The little things that move you.
"It's always the little things that make the big things happen." - Jeffrey Fry
“Please let me make it there! I’m not asking for miracles. All I need is a chance. It’s only four minutes ten seconds away, and the clock is ticking fast.” So fast that I’m not sure if I’m conscious, or if I am so focused on the present that everything outside the car is being absorbed into the periphery of my mind like the borders of one of those hidden image paintings. “Two hundred fifty seconds is all I ask, and this time, I really mean it. I pr__ pr__ promise.” This time? The first time doesn’t count. I was so young.
Sitting behind the wheel of my parents’ Park Avenue, feeling completely invincible at seventeen years old, I had so much to lose – another date from my newly found love, my scholarship to LSU, car privileges - you name it, it was on the line. The exact circumstances of my desperate situation had been completely washed from my mind, save for one of my senses. The contents of my stomach, most of which had already overtaken my blood stream, had severely compromised my sight and ability to touch, resulting in very poor hand-eye coordination. Not exactly conducive to navigating the streets of a city laid out to accommodate the many natural characteristics that make her unique. My mind had decided that hearing had not been critical for a successful operation. With sixty percent of my senses malfunctioning, and no desire to eat anything, the remaining sense had been magnified fivefold to reach one hundred percent. The odor inside the vehicle, which I had termed “Eau De Desperation” had been a unique blend - two parts Brut, three parts Chanel No. 5, eight parts fatty acids and proteins, fifteen parts whiskey, and the occasional faint smell of methane. As this toxic mixture circulated through the car, I had realized I had one option – make the deal! To this day, I’m sure the good priests at Jesuit would not have approved, but I had made the special deal, the Catholic get out of jail free card. It had worked!
Funny thing about promises – they’re typically a two-way street.
If there was any doubt that the Big Man has a sense of humor, it was instantly confirmed when the miniature car on my color display instructed me to turn left onto St. Jude Avenue. A one-way street that lead to one place – REDEMPTION. Or in this case, Our Lady of Perpetual Hope. Very well played, my Friend! I’ve always thought it would be cool driving toward Touchdown Jesus with the game on the line, but No! The clock is ticking toward 00:00, and I’m driving, instead, toward the patron saint of impossible causes, his halo backlit by the only functioning street light. Impossible causes? Me … or my situation? Or perhaps both? I didn’t have the luxury for an internal debate on the topic, as my comfortable sense for the ironic nature of the moment quickly gave way to panic. I slowed the car to get some sense of direction, looking both ways at every cross street in a desperate effort for something familiar. All I needed was a glimpse of the old stomping grounds to right the ship, or in this case, the entire voyage. Suddenly, the pains in my gut quickly moved north, setting up shop somewhere in my rib cage. It wasn’t the usual meat in the throat feeling before you’re about to hurl – it was new, different, and quite off putting. It felt as those my ribs were expanding to accommodate the surging river of blood that was accumulating in my heart like so many pumps working valiantly to hold back the waters that had crippled my great city many years before. Red was the color of the instant - my face in the rearview mirror, the color of the blood filling up the wrong places in my body, the doggy bag sitting beside me - and oh so suddenly, the three bright lights demanding that I halt! Confusion reigned inside and out, the car geared down in deference to the red light, the answer to a question not yet asked flying at Mach 1. Serotonin did its thing, jumped the final synapse, and the question emerged – “WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?”
The age-old question is used far and wide in our society, from the alcoholic who can’t seem to catch a break to the cancer patient trying to understand the mysteries of the human body. But in my case, there was no need to shout at the top of my lungs – I knew exactly what was going on. I had been dealing with it for years, in one form or another. From my earliest recollection, I always found comfort in the mundane, safety in the habits, and a sense of peace and calm coloring inside the lines. When all of my classmates complained incessantly about the military-inspired uniforms – the khaki combination of shirt, pants, and belt, the spit-shined black shoes – I found a certain comfort in it. I quess I took the Forrest Gump approach – one less thing to worry about in the morning. Comfort in the everyday mundane rituals, or as I call them, habits, followed me well into adulthood. And save for a couple uncomfortable moments, I never had much problem with it. Except for today, of course.
