Lullaby Jumpstart

Thursday, July 28, 2005

No, I don't want to look at it and please don't touch me.

For one hour of my workday I sit up front at the reception desk and cover the phone lines while our regular receptionist goes to lunch. I usually look forward to this hour because there is nothing for me to do but surf the internet and answer the phone with ungodly disdain.
Every so often, however, I am treated to moments of pure terror and humor. On occasion people have stopped in to visit and in the process of saying "hi", stolen a laptop from the neighboring office. Once a woman appeared on the floor claiming she was an architect and that we had stolen her drawings. She had informed me that if us motherfuckers didn't return her blueprints she could sue our jive asses.
Today, on a day I was already suffering through (due to a small bout with Whiskey last night), I encountered my worst fear. Okay second worse fear (my worst fear would be a clown entering the lobby and trying to make me a baloon animal). I encountered mortality.
A very elderly "gentleman" exited the elevator out of breath. I didn't see him but I could hear him. He was wheezing. Not really an "I just ran to the fridge for more diet soda" kind of wheezing, but along the lines of "I could drop dead at any moment and since I have no next kin, because I have outlived them, you will have to arrange my funeral" kind of wheezing. I casually greeted him without averting my eyes from www.imdb.com and asked who he would like to see. "Wh-a-a-uh-uh-uht?"
"Who are you here to see?"
"L_____."
"Okay I will call him. Feel free to have a seat if you would like."
"Wh-a-a-uh-uh-t?"
"I said..." At this point I had finally mustered the energy to swing my chair around and came face to face with one of the most frightening creatures in my life. The image will be burned in my retinas for days, if not weeks. Picture: A man of about five feet (who may at one time have been six feet tall but now is hunched over, almost folded in half), wearing all black (with a huge brown belt), holding a black umbrella, a brown walking cane (presumably to match his belt), and wearing an almost priestly black hat (priestly in that Poltergeist II sort of way...you know that guy I am talking about). I also located the source of his wheezing. In what little bit of neck that man had left, there was a plastic tube sticking out. I don't know if you would call it a tracheotomy scar, but clearly someone had put it there using surgical instruments. He was breathing from the tube. Air whistled in and out and back and forth. You would think this would allow him to keep his mouth closed, but of course it hung, gaping. I could see only four teeth, although I am sure his floppy and wrinkled lips could have been covering more. Sticking out of his ears were two hearing aids. Not the sleek and stylish models you see being sold by Art Linklater on television. No these things could house two double AA batteries inside of them. Which brings me back to our stilted conversation.
“I said…jesus…feel free to have a seat while I call him.”
To those who are wondering. Yes I vocalized that “jesus”. I have this inability to remain couth when I am being freaked out. A substitute teacher I had in high school once, had a shortened arm due to the effects of thalidomide during her gestation period. She was subbing for my US History teacher for a week while he had gall stone surgery. It was on the third day that I even noticed. Usually she stood behind a podium or I was asleep, so I never paid much attention. But I was asked to help her pass out some study guides one day and trudged my way up there. I walked up to the podium and put my hand out to grab them. She extended her deformed limb my way.
“Oh jesus Christ. What happened?” My face contorted sideways, I squinted and backed up against the blackboard.
“Excuse me?”
“I said jesus Christ…what happened to the old study guides. This looks like a new format to me.”
“Oh well…I couldn’t find his template so I typed these myself.”
Yes, I thought, but did you type them with both hands? Before you banish me to hell, please realize that I am aware I am going there. So as not to embarrass myself, I skipped history the rest of the week. I think there was something about some war. I got a “C” on the test.
Back to the living death, though. After I asked him to take a seat. I called L____’s executive assistant. Of course she wasn’t there. Part of me delighted in the fact that she might have to deal with this man. So I called R___ to find out if she knew where L____ was. I was informed he had had a business lunch and wouldn’t be back for two hours.
“Excuse me…uh…sir. L___ is out to lunch. Could I take…”
“Wh-a-a-uh-uh-t?” Everytime he spoke he had to cover his trach tube with his index finger, making this strange suction noise, akin to what I would imagine it would sound like to get liposuction.
“Yooooooo will h-a-a-ve to speeeek uuup. I ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-…”
While he was straining to communicate he kept jabbing his index finger into his ear, making it deflate inward and pop back out.
“L_____ IS OUT TO LUNCH! CAN I TAKE A MESSAGE?”
“O-oh. Yeessssss.” This man had become the embodiment of what I imagined every Tolkein-sci-fi creature to look like. Something reptilian, but bipedal. At any moment I expected a tail to slide out of his pant leg or leathery wings to rip through his black shirt. He gave me his number and then slowly turned to go. I immediately turned my attention back to my computer and held my breathe to keep from breaking into hysterical crying.
Out of my peripheral vision I could see him nearing the elevator. He stopped. Turned and put his index finger over his tube.
If he tells the fate of the world lies in my hands right now or that I will die in six days I swear to god I am quitting my job.
“Could yooooooooou pleasssssssse go down the elevator with me?”
“Um…”
“I-I-I-I’m terribly frightened.”
You’re terribly frightened. Mr. do you see my knees shaking?
“Uh…yes. Sure.”
In the elevator he approached me very closely, covered his tube and spoke. “Sometimesss in elevators the pressure changes and I can’t breathe. I didn’t want to be alone.”
There are those moments in life, when you realize how shitty you are capable of being. I tried to be sympathetic, but I could barely muster the energy to pity him. The fact was, that this poor man, who means no harm and most likely enjoys life, terrified me. He represented everything that I was reluctant to become. I always used to joke that I want to be dead by 30. Sometimes I wonder how serious I am being. I take for granted the fact that I can speak whenever I want and that when I go to bed at night I will not stop breathing. Please insert some adage here about not knowing how long we have and living life to its fullest, because I don’t want to think about it.
The elevator opened on the ground floor, after what seemed like an eternity, and he exited the car.
“Thank you…young man. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
He reached his trembling, liver spotted hands out to touch me.
Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch you motherfucker. Be human.
Contact. He skin was dry, scaly, and baggy. I could feel his tremors on my forearms. It took every fiber in my body not to tear my arm away and dive back into the elevator.
“H-h-have a nice day. Sir.” Instead I managed to be cordial. He turned to go and I stepped out of the elevator. I wanted to make sure he got out of the building safely. I watched him walk out onto Michigan avenue, amongst the hordes of people and window shoppers. He slowly faded into the crowd and my jaw finally released. I couldn’t help but think that somehow, I had escaped death.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Ode to Map Boy


