Tonight. All is right with the world.
I’ve had happy champagne, ironically with the scourge of my current existence – my coworkers: Sidewinder, Mufasa and Obama.
Sidewinder you know, albeit in passing. Mufasa is the female Lion King to my fastly diminishing kingdom, Obama the beatific bite-sized politician who makes up the set. These are people who daily contribute to my crusty choleric and yet today, I enjoyed their company.
- Champagne. (A cherubic chunk of it.)
- The likelihood I’ll resign within the fortnight. (Yeah buddy.)
- The fact I’m on leave next week, working on a film as a Production Assistant! (Unpaid, in case you think I’m a Disney character.)
- Yep. That about covers it.
Ain’t it funny how people suddenly become warm, caring fuckers the minute you’ve got your exits covered? Or chimera caring, as the day may be. Get a load of this corker …
At 12pm I was told in passing (as one might impart what they ate for breakfast) that I had to move out of my current work desk by 5pm today. Here’s the kicker: they don’t have a new desk for me to move to. Yeah, you read right. I’m being made homeless. In my motherfucken workplace, yo. Not fired, just homeless.
Not only that, they’d known for weeks and hadn’t said a word.
Sidewinder tells me (conversationally over lunch) of the clandestine meeting which took place the moment I left the room this morning – whereby Mufasa suggests they don’t tell me at all. They should simply wait until I leave today and pack up my desk while I’m on leave (presumably to move me to the basement, sans stapler, like moribund Milton of Office Space lore). They actually convened over that shit.
- Who are these people?
- What in the Sheryl Crow?
- Is this any way to do business?
And so on, and so forth.
Sidewinder tells me this as I picked out my pumpkin risotto (aka orange opium), then acts askance when I react in the negative. (Insert expletives here, Aussie style.)
Whatevs, yo. Twenty minutes before, as excellent timing is want to do, my old boss rang to tee up beers and confirm my references were checked for the job I interviewed for yesterday. A job within film – as vast and diluted as that industry may be. Not one in the most ideal direction and not where I design to end up, BUT! In FILM baby! I’m their first choice and he’s gonna reference the shit outta that puppy.
BOOYAR. Sock it to you.
So. As my mangled day came to a close, there I sat. Alcoholling with Mufasa, Obama and Sidewinder. Rather enjoying myself, as perversion would have it. Quick-firing quips which neither their political correctness nor intellect allowed them to catch; throwing caution to the westerly winds which phase my hairdo not.
The irony (in an Octomum family of ironies) is that Sidewinder has fought so hard for their good opinion, only to be shunted to the shady corners of the high-school yard; where I warmed those parasites to me as quickly as I emotionally exited, stage left. I foresaw a month of false farewells in my future before I faded into their obscurity, and they became faceless portraits in the Edvard Munch’s scream of my past.
How many times I’ve done this I care not to recall, but I knew the musical steps as surely as Mozart’s prodigy. The beauty of laying it all on the emotional and pipe-dream line was, I very much planned never to do it again.