As it was unfolding, I had no idea why Rebecca lashed out the way she had. There had been no difference in our morning routine – the kids boarded the bus for school, and Rebecca and I sat down for a quick breakfast of coffee and a bagel. Sensing something had been on her mind, I, not so gracefully, offered “What does your day look like?” “My day! Let’s talk about your day first!” Having been married for 20 years, I knew that was my cue to be quiet and just listen. “Aren’t you tired of wearing those scrubs to work, every….single….day?” Duh – I’m in pharmaceutical sales. “Take some pride in your appearance, for Christ’s sake!” Luckily for me, I was three bites into my bagel, so I rolled the last piece into my palm and moved toward the door. Opening the door with my empty hand caused me to pirouette, leaving me face to face with Rebecca, who decided that the conversation wasn’t quite over. “There’s going to be some changes around here.” With the obligatory “Sounds good, honey”, I hurried to the car, not quite hearing what changes she had in mind.
Trying to flee the scene before catching any more verbal shrapnel, I skipped my usual ritual of readjusting the interior of my car to the original factory positions, in other words, the way I like things. Would it kill Rebecca to reset the seat, mirror, and radio, just once, to the way they were before she borrowed my car? As I attempt to reset my seat and mirror while entering rush hour traffic on my 20-minute commute to the hospital, I already endured several minutes of the tripe emanating from the wrong SiriusXM channel. Maneuvering my hand to adjust the radio to one of 10 sports channels, pangs of guilt from my breakfast encounter a short time ago jolted my system. I hesitated long enough to hear the Topic of the Day on XMInsight – Navigating Toxic Relationships in the Workplace. Even though the particular example was the stereotypical loudmouth at work that spouts the most inappropriate garbage, the thought of the subject struck a chord in me. And with my normal defenses weakened by the breakfast ambush, I was not able to hold off the thoughts of my particular set of loudmouths. Not one to delve too deeply into my inner psyche, but suffice it to say that I have an issue with the geniuses I have to deal with. They conjure up the usual jokes, but my favorite is the one that ends with “God doesn’t think he is doctor”.
I suffered through several more anecdotes before the PhD stated she has constructive ways to deal with toxic situations in the workplace – after the commercial, of course. I actually sat in my idling car in the hospital parking lot eagerly awaiting the nuggets of wisdom I could use as a substitute for my usual shield of sarcasm. Strolling from my car, I barely heard the car chirp over the din of my inner dialogue – Yeah, right! I’m supposed to try this technique with these over-educated, self-righteous pricks. Well, if it doesn’t work, I could always go back to the usual - sarcasm disguised as effusive praise.
Walking through the automatic hospital doors, I am jarred back to reality, or should I say, buzzed back, by my smartphone giving me today’s forecast, which I instantly recognize as dreary with a 75% chance of meltdown. Damn – back-to-back-to-back procedures with Drs. Kildair, Casey, and Welby ….. The Three Stooges. In the haste of the morning, I completely forgot about the new security card attached to the lanyard on my pants – not only did the card grant entry to the hospital, it notified hospital staff of your availability – all in literal seconds. Amazing…..I guess. If one were to describe my job in the football context, the physicians are the quarterback, the running back, and the wide receivers, also known as the skill players. The nurses and administrators make up the offensive line, or the support staff. Then there’s me, the pharmaceutical rep, standing in the background waiting for the skill players to stumble just a bit on their way toward the goal line, picking up the slack. You all know me, the lonely place kicker – the job that gains no praise when three points are added to the tally, but heaven forbid you shank one every now and then.
