And So to Work

I had a can of frosting for lunch. It's not the most rewarding thing I've ever done, but it's up there. Good mouthfeel. The rush, almost like a drug when it really gets rolling; heart beating faster, mind abuzz, my palms sweaty. Today chocolate; tomorrow, vanilla.

Mr. O-Face hoves into view. I chuck the can in the trash, lick the plastic knife clean and toss it inside as well. Last thing I need is to provide him jabberfodder. Obviously "O-Face" is not his real name. But the guy worships at the Church of Office Space. Thinks it's the most awesome thing he's ever seen that wasn't based on tits or guns or both. At his urging, I saw it. Didn't think much of it. He told me I was the fat four-eyed guy. I told him he was "O-Face". You know, the irritating prick who won't shut up about his dick and what it's been up to; that it's the head that does most of his thinking and get most of the work done. Not that I said that, but he got the message and shut up. At least for a moment. But every so often during the average day, he drifts by. And here he comes. But I just ate a can of frosting. He should keep moving.

No such luck. He leans over me, one hand on my chair, one on my desk, face about a foot from mine like we've been buddies since kindergarten or something. The guy reeks of either cologne or soap he hasn't propertly washed off, and I've got all I can handle when he does this not to grab his nuts and pull them down between his knees, then let them snap back and spin like a set of cheap blinds. Christ, I wish he'd find somebody else to talk to.

His face jabs up beside mine, his eyes on my screen. "So what are you up to? Jesus, dude, do you ever work?" He says this to me while he's out pissing around the office, bothering people. Does the word ironic mean anything to this guy? I think about leaving work a little early and letting the air out of one of his tires. Or maybe all of them. He shoves a bag of pretzels at me. "Want one?"

"No thanks." I feel like I'm vibrating. Last thing I need's more carbs.

"So what's going on?"

I shrug. "Nothing much."

He hesitates, his eyes on my face, hopeful, like a kid who knows when he sees you you'll give him a dollar, so he's waiting, where's my dollar? He's bored and waiting for me to entertain him. Fuck you, Bozo, you're the clown. Tell me a joke. Pull down your pants. Make me laugh.

I just stare back at him.

He gets the vibe. "I better get back. I'll catch you later." And off he goes with his empty cup and a dry well of giggles. Mr. O-Face. Man, I feel sick. Like I wanna puke. Whether it's the sugar or O-Face, I'm not sure. Probably a measure of both. Instead, I drink half a litre of water, pull on my headphones, and listen to light jazz. I ride the rush. I'm typing away, but my mind's like an anvil and the vibraphone notes fall on it like hammerblows, solid and mighty. It's like a brain massage. I spend the afternoon wavering back and forth between wanting to puke and wanting to fly. One can of frosting and I'm Keith Richards. Only, you know, not as ugly. And certainly not as rich. And his kinda money blows past a whole lotta ugly. Okay, score one for you, Keith.

Man, I can't wait to get out on the highway.