On Thursday, I had my final day at work. As expected, I did about fifteen minutes of actual work, allowed myself an hour-and-a-half lunch, and then jack-assed the rest of the day away.


I came back on Friday for my going-away/birthday party which I had been touting as "My Final Huzzah." I told everyone that the theme was "East Coast vs. West Coast." I showed up wearing a blue bandana, a wife-beater, one pant-leg rolled up, and a temporary tattoo of a dragon on my neck along with a couple of other tattoos my sister drew on with Magic Marker that said "Thug Life" on my shoulder and "Anya" (the name of my neice) on my clavicle.


I'm not sure which coast I was representin', but I am certain it was to the fullest.


I had reserved one of our large training/seminar rooms with multimedia capabilities. It was easier than I thought. I just told the person in charge that it was for a "team building activity" and I neatly skirted mentioning that I would no longer be an employee at the time of the event.


I highly recommend learning some meaningless bureaucratic terms. They're very effective with people who don't want to admit they don't understand what you're talking about.


When I entered the training room in the building that I used to call work, I was not surprised to see that no one else had put much effort into the theme. I understood. I'm sure they had opportunities to dress up as gangsta rappers at work all the time.


We had pizza, cookies, chips, brownies, and soda. We had chess, dice, cards, and Hungry Hungry Hippos (thanks, Jake). I brought down the projection screen and slipped Office Space into the DVD player. I laughed at the movie. I also laughed at my supervisors as they cringed and fretted during some of the racier scenes in the film and whenever the movie blasted explicit gangsta rap music. To their credit, none of them made me stop the film. This confirmed what I had long suspected: the disciplinary problems I often presented them with had not been covered in any of the corporate training, rendering them essentially powerless as long as I remained polite and exuded confidence.


I'm going to have to put that on my next resume'.


So now I'm free as long as my bank account holds up. It is a strange feeling. I think it's like when Neo touches the mirror in the first Matrix movie. There is this little blob of freedom on my fingertip and it is spreading, slowly at first, but gaining speed.


I think I'm starting to feel like myself again which is good because, all things considered, I really liked me.

So I never explained what happened during my Italian presentation on The Inferno.


I walked into class carrying a whole bunch of posterboards and a gasoline can and lighter hidden in a spare bag. I took my seat and waited patiently.


My name was called, I stepped to the front of the class, I began my presentation began, and everything started off smoothly. I had essentially made a giant slide show with posterboards depicting the Dante's journey through Hell. Oh yes, many-a wicked stick figure was shown suffering plethora of poorly-drawn tortures.


After all my descriptions, I set up the posterboards around the classroom in order of the levels of Hell. Then, I held up pictures of well-known people and asked the class where in Hell they belonged. Einstein was in Limbo (virtuous non-believer), President Clinton was in Level 2 (lustful), Ruben Stoddard was in Level 3 (gluttonous) and so one. The last picture I held up was one of myself. I was curious to see where the class would place me. I was thinking Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) because I was usually in a bad mood when I was in class, since it was at 7 pm and I'd been working all day and I probably hadn't eaten.


They couldn't come to a consensus so I placed myself in Level 2, since that's where the Dante's Inferno Online Test placed me. Although, to be fair, I scored very high for almost every level except Limbo.


After that, it was time for my big finale. I grabbed all the posterboards and my notes and dumped them in a pile.


"Now what would a presentation on Dante's Inferno be without..." I rummaged in my bag and pulled out the gasoline can and the long barbecue lighter. "Without the Inferno?" I finished. I started pouring the can's contents onto the pile of papers. When it was empty I tossed it to the side. I held up the lighter high over my head and sparked a flame. I stole a glance at my audience. There was a variety of facial expressions. Some disbelief, some shock, and (my personal favorite) a good deal of morbid fascination.


I let the lighter extinguish and lowered my arm. "You were all just going to sit there and let me do this?!" I yelled. "What's wrong with all of you?!"


The liquid in the gas can was water, of course.


I was disappointed with my class. I had been bracing myself to be tackled to the ground or at least been hit with a chair. But no, nothing. I guess for some crazy reason, people trust that I know what I'm doing. I appreciate that, of course.


I can, however, see a very large downside to that.

"What are you going to do now?"