I was determined to go three for three on the day, and after two successful drives resulting in touchdowns, the third drive bogged down in the red zone. Dismissing the thought of going for it on 4th and goal, Dr. Welby, assisted by the young Dr. Kiley, did the unthinkable. Almost in slow motion, they both turned in my direction. Me! The lowly place kicker! A fake, perhaps? Me, scoring a touchdown? In unison, they started shouting “Warfarin! Why weren’t we informed of this? Like our jobs aren’t hard enough – how does this affect the procedure? Why can’t these assholes actually do their jobs?” Acting merely on instinct, I cut them off in mid meltdown, in a deadpan voice, saying “We talked through this exact situation in the pre-op meeting. Oh… that’s right…neither of you were paying attention”. In less than the time it took for the air disturbance that emanated from my pie hole to tickle the small hairs on their collective cochlea, in that millisecond, I regretted giving in to my basest instincts. What happened next was a bit of a blur, as I may have actually blacked out, but the correct answer was given, the surgery was over, and the damage was done. Not to the patient - to me. There I was, grabbing the back of my head, as Lucy stood over me with a big smile, football tucked securely under her arm.
My exit from the hospital was eerily similar to my entrance, tuning everything out while my inner dialog turned into a full-bore discussion, with the same question asked over and over, but to no avail. The first sound I heard after my car’s computer went through all the safety checks was the dulcet tones from XMInsight - an instant reminder of my crude behavior at the hospital. In a desperate attempt to salvage something good from the day, I glanced at my watch and realized that my faux paus actually came with a bit of a silver lining – it was still early enough in the afternoon to pick the kids up at school. All it took was a quick call to Rebecca to ask her to inform the school that the kids would not be bus riders today. Discretion being the better part of valor and all, I clumsily typed into my smartphone
out urly, wl pck kids
Arriving at the kids’ school 30 minutes early put me in an unfamiliar spot – first in line, bumper nearly touching the cones that create the makeshift pickup lane. Gazing out at the only scenery my front windshield will provide, my typical daydreaming quickly gave way to the loop of the last couple hours playing in my head. Desperately trying to imagine a different ending, I was left with the immutable fact that I screwed the pooch – there’s no two ways about it. As the loop rewinds to the point of no return, I was mercifully distracted by some movement from my rearview mirror. It’s a very benign sight, one which, I would imagine, occurred every day – a simple act of kindness – a young student helping an elderly teacher load books into her car. Not exactly sure why, but my daydream took a bizarre turn, from doom and gloom to one of hope and kindness. Maybe my behavior with Frick and Frack was not justified by their arrogant behavior? Could the problem be me? Do I need to make some changes? Just as I am about to accept my Nobel Peace prize for Kindness to All Humanity, the first school bell rang, jarring me back to coherence. Almost out of instinct, I fired off two quick text messages:
sry. u guys avble for dnr
hny, chngs r cmng
Arriving home with my precious cargo, I had the opportunity to acknowledge the buzzes I received while listening to what appeared to be a rational reason for my son’s recent downturn in his math grade. A quick glance down at the device held in my upturned palm validated my instincts – two positive responses – and I continue my trek into the house, loaded down with back packs.
Before I reached the door, I was greeted by a grinning Rebecca holding several bags from stores I did not even know existed. These bags were full of new clothes, with tags that appeared to be names of some fancy designer, with all sorts of French style cuffs, pleats…what the hell did I get myself into? One of the upsides of the Amazon-ization of our society is that I did not even have to step foot in a store to try clothes on. Just for the record, trying clothes on, in the store of otherwise, is not one of my favorite things. Although I tried to accept the first outfit, naturally I had to try on each one, some of them more than once. With CinderFella now dressed to the nines, it was time to decide where I would be modeling my new ensemble. Obvious even to a neophyte such as myself, I knew I would be overdressed for my two faves – Chili’s and Outback Steakhouse. How about the one that would warrant a ticket from the grammar police – Ruth’s Chris? And so it is – simple texts sent to Mutt and Jeff, and we’re in business for 7 p.m.
