Bent Words

Bent Words

June 26, 2009

It's HOT!

I love it! As long as the air conditioning doesn't go out...

Actually, I do believe I'm doing things right. In the morning I turn the air off and put all the shades down. It keeps my apartment quite cool throughout the day (I go home for lunch midday to double check). After I get home from work I turn the air back on and watch the cat's tongues slowly become replaced to their mouths. I grew up without air so I don't mind the lack of it but it does promote a deeper sense of REM at night.

At work, however, I cannot stand the heat and I directly attribute this to the boys. They stink the place up. I want to bring a bottle of Febreeze to work and spray each of them at random intervals during the day. Instead I just smile and keep my distance. It's become so bad that I don't allow them to use my desk chair. Their less-than-fresh odors sink into the fabric and linger for hours, making it difficult for me to function. Seriously, though -- I don't get it. My father doesn't smell bad when he sweats. He smells like grass clippings, regardless as to whether or not he has just cut the grass, and damp wood. My favorite racer, after a hard day's work in the non-air conditioned shop or after hour's of hard racing, smelled like metal and damp leather.

These guys smell like ten-day-old dead animals lain atop a large ration of moldy socks.

The good news is that we have fixed the previously defunct air conditioning unit in the office. One of the owners walked in the other day to say hello and, upon entering my office, stopped dead in his tracks. The humidity held him back like a billy club. He looked around, looked at me, looked around again and then looked at Danny (the new guy -- one of our ridiculously termed "team leaders").

"Fix this," he said.

"Fix what?" asked Danny in his high-pitched, pre-pubescent 21-year-old voice.

"The heat. It's ridiculous. Fix it."

In two hours we had air.

(All this time I needed only an extra 100 pounds and a convincing scowl to get things done? Really?)

And, ya know, I don't mind sitting at my desk with a bit of sweat hanging about the collar of my seven layer work shirt seeing as I've no one to impress at the shop but when I actually have to MOVE (which surprisingly occurs rather frequently), I can't stand it. I can't carry a towel around with me all day to swab my face and neck so, with the air back in full swing, I appreciate being able to hand over repair orders sans sweat drop stains (ew). The temperature in the office is still a shade over 80 but the humidity is gone and that makes all the difference.

Now if I could just get rid of Danny all would be well with the world. Well, that small sliver of my world anyway.

When he first started and I looked directly into the black buttons which are his eyes, I made it no secret that we would get along just fine as long as he didn't talk to me. Well, he talks. To me. A lot. He constantly spews little bits of barmy bullshit -- whatever senseless thoughts cross his mind fall directly out of his mouth. I can't stand it. He also sings little songs. Each of these songs incorporate my name. I despise this. I nod and smile but I hate this.

"I can see Laura now the rain is gone!" "Jungle Laura. Nah nah nah, nah nah nah." "LA-OO-RA! How are you DOO-ING?!"

I dig deep into my soul, searching for mere ounces of patience, but all I come up with are fistfuls of full-time, unabashed hate. He's really not a bad guy but I hate him.

And if I don't respond to his inane tendencies of frequent mouth opening, he asks what's wrong.

I cannot tell him that his voice etches deep shades of black pain across the my backs of my eyeballs so I simply tell him that I'm concentrating. I'm w o r k i n g. (My job requires a modicum of thought and this thought is greatly impaired with your random bouts of high pitched innocuous outbursts so shut the F up!)

But I don't say things like that.

The other problem is that, despite his near baldness, the guy is just a kid. He lives at home with his Mommy and Daddy. He actually admitted that he doesn't know how to do his own laundry. Anyone who is incapable of washing their own clothing has no right telling me what to do. Kids should be playing in sprinklers -- not directing adults in their daily activities.

He asked me to inventory spark plugs the other day. I heard him but inventory isn't my thing. And, I just couldn't resist...

"What did you say, Kiddo?"

(*blink blink* went the buttons)

That shut him up for a full minute or two.

The spark plugs remain un-inventoried.

And now things are looking up on the 'real job' front. Meaning, I have true motivation (lustful buckets of hate for my co-workers) coupled with a modicum of direction (more money). I know I may not love what I do in the future. I know there are going to be less than satisfactory co-workers looming in the not-so-distant distance. And I know I may have to take the heat for awhile but, ya know, I like it HOT.

So bring it.

Written at 6:30 p.m.