The following is a transcript of a conversation between two ships passing in the night that occurred at 3:30pm today. Some people would call it a moment, I call it more randumbness that Ben can use to fuel his already overactive imagination, thereby creating some unique, yet false, history and relationship with a charming, attractive man who is undoubtedly straight and probably a narcissist.
Map Boy – Hey, my oldest friend. Haven’t seen you in a while. Need a photo?
Ben – Yep. Here are the cross streets I need. How has your day been?
Map Boy – (drolly sarcastic look, yet oddly attractive, mostly because of his face and charming demeanor) I love working for the city. Growing a beard?
Ben – No, just lazy. You?
Map Boy – Just lazy. Ask me if I ever aspired to work behind a map counter?
Ben – Uh…Did you ever aspire to work behind…
Map Boy - No!
Ben – (laughs) Then how did you end up here?
Map Boy - How did you end up changing light bulbs for a living?
Ben - Good Question. I have other goals.
Map Boy – Don’t we all. What is it you-
(Enter a young girl, impossibly attractive, wearing a short skirt)
Map Boy – Oh shit. Pretend to talk to me about something.
Ben – Um…it is gorgeous outside-
Map Boy – Not the weather.
Ben – Right. Um…I’ve been thinking about taking Mandolin lessons?
Map Boy – Really?
Ben – Yeah. I mean I’m really into bluegrass right now. Or progressive bluegrass…or alt-country, which is really almost any kind of music right now.
Map Boy – I need a frame of reference.
Ben – Oh…like…um…Nickel Creek or… (exit the impossibly attractive girl in the short skirt)
Map Boy – Oh I love Nickel Creek.
Ben – Ex-girlfriend?
Map Boy – Excuse me?
Ben – I assume you were trying to avoid her.
Map Boy – Oh…yeah. I really hate her.
Ben – Ended that badly?
Map Boy – What ended that badly?
Ben – Your…whatever.
Map Boy – Oh. We were never together.
Ben – Ah. I was a decoy.
Map Boy – Yeah. Nice job. Ooh. Here’s your photo. And I really like Nickel Creek, I wasn’t just saying that. Were you really going to take mandolin lessons?
Ben – Um…it’s a wild hair that I’ve been having. I’m like that…um…hairy. I need to trim. I’m gonna stop now.
Map Boy – (laughs) I owe you one.
Ben – Don’t mention it. What did she do anyway?
Map Boy – Nothing. My heart just belongs to someone else. (He smiles an ungodly intoxicating smile, that would make a person wonder how such a creature ended up working in a dark office in City Hall.)
Ben – Right. Uh…later. Take care.
-END-

Monday, July 25, 2005

Ten fingers and ten toes make me want to puke!