In an unfamiliar move, I pulled back the French cuffs far enough to see that I was ten minutes early. Not a problem – it gave me enough time to prepare some topics for small talk to get through the early stages of the evening. The first that came to mind was the trivia associated with the unique name of the restaurant, but that may have revealed the nerdy side that I was not keen to reveal. Before I decided, I saw one of the docs saunter up to the maître d, dressed in surgical scrubs. Wow, what a tool! Thank goodness for the dim lighting, for I was in danger of him seeing only the whites of my eyes. Arriving at the table, he explained that a few procedures took longer than normal, and not only was he not able to change clothes, his partner would not be able to make it. Yikes! A one on one. No third wheel to help carry the conversation.
Undaunted, I powered on, insisting that we have a drink before we order. As the waitress placed the domestic beer and the Grey Goose with a twist on the table, I was struck by the irony of what was happening – Dr. KnowItAll raised his beer as if to toast the evening while I began to sip my top shelf vodka. It doesn’t end there. I was rocked back by a “Thanks for taking me to dinner, I truly appreciate it”, followed quickly by “How are your kids doing?” Over the next several minutes, there we were, like two old buddies catching up for lost time. Totally off my game, I went as far as to tell him about the incident with Rebecca from the morning, and how it all came to pass. He actually seemed to care, offering what honestly appeared to be some good advice. Unsolicited, he interjected “The best part of living is trying new things, constantly challenging oneself, and measuring the growth through the failures”. Not exactly Socrates, but it hit home … hard. “Sounds good, doc”, and in that instant, I channeled my inner George Costanza and vowed to ignore my instincts and embrace whatever came at me. The first test showed up in the form of the waitress, eagerly awaiting our entrée orders. Ignoring the strong objections coming from my gut, I ordered the 16 oz. ribeye, medium rare plus with extra butter, and a side of creamed spinach. I’m not sure what my new friend ordered, but I vividly remember him placing a takeout order for his partner - a Fertel Steak House burger with Fries, off the Lunch menu, no less. Bon Appetit!
From the casual observer, the next 30 minutes was not a pleasant sight. I can imagine our fellow patrons using words like gluttony, debauchery, which would be on the pleasant end. Be that as it may, I surveyed the table, with mere scraps left to identify the feast.
Apparently reeling from the trifecta that just occurred – the meat sweats, the sudden humanness of Dr. KnowItAll, and my sudden vow to make changes – I am caught completely off guard as the waitress descended on our table to give us the status of the takeout order for Dr. KnowsEverything, Dr. KnowItAll’s partner. The waitress can hardly finish her sentence, when I rudely blurted out “COFFEE!”. Red faced, I began my apology before she even had a chance to give me a nasty look, which would have been more than warranted. “Sorry, I got a little carried away, but we would like some coffee when you get a free minute. Thanks very much”. I attempted to make an awkward transition from my latest faux paus by engaging my new friend in a new conversation – asking him if he likes all the new gadgets that the technological world has provided over the last 10 years. From our working relationship, he must know that I am what would be affectionately called “old school”, so he treaded lightly into the arena, picking a sure-fire technology that is omnipresent in our society. “Well, I’ll tell you this, I couldn’t live without my GPS, especially in this city.” He chose incorrectly, and I sheepishly admit “I have a brand-new car with the most advanced GPS tracking, and I don’t even use it. And to be honest, I’m not even sure why”. Well, it took 2 cups of coffee for Dr. KnowItAll to explain not only the technology behind GPS units, but the virtue of using them. Partly as an attempt to shut him up, but more importantly, as a means of testing my new lifestyle change, I replied in mid-sentence “I tell you what – I will fire up the GPS to get me back to the hospital to deliver the take out!” That worked, as the conversation and the coffee both waned to the point that the waitress took the signal to bring the check and the takeout order, all wrapped up like a Christmas present. Dinner was over - I was done, in more ways than one.
WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?
