Pray for decent reruns
It was a weird day. The sky poured and even thundered some after a run of pretty days, and I had to talk about a job I used to have. Worst part was, the talk made me think about my escape routes. The old job brought considerable anger from people both in and outside the office. One of the groups yelling would've been okay. Both yelling was hard.
The escape routes varied by the desk I was in. On the third floor, there was circling around the next row of desks, jumping over my own desk wall and doing a half circle before Fosbury flopping over the desk wall there. The choice depended on a couple things. Gun or knife? Did the attacker know the office? On the second floor, later, the options were more limited. End-around one way or the other and leaping a cabinet.
There was only one clear death threat on the job, and lawyers said it probably wasn't actionable (on the writer's part). And there was only one other case where I needed to back up records with someone else. All the rest of the angry e-mails, I backed up on my own. It sounds dramatic, but it wasn't. It just felt that way, every day an angry rain.
I don't know. When Whiskeytown's Pneumonia album cheers you up, your day has taken a turn for the worse. I think I'm just sick of small talk. I need something real. I need admission and an encouragement born of it. I need to sit on a bridge and tell somebody about the town in the distance. I need somebody to sit and tell me about elsewhere.
November 8th, 2010 at 9:13 AM
[...] racism. Most of his trouble had occurred in 2008, back when I had to write a personal note to everyone we booted. "Are you a Negro to ??" he replied. "Or is it African American, Idiot." Early [...]