Ben, I can't tell you how many times I've had to answer that question. Whenever people around here hear that I'm quitting, the first question is usually "Why?"


My answer to that question is "Because it's my one-year anniversary. When I started I gave myself one year to play grown-up and then I'd leave."


That answer usually leads to blank stares. After the person stops trying to figure out whether I'm joking or serious, the second question is "What are you going to do now?" The answer to that question is another I greatly enjoy giving and, coincidently, the same thing I'm going to have chiseled on my tombstone:


"I don't know."


Most of the people around here have a very difficult time hearing this, and if I were to judge by their facial expressions, for very different reasons.


In general, they look at me like I'm a fool. This only reinforces my belief that I'm doing exactly the right thing.


Well, I have to go. I'm at work. That's right. Let them catch me. What are they going to do to me that I haven't already done to myself?

My Birthday Present To Myself


Yesterday was my birthday. It was a pretty wild day/night. Not that it's over yet; I'm from the Jaden School of Birthday Celebrations so I intend to celebrate the entire month of May.


My day started off very well. I went into work for a few hours. Everyone thought I was crazy for coming in on my birthday. Poor, distrusting fools. I had to come in to work because I wanted to send out an e-mail. The following is what I sent to about forty of my co-workers and a handful of the people in charge of me:


Hullo everyone,


As I'm sure you are all already aware, today is the 23rd anniversary of the day of my birth. I took the liberty of stashing a couple kegs down in Archives so come on down on your break or lunch or whenever and say hello.


I would also like to announce that I am retiring from the insurance game. I am confident that my record of 134,000 wins, 0 losses, and 4 draws will go down in the annals of mail clerk history.


Exactly two weeks from today will mark my one year anniversary with this insurance company. That day will also be my last day with insurance company. I'm sure the timing is just a coincidence but you numerologists can kick that around if you'd like.


For your listening amusement, I have attached a cheesy song that expresses my feelings the way only a harpsichord and a pair of bongos truly can.


So long, and thanks for all the fish.


Love,


Guillermo Lopez
aka Willy B
aka Grr
aka Scotty McSurance
aka That Guy Sleeping Under The Desk


PS. What I said about the kegs in Archives...that was a lie. I'm sorry.


"Are you the brains of this operation?"


"To tell you the truth, I don't think this is a brains kind of operation."


-Way of the Gun


“Of course there is no formula for success except perhaps an unconditional acceptance of life and what it brings."


—Arthur Rubinstein


Attachment: "Two Points For Honesty" by Guster.


Then I was asked to print out an actual letter of resignation. I obliged and gave my supervisor this:


May 12, 2005


To Whom It May Concern,


Know all ye present that I, William Lopez, henceforth and herewith do tender my intention to resign from this insurance company in precisely one fortnight from the date of this communiqué, in accordance with the customs of this civil and prudent institution.


Sincerely,


Associate #36845


________________



I feel good. Oh, and watch your backs, numerologists. You know what day this is.

Oh, and Luis posted.

It is time for Italian class! I'm afraid you must excuse me; I have to go fill a can of gasoline for my presentation on Dante's Inferno.

Doughy Wrath!


Photo concocted by Joey Moore.


Given my fondness for juxtaposition, I think I should put up some stuff that isn't particularly related to homicidal dough people. This is from the journal I carry around with me from time to time. I often ponder the relationship between where a person is writing and what they write. Some authors, like Stephen King, recommend creating a personal, intimate space in order to be alone with your thoughts. Others, such as Neil Gaiman, write in bars, airports, and even while waiting in lines. I've never gone to a bar with writing in mind. I've been pretty happy with what I've produced in airports. I've never tried while waiting in line for anything because my handwriting is already terrible.


I'm not sure that either way is better or worse. I like having a personal space to write because hey, sometimes you just don't feel like wearing pants. I also like writing when I'm somewhere I don't necessarily want to be because when I turn my attention to the journal I am essentially creating my own personal space amidst the din and clamor of the world at large. Well, anyway, here's some of that non-doughboy stuff.