Although I found discomfort moving any muscle at that point, my foot drew back from the brake, focusing all of its energy on the accelerator, causing the GPS to bounce back to life. Friggin GPS! If I had just ignored it like usual, I would be closer to salvation, but no, it’s dutifully counting down to my demise - 119s, 118s, 117s. That’s it! Good thing I didn’t like GPS, because the force I used hitting the End Navigation button probably rendered it useless. You’re on your own now! With just under 2 minutes! You got this! As usual, my inner dialogue was in in conflict with reality. Time to take stock of the situation, but was I willing to consider the ultimate price I might pay? Well, not the ultimate, but close, and it wasn’t pretty. On the positive side, thanks to my dinner partner’s generosity, I was heading to the hospital, and I couldn’t think of a better place to rectify my impending disaster.
As I lost track of my internal clock, which was probably getting close to 60 seconds, I had to focus on the plan of attack to not only reach the hospital in time, but my ultimate destination, where hope would spring eternal. Spring eternal! Even facing such a horrible situation, I was able to crack half a smile. Knowing the hospital like the back of my hand would definitely come in handy, but which room would allow me to operate without much resistance? I knew time was of the essence, so I decided on one of those rooms that was specifically assigned to hospital personnel. Although there was a slight risk, the possible advantages far outweighed the risks. Having a hospital card key allowed me access to all the rooms of the hospital, while also tracking my whereabouts. All I needed to do was find the special room, prep for the procedure, and hit the button. The button that would bring the necessary resources to bear to bring me back to reality, or close enough. There was only one downside to this plan - seeing the sign that says In Use in stop-sign red.
Having no time to even consider the doomsday scenario, I went over the plan, which was quite simple, almost as easy as 1-2-3. Barreling toward the hospital, my ears started ringing, which to me sounded like the alarm signifying that time has expired. I threw caution to the wind, pushed the petal ever forward, ran two stop signs, and finally arrived at my destination. In one move, I grabbed my keys with my left hand, and while swinging my right hand in a swooping motion, grabbed the Ruth’s Chris bag like a big claw machine. As I waddled to the entrance, I extended my left hand in an effort to force the doors to open just a split second early. Every second counted, and I couldn’t afford to stop.
As the automatic doors opened wide enough to fit a semi, I was immediately drawn to the double doors, beyond which a quick turn to the right, and was home free. Next thing I knew I am getting jarred back to reality by the double action doors, and I found myself unable to open my eyes, like a child at Christmas hoping Santa got his corrected letter. Even with a full squint after lowering my hand, I see the universal color for go. With my dominant hand carrying the delivery, I am forced to use the hip turn and elevate procedure to unlock the door, which in retrospect, was quite difficult in my condition. Somewhere on a computer screen in the administrative wing, the words IN USE flashed next to OR-L2. But did anyone notice or even care?
Nudging the door open with my shoulder, the room came to life, just as I anticipated. A few short steps, a little prep, and it is out of my control. The few steps seemed like a dozen, as every muscle in my body seemed to tense up. Reaching my destination, it was time to start the prep, but I had only one free hand - my delivery. Not able to spare a split second, I was forced to drop the package on the floor, assume the position, and start the prep. One, two…Ouch. I suddenly felt a jarring pain in my lower back, and I was no longer in control. Did I blackout? Was this the end? Did I hit the button?
What transpired next is a complete mystery, as it appeared I was smack in the middle of a dream, but not any ordinary dream. It was more like snippets of dreams, and they were rolling by like those old 8 mm home movies. It was the story of my life - no, not that! Try to focus. Although I was the star in each one of the snippets, something was off. It was my baptism, everyone wearing white - such a beautiful scene, that is, until I am plunged backwards into the muddy water of the Mississippi. Instantly, I am taking my lead off 3rd base in the championship game, and the coach calls a suicide squeeze. I take off, but I go nowhere, as I sink up to my waist in what appears to be quicksand. I am now standing in front of a table with a very large cake featuring a miniature man and woman. Glancing to my left, I see my beautiful bride grinning from ear to ear, about to cut the cake. We both take hold of the knife, start as the top, plunging it downward, but to my surprise, it is filled with fudge, making a mess of everything. The next snippet was particularly disturbing.
