The Office Chronicles

In my past, I worked at a fairly prestigious downtown company. It was one of those outfits that likes to tell the world that it only hires the cream of the crop, the best of the best, the top of the heap, the “A” students, if you will, the perfect people, the upper crust type people, all otherwise known as the pretentious snots of the world.

You can imagine how happy a place it was for me.

Anyway, there were several on-site amenities such as a dry cleaner, a shoe repair place, a bank, a car detailer, a post office, several cafes, and three cafeterias each with its own professional chef and professional chef’s menu. Food ranged from the expected – like a salad and soup bar – to the kind you’d expect at a four-star restaurant.

On one particularly lucky day, I had a unique interaction with one of these best of the best in the make-it-yourself taco salad section of the back-forty cafeteria. And I had the especially good fortune to get right behind him in line as he licked his way through the buffet.

He put a shell on his plate. Then, he added lettuce. Like a normal person. Lulling me in to thinking things were going to be fine.

Then, he reached for the taco meat spoon, put some meat on his shell, put the spoon back, and then licked his fingers. (I actually heard the *smack* before I saw it.)

Then, he reached for the cheese tongs, put some cheese on his plated bed of lettuce and meat, put the tongs back, and then licked his fingers. *Smack* *Smack* This time he added an eyebrow raise in my direction and a “mmmm”.

The next item, he did the same thing, but added eye contact and an, “it’s really good”.

Then, he reached for the sauce spoon. And I left. Put down my plate with an empty shell right there on the tray shelf and left.

Since, I either eat alone or with the unwashed where my expectations can match my experience. But, I still can’t eat taco salad.

 
This post is about a fresh encounter, so it’s not as sunny as it might be after some time passes. Bad words, too.

The inevitable lunch with the contract company’s manager (typically you meet the recruiter during the process, but not the manager). I always dread situations that include eating with strangers, but I had a particularly sinking feeling about this one.

Four people were going.

Car pulls up. Looks something like this.  

The manager is driving, recruiter is in the front and a gal I don’t know is sitting in the back hidden behind a huge car seat. One of those fit for a thirteen-year-old.

“I’m sorry for the small car. I meant to drive my other one today.”

How does one mean to drive a car?  (I would later also learn that he lives less than a mile from his office. If one really meant to….I’m just sayin’. )

He reaches back to shake my hand. I shouldn’t say reach, because he really just squeezes his hand between the headrests and leaves it there for me to awkwardly grab onto.

My dog has a firmer handshake.

And he never turns back around. Our heads couldn’t have been more than a foot from each other in this plastic egg of a car, but still.

Hey, hotshot, here’s a thought: Turn the fuck around.

I guess he was waiting on me to buckle up for safety, because he tells me that I may need to unhook the car seat to buckle my seat belt. Now, I’m not gargantuan, but I’ve also never been called petite. I wasn’t going anywhere. Frankly, none of us would be able to move in a fiery crash. All potentially severed body parts would remain in position.

So, while he’s staring at me, I unhook it. But then the seat belt won’t come out of its container above my head.

So I give up and grunt, “None of us is moving in this car anyway. Let’s just go.”

He never breaks his stare. So I stare.

“I guess I should’ve put that car seat in the back.”

Ya think? 

Making sure he sees me look behind me at the empty hatchback right behind the car seat, “Yea. Maybe.”

At the restaurant, I can’t get out of the car (which was actually a good thing, because I had been this close to throwing a tantrum and stomping off after the seat belt drama).

Everyone else has exited the vehicle and is standing outside the car staring at me.

I sit back, fold my arms, and stare (even though it’s impossible to look fierce locked in the backseat of a tiny car) back.

I hear him through the glass: “Oh, the child protection lock is on that side.“

Just this side? Seriously? No, seriously, what is wrong with you?

He stares. I stare.

Hey Goon! Open the fucking door before I’m the last thing you stare at.

(I would later learn that their child isn’t quite 3 months old. Is this an indication of how small the car is? A 3-month-old can reach the door handle and open the door? And maybe this 3-month-old is right-handed already? Or is this just goonidity in action?)

Inside the restaurant, one of the women in our party gets a little miffed when the hostess seats us in a packed section when there were wide open spaces all around.

I mention it being the path of least resistance for the hostess.

She mentions customer service.

I take it a step further and mention common sense.

To which the goon nods in agreement so fast he looks like a bobblehead.

Oh no you don’t, you mow-ron. You have lost all rights to participate in a conversation about common sense.

But I just stare. And he stares.

And then he smiles.

They always smile, the goons. While they drive the rest of us mad.