I was at my desk, or as the bigwigs like to call it, my pod, pretending to paper clip fauxly important documents, when my phone rang.
"This is Ben." (I always try to reassure the caller that they have succeeded or if they misdialed they hang up before they are embarassed)
"This is R___. Do you have a minute?"
"Oh...um...I'm really busy right now, I have these...um utilities...utility survey things to paper clip. Copy. I need to copy them and then paper clip them. Surveys...utilities."
"Right...okay...this will just take a second. Come see me in my office."
My initial reaction was panic. I was being fired. I was certain of it. Although she did say that this "wouldn't take long". Wouldn't take long to fire me? Fuck her, if I'm getting fired I at least deserve an hour.
I passed by one of my coworkers at the coat closet, who was honestly more interested in her coffee than me.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm fine. I gotta go see R___."
"Oh," she said as in Oh...you poor ignorant child. "You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Its better coming from her."
My feet began to carry me towards her office even though my brain was still back in the closet hiding in the umbrellas. As I neared her office thoughts were clogging my head and filling my sinuses.
What have I done? I mean okay I'm late to work almost everyday and constantly get caught checking my email. There was that day I left work early and watched Wimbledon at the NBC tower. Maybe it was that time I accidentally looked up porn on the internet. Maybe they have a problem with that pair of smelly shoes I keep under my desk in that bubble wrap? Jesus I really need to take those home...or throw them away. Do my feet really smell that bad?
"Are you going to see R____?" My bosses personal assistant, an ergonomic thorn in my ass, stopped me in the hallway.
"Y--y--es."
"It's great isn't it?"
"What is?"
"Her news."
Jesus, I know this woman doesn't like me and we don't necessarily get along but couldn't she express her joy over my termination to other people? I do all of my talking about her behind her back.
"Is it great?"
"Oh," as in Oh, I'm still smarter than you and make twice as much money for half as much work, "you haven't heard?"
"No," I bleated.
"Well get in there, you definitely need to know. Its so exciting!"
Maybe I wasn't being fired. Maybe I was getting promoted. Or maybe, just maybe, something was going on in this office that wasn't about me.
"Hello R___. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes Ben, please have a seat."
I'm being fired.
"Are you comfortable?"
I'm being promoted.
"Yes."
I'm being fired.
"Would you like a piece of candy?"
I'm being fired, I'm being promoted, I'm being pro-ired? Firoted?
"No thanks."
"I suppose that you should know-" I clenched my stomach and held my breath. Don't let her see you cry. Don't let her see you cry.
"-I am pregnant."
"What?"
"I am pregnant. With child."
"-"
"I'm having a baby."
"--"
"---"
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Ha! Hee hee! Oh God. Ha ha ha ha!"
"What's so funny?"
"Oh...you're serious?"
"Yes, I'm having a baby. I'm three months prenant."
I am the second to last person in the world who should ever have kids. This woman is the last. Not that she would be cruel or mean, but she would probably lose the baby. Constantly misplace it. Name it once and then forget it. Name it again and then forget it. Remember the first name and switch back and forth. Leave it places, mix it up with other children at the nursery. Dress it up in shirts that have ears or animal masks.
"Well...wow...R___. Congratulations?"
"Thank you."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Well in six months I will have to take maternity leave, which means you will have added responsibility in my absence."
"Oh."
"Isn't that just the greatest news you've ever heard." The personal assistant had been eavesdropping.
Which news, the fact that Little-Miss-Loses-Her-Own-Head is breeding or that because I will never have children I have to take on more odd jobs (one of which will certainly be relocating her lost infant when she brings it to work)?
"Oh-oh-oh. Yeah. That's...news all right."
***
This moment gave me pause. Why is it when people tell me they are pregnant, or getting married, I cannot feel happy for them? The first thing I think is, "Wow, how difficult is your life going to be?"
Seriously. The idea of starting a family seems not only daunting to me but inexplicably unnecessary.
Instead of "You must be so happy! Have you picked out any names yet?" its "Oh my god you are gonna lose so much sleep. Do you know how bad your eyes are gonna look?"
And the thought of a miniature version of me running around somewhere is incredibly, sickeningly terrifying. My god, I can hardly handle myself and a cat, how could I possibly handle a small wretched, pooping version of me. Sometimes when I mess up, I hit myself. I’m not ashamed to admit that if provoked, I might hit a child. That’s why I stay away from them. That and for some reason I make children cry. (certainly it isn’t my surly disposition)
Now I know what people will try and tell me.
“You’re young yet. You’re opinion will change.”
“You would make a great father.”
“Young gay men don’t tend to think about families right now.”
“You’re young.”
“I think its because you aren’t older yet.”
Even when I was nine or ten I remember being repulsed by children younger than me. I would look at my new cousins at the hospital and just go
“Oy…what a burden you will be. And if you touch my toys, I swear I will hit you.”
Aunts and uncles would say, “One day you can baby-sit.”
And I would say, “Why? What have I done wrong. Don’t punish me because you’re having second thoughts about being around children.”
As much as people change, and as much as I have changed throughout my life, children and family is something that I have yet to have even the slightest inkling for. I used to tell people I wanted children because I thought it was expected. But why lie? I gloat now.
“Oh you want babies? Ha…I can drink for the rest of my life and not care how loud I am when I come home. Ha ha!”
I’m sure when I’m forty and alone I will realize how selfish I am sounding right now (how is that for self-aware irony?) and maybe change my tune (by then it will be too late and I will have no liver, but we don’t choose these things, they choose us.)
But honestly, I have more to concern myself with than babies and families. For instance, how do I keep from getting fired, when I just got caught writing this entry at work?