A modest funeral home, filled with about fifty people, all seated, staring at the open casket. There seem to be many conversations taking place, which made it difficult for me to understand what Rebecca was saying to me. Although I can’t make out the words, I know from experience they weren’t positive. These words were immediately followed by laughter of some kind. It was extremely confusing. I decide to pay my respects to the poor sap in the casket, and as I get within view, I can’t help but recognize him. It was like looking in a mirror, except that I never looked that good.
The din coming from the group behind me began to get louder, which only made my confusion ramp up to ten. I did my best to focus on the sounds, but all I could gather between the crying and laughter was FRENCH FRIES!, FRENCH FLIES!, FRENCH FRIES!, FRENCH FLIES! And it appeared the words were spoken in front of me, from the place I was not prepared to entertain. I am now standing in front of the casket, staring down at a more handsome version of myself, dumb words swirly in my ears. Taking it all in, I can’t help but notice my hands are buried in my slacks, as if I was in a straitjacket, with my zipper down. Without warning, my alter ego opens his eyes, sits up straight, and yells FRENCH FLY! My first reaction is to slap the shit out of myself, but I am able to resist this perverse behavior. The hell with it…I rare back…as the blow is about to land, I am alone again, in OR-L2
After gaining my focus, I scanned my environment, looking left then right. I recognized this place, but why did I feel so uncomfortable? And why was I here, not able to use my arms, feeling like I am stuck in the mud? As I pondered my situation, another group came to the party - my olfactory nerves, and let me tell you, they were not happy. Afraid to look down, I slowly moved my eyes in a downward motion, all the while keeping my head steady. HOLY CRAP! Is it possible for someone to get PBA in adulthood? Maybe, maybe not, but for the next ten to twenty seconds, I went from uncontrollable laughter to crying, finally settling on laughter.
FRENCH FRIES AND FRENCH FLIES. All around me, the floor was littered with French fries, but I didn’t seem to remember ordering any sauce, and for that matter, how would the sauce spill. I must have laughed for a good 60 seconds on this one. Now to the crying - I was able to extricate my hands from my pants, which only served to display the subject of my tears - FRENCH FLY! And here’s the thing - the French Fly worked exactly as it was intended - of course it did! It’s there to keep my fucking pleats on my fucking pants from fucking spreading. They failed to mention it is apparently good at blocking explosive diarrhea from its intended destination.
It is very hard to focus on the current mess I am in, both literally and figuratively, as I am consumed with the objects of my rage. Sounds good, honey. Sounds good, doc. What the hell was I thinking? Apparently, I wasn’t, but I knew it was time for some thinking. I need to suck it up and find a way out of this.
My first action, however, only appeared to exacerbate the mess, as standing up only helped remove the final remnants of the toxic stew from my neatly pleated pants, on to my brand-new shoes, no less. No worries. Take inventory and do the best you can. Never knowing when my schedule will change, I carried a dopp kit and a change of scrubs in my car. Bending over, I delicately removed my new Bruno Maglis, took a couple steps forward, and eased out of my slacks and tighty whities. Quickly removing my belt and money clip, I threw the two stained garments into the sink, started the water, hoping to miraculously see the clothes agitate back and forth. They didn’t, but they did prove to be an adequate drain stopper, and the discolored water just kept rising. Don’t be a wimp - you’ve done worse! A second later, I was wrist deep in the sink, rubbing the two garments together, doing my best to keep my gag reflect in check. Completing this messy task, as I wadded the bundle into the size of a football, it dawned on me that I was standing there with nothing on but a shirt. Shit! I proceeded to put the wet slacks back on, stuffing my underwear into one of the pockets. I don’t need to tell you what happens to certain body parts when things get wet, not to mention cold. I decided to overcome my current lack of manhood by making a gutsy decision to make a run for the much-needed reinforcements without destroying the evidence.
