m.: Wearing nothing but a sleep shirt and the boots, Katee starts stomping around the apartment and kicking everything in sight. “These are awesome. My foot doesn’t feel anything when I kick,” she says. “I could kick stuff all day with these. How do you get them so shiny?”
2:39 p.m.: “Cool Whip,” Jessa says. “It’s an old Navy trick but we use it in the army too. “We have Cool Whip. I’m going to go polish my shoes,” Katee says cheerily.
2:44 p.m.: Jessa looks at me wearily and says, “I need to lie down.” You can sleep in my bed, I say. “I don’t’ want to sleep on your smelly sheets,” she says. “This couch is perfect. And hey, if I change my mind later will you take me back tonight?” No, I say.
2:45 p.m.: Katee comes out with Cool Whip. While both spooning it into her mouth and dabbing little blobs on to a pair of pink high heels, she starts blabbing about some peace rally where Doorway 27 is going to be playing. “They suck. And I don’t give a crap about peace. This couch is my fucking peace,” Jessa says crashing down and burying her face in the sofa.
2:46 p.m.: With her voice muffled by the cushions she says, “If anybody goes out, get me some Q-Tips.”

Note: This column is dedicated to the memory of Spc. Jessa T. Galan and Pfc. Sam W. Huff.

Posted by T Shine at 10:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

“YYYYYY”
- License plate spotted on I-75.

1:44 a.m.: Get call from friend Jessa who’s been in the army for 28 months now. “You need to pick me up,” she says bluntly.
1:44:54 a.m.: It’s the middle of the night, I say. Where are you?
1:45 a.m.: “I’m still in Georgia. If you leave now we can eat breakfast together. There’s a bunch of places right here.”
1:45:23 a.m.: I can’t come now. It’s a five-hour drive, I say. “You have to,” she says. “I’m AWOL.”
1:45:40 a.m.: Are you serious? “Yes, I’ve been calling the bank all night waiting for my check to be direct deposited. I wanted to make sure I got paid at least one more time. Well, the money’s in and I’m gone.”
1:46 a.m.: I can’t believe it. “Oh, this convenience store I’m in has hats made out of turtle shells,” Jessa says. I’m going to get you one.” Hear Jessa asking clerk how much turtle shell hat is. “I’ll take it,” she says.
1:46:38 a.m.: No you’re not, I say. “I am unless he refuses to sell it to me. Here, you want to talk to him?” No. “Hello,” clerk says. “Hello.” Don’t sell her the turtle hat, I say. “Who are you?” he says.
1:47 a.m.: “I don’t think he likes you,” Jessa says getting back on the phone. I can’t be messing around, I tell her. Are you really AWOL? Because if you really are I will come but don’t make me…
1:47:14 a.m.: “Let me know when you’re 20 minutes out and I will order you a lumberjack breakfast,” she says. “Where do you want to eat? All the breakfast houses are here – Original Pancake House, Huddle House, Waffle House. The Waffle House looks cozy.”
2:12 a.m.: Get dressed and begin driving up I-95.
2:22 a.m.: Listen to a preacher on the radio for fiver hours. He keeps talking about God but he sounds like the devil.
7:34 a.m.: Jessa is sitting at the Waffle House with two huge plates in front of her. One is wiped out and the other is nearly clean. “I started on yours,” she says. “You want me to finish it?”
7:35 a.m.: Might as well, I say. She seems more contemplative than she did on the phone. You’re sure about this? I ask. “Sure as rain.”
7:36 a.m.: ‘Cause we could just go play paintball or something, I say. I won’t be mad. It’s good to see you anyway. “You can’t go up against me in paintball anymore,” she says. “I’m a soldier.”
7:40 a.m.: A little girl comes by the table, stares at Jessa, and says, “You look like Kim Possible.”
7:40:21 a.m.: “I am Kim Possible,” Jessa says. “But I’m on a secret mission so don’t tell anybody.” “I won’t,” the little girl says.
7:41 a.m. “And don’t tell anybody that I eat like a pig,” Jessa says as the little girl heads back to her mother.