Friday, July 22, 2005

Signs that in the past two months I may have shibbied too much

1. I've started sorting my laundry on my bedroom floor in piles called "Worn Once To Work", "Worn Twice To Work", "Worn Out to Bar, Still Smells Alright", "Worn Out To Bar, Smells of Smoke", "Went out somewhere, couldn't say where, and not sure what this smells like", and "Ew!"
2. People at work accustomed to seeing me look tired have now started commenting on any given day that I "Don't Look So Bad".
3. I keep a running total in my head of my checking account balance, knowing how much money I can spend at any given time on drinks and still have money left for a cab. (This one doesn't sound so bad, until people say "Hey wanna go out tonight?" And I reply, "Sure. I have 147.53 in my account so I can have three drinks if we go to a bar on the north side, two drinks if we go to a bar on the west side, and water if we go downtown.")
4. I pick my shoes based on whose couch I will be sleeping on. (Flip flops for people who have nice furniture.)
5. Getting on the train @ Western and getting off one stop later @ Damen to puke in a trashcan, all the while yelling at a passenger to hold the door because, "I'm running late for work, and I'll only be a second."
6. Taking power naps at the first bar I go to because I want to be refreshed for the four a.m. bar.
7. Pushing people out of the way on the el in the morning because if I don't get a sideways seat that is against the wall then I won't have anything to hold my head up.
8. After not getting the sideways seat, standing at the edge of the partition by the el door slowing edging closer to the person leaning on it, thereby making them scoot over and giving me partition space. Eventually we share or they just move.
9. Falling down on the el because I've just fallen asleep while only half of my body was leaning on the el partition and the train came to a sudden stop.
10. Using the word "shibbied" for partied, went out, got drunk etc.
11. Not remembering where I learned the term "shibbied" but I know it was hysterical.
12. Shaving midday at work because I know I am too hungover in the morning to do it and too drunk to even attempt it before I go to bed.
13. There would be more to add to this list but I am too hung-over right now to finish it and I want to make sure that I have time to eat and take a nap during my lunch hour.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Texters Anonymous

"What are you doing?"
"I'm texting a friend."
"Why don't you just call her?"
"Because then I would have to talk to her."
I'd like to think it's a way of becoming more romantic. Maybe even, dare I say, a bit more primitive through technology. I want to convince myself that texting (which is now a verb) is akin to keeping up correspondence. You have to spell and write actual words (or annoying abbrev. of pop wrdz 2 comm. qwiker). Regardless, it isn't an art form. Yet, I am addicted. You send off that message and wait for your phone to vibrate (or in my case play the theme song from "transformers") and see what new surprises are waiting for you.
Although I am ashamed to admit it, I have had entire conversations through texting, that had I just called the person would have lasted only five minutes, that went on for hours. And why?
I'd like to say it's because I think I can multi-task. I tell myself, I can totally carry on this conversation with my roommate while texting my brother. Which all it amounts to is me repeating the last thing my roommate said while figuring out how to get my phone to spell marijuana.
"Then you went to Borders?"
m-a-r-y.....mar i juno...marij...mayonaise?
"There were books in Borders?"
marijuat...marijoo...mari j u a n a
"These books had pages?"
marijuana!!!
"Ben, are you listening to me?"
So then I turn my attention to my roommate and begin texting whatever it is my brother sent me but in the form of a question.
"So is his new book out?"
you were high?
"I thought the last book ended too quickly...it needed more development."
you ate a whole tub of mayona...mayon..mayer...marijuana?
"And I didn't by the romantic subplot either."
i meant mayonaise?
...
and so on and so forth...
walking and texting...
eating and texting...
texting and texting...
it has to end.
I think I need help.
til that day...
i luv u & hope 2 c u 2nite, l8er!