Seconds later, in the back seat of my car, I managed to wriggle out of my soaked trousers and slipped on my scrubs, going commando of course. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I managed a very deep exhale, letting out an audible sigh, lasting over ten seconds. Perhaps I was lightheaded from relief, but looking down at the object in my hand, I started to gasp for air. Unfurling my palm to expose my money clip, I was staring at a receipt, and the irony just poured forth. Not only did this accounting fragment remind me of what started all of this SHIT, it was mocking me, as I had yet to fulfill my duties as an UberEATS driver - and the evidence was still in OR-L2. Surveying my dopp kit, complete with shaving cream, razors, toothpaste and the like, the only usable item unfortunately was a very old bottle of cologne. Beggars can’t be choosers at this point.
Lucky for me, my return trip to OR-L2 found the scene as pristine as it was when I made my “gutsy” move. Surveying the situation, the bright red doggy bag was safe and sound, laying on its side, several feet from the invisible chalk outline of the crime. The side order was not so fortunate, as the French fries did not survive the impact with the ground. No worries - a Fertel burger is more than enough. But what to do with the evidence? I wrapped toilet paper around my hand like an oven mitt and proceeded to scoop the tainted fries back into the bag, finally standing the bag on the floor.
Unfurling the toilet paper as if it were a pair of latex gloves, the wad fell harmlessly to the floor. In one quick motion, the toilet paper was dragged across the floor in a zigzag pattern until it reached the garbage receptacle. With my index finger and thumb in the shape of the crab’s pincher, I carefully picked up the soiled mess and deposited it in the garbage. Standing upright, surveying my situation in the mirror, the small bulge from the scrubs caught my eye. No, not that, it was the cologne bottle from my emergency dopp kit. Underestimating the extent of its potency after all these years, I may have gone a bit overboard, as the cologne was creating the opposite effect from its intended use. Imagine if you took a putrid smell and added just enough sweetener to magnify the funk. Note to self - don’t get too close and stay downwind and you’ll be alright.
Imaging a scene from Goodfellas, I grab the evidence, shoving the bag of fries in my right pocket, loosen my scrub tops to hide said evidence, pick up the doggie bag and take a very deep breath.
The scene outside OR-L2 was quiet, with only a floor cleaner humming back and forth in the distance. With every step I took toward Dr. KnowsEverything’s office, I couldn’t help but feel like Andy Dufrene - decked out in hospital scrubs, untucked to boot, with Bruno Magli shoes on. I already decided I would not attempt to explain the shoes, as any explanation would fall well short. The plan was easy - step into the office only as far as I could reasonably toss the Ruth’s doggie bag, make full retreat and never speak of this night again. The door to his office was open, the sounds of the radio at low volume, but no speaking. Awesome - this will go much better with only one witness.