7:42 a.m.: Overhear a waitress telling another couple that she visited a toothpaste factory on her last vacation. “Absolutely disgusting,” she says. “I’ll never brush my teeth again.”
7:43 a.m.: “Here comes the check. Lets get going,” Jessa says grabbing her duffle bag. “I don’t want to get caught.”
7:43:48 a.m.: By whom, the MPs? “Listen to you,” she says. “The MPs (italics). You’ve been watching too many movies.” What, there aren’t really MPs?”
7:44 a.m.: “Nobody even cares if you go AWOL. They don’t hunt you down or anything. I just won’t be able to get my college paid for anymore,” Jessa says. “And if you get pulled over by the police for a traffic violation it shows up and they can bust your balls about it but that’s about it. Remember Shanna? You met her last time you were up. She went AWOL 11 months ago and they’re still paying her. Didn’t even notice she was gone.”
7:45 a.m.: So whom don’t you want to get caught by? “Certain people,” she shrugs.
7:51 a.m.: As we’re pulling out of the parking lot I have to ask. This isn’t about some guy, is it? “Hell, no,” she says. What about that Matthew? “He got hit by a pickup truck in town and screwed up his back. He can’t do the fucking motion anymore. A girl’s got no use for a guy that can’t do the fucking motion. End of story.”
7:52 a.m.: Nobody else? “Stop it,” she says. “They’re all truly G.I. Joes – hard bodies with rubber heads. And the townies are worse. They all wear nut-hugger shorts and spend the entire weekend washing their cars. Total assholes. When you go out you don’t know whether they’re holding the door open for you as a courtesy or so they can rape you from behind.”
7:53 a.m.: “And then there’s the gays on base,” she says. “People complain about flamboyant gays but there’s nothing worse than gung-ho gays. They’re always having push-up contests.”
7:53:29 a.m.: Listen to yourself, I say. “I can’t,” she says.
7:55 a.m.: Jessa pats me on the knee, stares out the window and says. “Let’s not talk for two hours.” OK, I say.
10:11 a.m.: I’m gazing out at the farmland when Jessa sits back up. “You know, they always talk about how farm work is so hard but I’ve yet to see anybody working on a farm,” she says. “I’m not just talking about now. I mean, I must have driven past a thousand farms since I was a kid and I’ve yet to see one goddamn farmer out plowing the fields. Everything is bullshit. You know that.”
10:12 a.m.: I know that.
10:12:12 a.m.: “Even the notion that farmers work hard.”
10:12:31 a.m.: Agreed.
10:20 a.m.: “Oh, sheep,” Jessa says pressing her face against the window. “Look, they’ve just been sheared. I bet that’s the best time for the sheep - the time between shears. They know they’re free and clear for awhile, like life between dentist visits.”
10:27 a.m.: A car passes with a license plate that reads: YYYYYY. “That’s the first vanity plate I’ve ever liked. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?” Jessa says shaking her head.
10:31 a.m.: She turns up the radio. The preacher is long gone and a peppy voice is singing over and over, “Where did you get that blank expression on your face?”
10:33 a.m.: “This song reminds me of you,” she says.
10:33:23 a.m.: Do you really think they were going to send you back? I ask. “In 11 days,” she says quietly.
10:34 a.m.: Jessa sneezes and grabs a napkin. “Oh shit-kabobs,” she yells. “What the…” She pulls the napkin back and huge wads of pink gum are stretching out from her nose like taffy.
10:35 a.m.: “Why the hell didn’t you stop me?” she hollers. Don’t yell at me, I say. You picked up a used napkin. It was crumpled. I spit my gum out in it an hour ago. Oh God, its all over your face. Do you want me to stop?
10:36 a.m.: “No! I want you to die! What kind of gum is this? It smells like a circus.” Watermelon Bubblicious, I say. Three pieces. “Jesus…”
10:36:14 a.m.: “You are such a dickwad. Let’s not talk for an hour. ”
11:37 a.m.: “Thanks for picking me up.”
11:37:27 a.m.: Thanks for going AWOL.