* * *
I often forget that this is a journal. The purpose of this book has become blurred. If it ever had a purpose, of course. The only purpose I could bring myself to assign to this particular composition notebook is to relieve stress. Except that it doesn't always do that, either. The pen dips into the mind and stirs up the thoughts. The words, already written, eagerly wait for the eye to light upon them. When I read them again they seem to spring up like tiny imps to unearth old graves.


This journal is a headstone, a grave marker for an aborted idea.


Lack of motivation. Might not that be a good sign? Contentment and complacency are inbred cousins, if not outright conjoined twins who enter together when you only meant to invite in one.


* * * *
He wears all black except for a green arm-band around his left forearm. The large screen in the center of the viewing hall has descended from the ceiling. Projected upon it is the delicate visage of a young Italian woman with the title "Catalina Va In Citta'."


What does he think of as he sips black coffee from a Styrofoam? He thinks of love, no doubt, as all men do when they find themselves alone. What keeps him from loving, then? What keeps him alone? A fierce desire to master himself. A foolish pride that will not allow anyone else to succeed where he has failed.


* * * * *
The old theatre master used to smile grimly and say that the thick, red curtains that hide us from the audience are the border between the living and the dying. He never said which of these we were.


* * * * * *
This time last year, I had no idea how happy I was to become. Nor how great my despair would be at the end of that summer. I don't regret it. I was happy then. I remember the feeling among the others as one would remember the sun more brightly than the stars. That time is gone but I keep it still. I have grown around that summer the way a tree grows. That ring of joy and pains is buried deeper now; under the thinner rings of this past year. At times I feel that ring down under all the others, pulsing with its own heartbeat. I am reminded of a cocoon, lying patient and afraid.


* * * * * * *
"I make 80,000 a year," he said, straightening up slightly in the narrow seats of the airline gate.

"Eighty thousand what?" I asked quietly.

He stared. "Are you joking? Dollars. I make 80,000 dollars."

I looked down at my feet. "Oh. I thought maybe you made songs or stories or fuzzy oven mitts that look like big red lobster claws."

"What? No, man. I make money."

"Drat. I always wanted an oven mitt that looks like a big red lobster claw."

My Interview Today


OR


Guillermo Attempts To Swing A Leg Up Whilst Dangling From The Bottom Rung Of The Corporate Ladder


I had an interview today for a position in a slightly more prestigious area of the company. I wore black, pin-striped pants, a white buttoned shirt and the thin black tie which is the only tie I own. I stole that tie from the United States Army along with a few other items. Well, I didn't steal them so much as simply not return them after Uncle Sam and I parted ways over creative differences.


In all my years of wearing a tie, I haven't ever known how to tie it.


I would simply close my eyes, twist the ends around like I'd seen other people do, and hope for the best. After wasting a great deal of time and effort much like everything else in life I somehow managed to cover my neck.


My gurgy-rigged knot was holding steady as I strolled into work this morning. On a whim, I decided to ask my supervisor, Ron, if he would teach me how a proper knot. Ron is quite a character and by far the best boss I've ever had. He knows a great many things, not all of which I agree with but most that will do in a pinch.


He demonstrated how to tie a Windsor knot, named after the legendary balladeer Johnny Windsor of Lower Umpington. I attempted to imitate the movements and succeeded in fashioning a tangle that looked unnervingly like a noose. I kept practicing, being very careful to avoid hanging myself. Eventually, success was mine. I wore my tie proudly as I awaited my interview at the end of the day.


My interview went moderately well. It was held in a very cold room about the size of a walk-in closet. I arrived early and while I was awaiting my interviewer I pulled a lunch receipt out of my pocket and scribbled,




Check your purpling
rage before it colors
every option


To that same dull throbbing
royal ichor
weeping from your wounds


An almost Oedipal emotion
anger seeks to strike the loins that spawned it


Coursing along a lineage
no holy book has dared to chart


The path when followed
fractures into shards
of silvered glass reflecting
every step that led you here
and none that lead you back




I don't know where all the rest came from but I just liked the sound of "purpling rage." I picture a furious Pillsbury Dough-Boy or something. As I said, my interview went moderately well as far as presenting myself as a potential candidate for whatever the hell I was applying for. I believe the interview went extremely well as far as me realizing that the winds of of change were fluttering my newly fashioned Windsor knot madly about and I was desperate to leave that tiny closet of a room and set sail.