Just outside the office, I paused momentarily to gather my wits for my upcoming cameo role as an UberEATS delivery boy. In an effort to keep his gaze on me and not my funky attire, I planned to alert my presence before actually entering the room. When most people are startled, they immediately look up very quickly - here goes nothing. “Doc, I hope you weren’t waiting too long” covered half the distance to his desk. Before he can even respond to my query, the Ruth’s doggie bag was airborne, and I was in the process of putting things in reverse. “Thanks” allowed me one step backward, while his glancing in the bag got me almost to the door. “Wait, wait, wait” - oh crap, the fries. “Dude, didn’t this order come with fries?” Full stop - only one step from starting to forget this awful day. But no, now I have to think quickly and try to come up with a reason for the missing fries. Sensing my obvious discomfort, Dr. KnowsEverything threw me a curve - in lieu of his normal demeanor, he started with empathy. Empathy - WTF? “I heard about dinner - you should really open up more. You might find out we’re not bad people overall - busting your balls at work is just part of the job.” Don’t do it. Don’t fall for it. Perhaps numbness or sheer weakness, but I found myself inching forward, not in reverse. “I guess so. I must admit that I enjoyed the conversation at dinner.” “Yeah, about that, where’s the new outfit? All I see are the new shoes.” At this point, there was nothing I could say, so instead, I chose the nonverbal route, shrugging my shoulders while giving him my best “dog ate my homework” grin. Dr. KnowsEverything started in with a string of insults reminiscent of the late Don Rickles. With my blood pressure rising, along with that big vein in my neck, it is hard to process any of the verbal shrapnel I am receiving, comprehending only tidbits here and there. He thought they were all zingers, as he appeared to laugh before, during, and after each volley. I instinctively assumed the defensive position, rocking back and forth with my hands in my pockets. Placing my right hand in my pocket, I was shocked back to the present by the tainted French fries. I raised my hand in an attempt for a reprieve, but he had already loaded the kill shot and his finger was on the trigger. “You must’ve gotten a good deal on those Bruno Maglis?” Hmmm. “The right one has a big shit stain on it!” A genuine smile adorns my face, I take five steps forward, pull the bag from my pocket and offer “sorry, here are your fries".” Bon Appetit, Asshole!
What happened next was a little hazy. All I know was I got home safely, threw my wet clothes in the hamper, took a very long hot shower and quietly snuggled up to a sleeping Rebecca.
As it was unfolding, I had no idea why Rebecca lashed out the way she had. There had been no difference in our morning routine – the kids boarded the bus for school, and Rebecca and I sat down for a quick breakfast of coffee and a bagel. Oh, that was yesterday, the day I wanted to delete. No such luck. Rebecca was eager to hear about how my new changes were received. As I attempted to summarize my interaction with the two bozos, I could tell she was far more interested in what I thought about the changes she offered - her precious ensemble. Feeling frisky, I informed her that the new pants and shirt were in the clothes hamper, and before she could respond, she literally ran to the laundry room. That’s it - I’m a dead man. The clothes would obviously still be damp from last night’s proceedings, and I didn’t have the energy to concoct another story - not one that she would buy anyway. That frisky feeling was nowhere to be found, and the exit door looked very appealing at this point. Having made this move countless times, the car was already in reverse when Rebecca came running out of the house, looking like she was trying to fly my pants like a kite. Yuck. Time to come clean, so to speak. With the window at half mast, I yelled “Rebecca, please, please, hand me those pants. I can explain - you don’t understand.” “You’re damn right I don’t understand. How in the hell did your pants get ripped from the inside?” FRENCH FLY. “Well. Can’t talk now - very late.” “Don’t worry, we’ll talk about this later, trust me.” “Sounds good, honey.”
Sounds good? Nothing about that sounded good to me. As a matter of fact, any other sound would have been welcome at this point. Safely out of the driveway, the volume of the radio exceeded my internal dialogue to the point where I recognized the familiar voices of XMInsights. Not today. Today calls for Old School. The first preset was 70sOn7, with good ole David Bowie.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
There's gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
“Again, with the changes? Maybe the next decade?” Only took a quick tap to move the station to 80sOn8. - Right Down the Line by Gerry Rafferty - in mid verse.
When I wanted you to share my life
I had no doubt in my mind
And it's been you, woman
Right down the line
Suddenly filled with regret over my behavior, I accompanied Gerry on the second verse, eyes starting to fill with some sort of liquid. “I know how much I lean on you. Only you can see.” Uh-oh. It’s about to get out of hand. “The changes that I’ve been through have left a mark on me.” Hmmm. Well not exactly me, but I get the point.
Waiting for the light to change allows me the opportunity for a quick swipe of my eyes with one hand and silencing the radio with the other. Hello darkness my old friend. “Aah, the sounds of silence!” Order restored, and it sounds good!