…to be continued

Posted by T Shine at 10:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Shine is on vacation. Here’s a rerun.

I’ll let you be in my dreams
if you let me be in yours.
— Bob Dylan

8:13 a.m.: Wake up from dream about trying to park my car. In the dream, I’m in Rio de Janeiro and go to pull into the lot, but the parking attendant tells me, “No, you can’t park your car here.” I ask, Why? And he says, “Because you’re not a tourist.” But I know damn well I’m a tourist. I’m in Rio. But he keeps it up. “No, no. You not tourist. This parking lot only for tourists.” And he knows he’s messing with me. He has this little smirk on his face, and there is absolutely no reasoning with him.
8:14:12 a.m.: That’s what I hate about dreams now. Everybody in them knows they can get away with anything. You can’t reason with them because it’s like, “Really, and what are you going to do if I don’t do what you say, wake up?” To them, dreams are like the last wild frontier, and they’re taking full advantage.
8:15 a.m.: With the parking lot guy, I told him I wanted to speak to his supervisor, and, well, did you ever try to get a supervisor in a dream? Good luck.
8:16 a.m.: I’ve been in dreams in, like, a convenience store, and a guy in line will start feeling up the woman in front of him just because he can. I don’t play that way. In my dreams, I live by the same code I do in my waking life: no stealing, no cutting in line, no feeling up the ladies at the convenience store — unless they want me to. I can be in the middle of some feverish dream being chased by Super Mario and Bam Margera, but if I accidentally back into a parked car at Target while on the run, I leave my name and number. That’s just who I am.
8:17 a.m.: I’m not saying I want the job because I’m sure it would be very complicated and a big responsibility, but we need to bring some law and order into the mix and … I guess what I’m trying to say is: Dreams need a sheriff.
8:17:23 a.m.: Go back to sleep.
9:38 a.m.: While eating a big bowl of Apple Jacks for breakfast, I keep asking myself the one question that’s been gnawing at me for weeks now: Is it too late for me to be a Mia Hamm fan?
10:12 a.m.: Pulling into the parking lot at work, I see a young couple in the courtyard of the luxury apartments I’ve always wanted to live in next to our building. My car window is down, and all I can hear as I pass is the guy’s voice cracking as he says, “You killed my heart. I am done with you.”
10:13 a.m.: I like the simplicity of that — the cut-and-dried-ness of that. It stirs me deeply, and I feel for them in a way that makes me immediately think SOMEBODY NEEDS A ROOMMATE!
10:17 a.m.: In my office building, two women — one young, one old — are standing to the side of the elevator. It appears to be one of those mentoring situations, and the older woman keeps sternly saying, “Don’t ever let anybody tell you that you can’t do something. You can do anything you want.”
10:18 a.m.: Now, I’m no mentor. In fact, I was kicked out of the mentoring program, and I wasn’t even the mentor, I was whatever they call the person who signs on to be mentored. But one afternoon, my mentor, this guy who looked like John Lithgow, took me down and dropped me off at Human Resources as if it were the Animal Rescue League. I hung around for a few days to see if I’d get picked again, then figured I better get out of there before I got put to sleep.
10:18:13 a.m.: Anyway, I just don’t think that’s good advice — to make people believe they’re capable of doing anything they want. It sounds like something somebody in my dreams would come up with. I could think of 100 examples of why it’s bad advice.
10:19 a.m.: Example 1: Would you want me to give you a haircut?
10:19:31 a.m.: Example 2: Didn’t you think “JFK Jr.” the instant you heard Brad Pitt is going for his pilot’s license?
10:31 a.m.: Argument breaks out over whether there’s any difference between clothes you wouldn’t wear anywhere else but around the house and clothes you’d wear to Blockbuster. “There is a difference,” the boss finally says, “but it’s oh-so-subtle.”
10:54 a.m.: Try to finish a writing assignment, but every time I stop to think, this cartoonish paper clip pops up on my screen and starts scratching his head. He has eyes and eyebrows, and if he could talk, I bet he’d sound exactly like Gilbert Gottfried. But right now, he just keeps scratching his head like, “That’s it? That’s all you got?”
10:55 a.m.: Punch paper clip.
11:09 a.m.: Not sure whether it’s just to get out my aggression over the paper clip or not, but decide to be straight with the people I work with once and for all, just tell them right out what I think of them.
11:38 a.m.: Finish writing up on index cards exactly what I want to say, and then set out to recite them at each desk.
11:40 a.m.: Stop No. 1: Excuse me, I say (I always say excuse me; it’s one of my standards) I don’t like you. You’re stingy with a compliment, and you reek of dollar-store hairspray.
11:42 a.m.: Stop No. 2: Excuse me, but I thought you quit this job. You’re always saying you’re going to quit, but you never freaking quit. So quit already.
11:43 a.m.: I’m waiting.
11:45 a.m.: Stop No. 3: Excuse me. You killed my heart. I am done with you.
11:45:17 a.m.: Stop No. 4: Excuse me, but I never forgot the day you turned on me. It completely negated the niceness with which you’d showered me for three years. For some reason, your previous kindness made it even worse.
11:46 a.m.: Stop No. 5: Excuse me. I just need you to tone it down. We know you have more money than the rest of us and it shouldn’t really bother me — and most of the time it doesn’t — but once in a while, usually on a Thursday, when I’m sitting there planning my third in-state vacation to, say, Universal Studios for the eighth time and hear you on the phone complaining to someone about how watered down the drinks were in Fiji, it’s a little irritating. Just tone it down. That’s all.
11:46:40 a.m.: Stop No. 6: Excuse me, you smell funny.
11:47 a.m.: Get to No. 7, but the desk is empty and half the office is heading to the storage closet for index cards.
11:47:14 a.m.: And the other half already has the cards and is lining up at my desk.
11:48 a.m.: Decide to take an early lunch.
12:12 p.m.: Read that Burger King’s triple burger is no match for Wendy’s triple burger, but I’m always for the underdog, even when it comes to food.
12:43 p.m.: Try to take nap in car in Burger King parking lot.
12:47 p.m.: Fall asleep.
12:47:17 p.m.: There’s a new sheriff in town.

Contact T.M. Shine at tshine@citylinkmagazine.com.

Posted by T Shine at 4:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)