Blocked!

Ok, it’s not writers block, per se.  It’s more a conflict of decisiveness.

What to write.

Whether or not to indulge my natural procrastination.

Subject matter.

My will

When I get stressed, I want to write about my stressors to therapeutically get them out of my head.  However, some of my readers are familiar with some of the sentient stressors in my life and I don’t want to put them in an awkward position of loyalties.

So, what am I to do as I sit in the coffee shop on my Saturday while the Silver Fox reads the interwebs and asks salient questions like, “What does ‘FFS’ mean?”

Get a refill, of course.

While I was up at the counter, an old co-worker popped into my mind.  Not because he stressed me out like some of my current work associates.

He was hilarious.  Mostly for the same reasons that he thought he was hilarious, so that was a nice confluence of opinions.

Mostly.

Dave was born in the Philippines, moving to the US for college. I worked with him at a hospital in Pasadena, CA after my boss – Mother Mary – moved there from Hoag.  She got me a job in procurement.  My new boss, The Hairpiece heads our four man team housed out of the bowels of the hospital.  The door to my office was literally a ramp.

I think I worked in the former morgue.

Anyway, The Hairpiece had an assistant who I replaced when he got promoted to whatever he spent his time doing…I never did figure that out.  I think he mostly spent his time sucking up to The Hairpiece while looking like a cat in a Rocking Chair Factory.  Quite interesting to watch since he was a fey man with a good case of nerves.

Understandable, since The Hairpiece was know to have a short fuse as well as Short Man Syndrome.  And that frigging rug fooled no one.

Who has a convertible (Le Baron) in SoCal and  never puts the top down?

His hairline used to sweat…all 360 degrees of it.

Rounding out our team of four was Dave, the Filipino.

And that, that right there was what I remember most about Dave.

Philippines.

Filipino.

Dave’s accent used P and F equally interchangeably.

He was in charge of distribution, my counterpart to procuring.  Really, I’ve no idea what The Nerves did.  I bought stuff, Dave passed it out, The Hairpiece randomly screamed around the sectioned off concrete pit we called an office and The Nerves just stood meekly in a corner with darty eyes.

Because Dave’s lair had actual owned product in it, his area was locked and controlled access.

My office – literally at the bottom of the ramp, versus around a corner like everyone else’s – was unlocked, usually with the door wide open.  I would keep my door closed during the SoCal so-called winter, but didn’t like having to, I weighed comfort against comfort.

Closing the door kept me a tad bit warmer.

It was a door with a frosted glass insert – no name on my door – on the top. This was pretty much headlight level for vehicles pulling up to the procurement office, I liked to see what was coming my way since having a glass topped door made it impossible to pretend I wasn’t in.

Plus, the water cooler was in my office.  If the Arrowhead man lost control of his load – shut up, Diezel – coming down the ramp,  I wanted to know how many 5 gallon water bottles were careening my way.

Because the water cooler was in my office, and because Dave the Filipino’s office was always locked, the coffee pot ended up in my office.

This made me the de facto office Coffee Bitch.

Which brings me back to my refill this morning, which is now half gone.

Dave was a coffee drinker.  Seriously, he had a problem.  The Nerves started out high strung and Dave the Filipino started out with an urgency I could appreciate.  A good quality in a co-worker, unless he’s an occasionally over caffeinated Asian.

Occasionally I would be off my game in the morning or he arrived early, he’d storm into my office with his usual urgency for his morning hit.  Finding the pot empty, he’d bring the empty vessel to me and shake the carafe at me screaming, “Chris, Chris!  Where the puck is the pucking copy?!?”

Of course, I’d have a few minutes of fun with that.

Depending on my mood, I’d engage him in friendly conversation while the coffee brewed, substituting as many Fs for Ps or vice versa as possible.  If I was feeling more devilish, I’d pretend that our copy machine was missing, asking The Nerves if it was here when he arrived or The Hairpiece if we should file a police report.

The latter usually earned me a fading litany of “Puck you, you pucking round eyed pucker” as Dave retreated to his office.

I’d always deliver him a fresh cup as a peace offering afterward.

Blocked!

4 thoughts on “Blocked!

  1. Puck that. Delegate the coffee making. No. We did that once. The guy who got vounteered had never made coffee, but drank the sh*t out of it. We didn;t know the first bit. After about a week the coffee tasted like rusty ass. Turns out he never changed the paper filter, just dumped some more coffee in loaded up the water tank. So okay, I understand making the pucking coffee if you’re going have to drink it. Puck the dude, though. Make it. Pucker can call Uber if he wants it delivered.

    Liked by 1 person

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