from the 36 chambers

Killing time at work is rapidly becoming a daunting task, especially after you've been down every rabbit hole and avenue available to you on Facebook. It kind of disturbs me that I spend about an hour and a half at work every day stalking everyone I know. I guess it increases the efficiency of my creeper tendencies, but I just find myself skulking in the shadows of the information super highway more now, stalking a whole new echelon of people who will never know I secretly keep tabs on their lives. But what else do I do to entertain my waining attention span, to stave off the encroaching ennui coaxed by a 9 to 5? Here are a few stories from the privacy of my own office.

Story #1: Sometime last week (the days blend together in this place like there's some kind of temporal flux), as I'm working blithely at my desk, something falls from the ceiling and lands next to my Dell mouse pad, which was undoubtedly free noting its cover material is a flexible plastic rather than the cushy fabric of most high quality pads. I look over to find the beady little eyes and curious feelers of a cockroach staring back at me. My literal first reaction amounted to, "Oh... hello friend." In my mind as soon as he dropped onto the desk he greeted me with an amicable "hey, homes." (I don't know why but in my mind, cockroaches all talk with an accent like they are straight out of the East L.A. Mexican Mafia. That's kind of racist, isn't it?) Anyway, we rapped a little here and there to pass the day. He told me about how he ended up on the 19th floor (a triple dog dared gone horribly wrong, no givesies, no backsies). I told him how my day was going, my life goals and ambitions, my deepest darkest secrets that would stun you to hear, like getting hit in the face by a pigeon. I'm pretty sure that the few people who ventured into my office on this incredibly slow day now think I'm completely crazy and would most likely recommend I be fired if my term here didn't already have an expiration date. He scurried off my desk and milled about on the floor for the rest of the day, taking rest on my shoe at one point. I don't know where my little friend has gone to now, but he must be on quite a little adventure.

Story #2: So as decreed, one of my jobs here is to email out interesting news articles about China from major publications each morning. Mainly they are just used to keep the staff up to date on what's happening on the other side of the world, although occasionally we'll use these articles to prep delegations before they head off to China, so they don't look like total boobs (reminds me of a story I have to tell you) when they get there. This actually is sometimes the highlight of my day, because inevitably there's an absurd story floating around out there that challenges not only your traditional concept of news, but also forces you to consider what exactly is going on in China. Some examples: the introduction of compulsory waltzing in Chinese schools to combat obesity; the backlash to said introduction which believed co-ed dancing would lead to relationships, a feared distraction from academic pursuits; a stolen car stopped in Shanghai with four kidnapped babies in the backseat; flight patters changed during the countries National College Entrance Exam so planes wouldn't fly over residential neighborhoods while students were preparing; 7 sowing needles embedded in the skin of an infant who's parents worked in a bag factory (but conveniently have no idea how the needles got there). You really couldn't make this stuff up. Anyway, one afternoon, one of the people who work in the financial department came to my office and pointed out an article in the New York Times about how Clinton and Obama had signed a bill that would bring punishment to China for keeping its country's currency artificially fixed against the dollar. Needless to say, I send the message out and think nothing of it. But here's where the story gets interesting.

A little back story is in order first. Earlier in the day, I ran out to get lunch for the President since he has recently undergone ligament surgery and, like the fat kid on the see-saw, is relatively immobile. He sends a message back to the entire staff that says something to the effect of "We should all cheer for Nick for this article," and then goes on to give a one or two sentence comment on the articles content. Naturally, I'm sitting in my office thinking to myself, "Sweet! The President knows I work here!" Then I start getting kinda cocky, because it's not every day the higher ups send a little love all the way down to the guy barely hanging onto the last rung of the corporate ladder with his fingertips. So I think to myself, "Makes sense. I got him lunch today, so he probably likes me know, or at least thinks I'm a good worker." But, being the sneaky fucker I am, I also think, "Well, I didn't actually find the article, so I better say something so that if it comes up, I don't look like I'm taking credit for someone else's work. From what I've read on MSN, humility and honest are both valued traits in an employee." Then I did a devious laugh and rubbed my hands over each other, thinking that I had just found a sweet-spot to beat the proverbial system. So I send an email back, to him and the rest of the office, expounding regally that I, in fact, can't take credit for the article, that someone else had alerted me to it. I'd probably say within about an hour, give or take a few, everyone in the office, including a few people who weren't even in the country, emailed me and pointed out that the author of the article was also a Nick and that the President wasn't talking about me. Like peeing into a Wendy's cup in the back of a car and feeling all slick about it, only to realize all you really did was pee all over yourself, I went from feeling cool and confident that I had gotten my name, albeit in lowercase letters, recognized in the office to needing the hauling capacity of the new 2007 Toyota Tundra, capable of pulling 10,500lbs of dead weigh, to get my foot out of my mouth. It was kind of awkward.

Story #3: I was sitting in my office, fighting off the post lunch weariness that oft plagues me, and, as I tend to do when I fill my incredibly unfurnished stomach with victuals, I farted. Now, this wouldn't have been a problem normally. No one was within earshot to hear the gurgling noise my rear made. But, eliciting much panic, this gastric consequence stank like a hunk of congealed, sour milk covered in rotting guacamole. And it was that thick, almost life-like smell to. It was truly a potent potable. I panicked. If anyone were to walk into my office at that moment, there no way to explain it away. I'm the only one in the room, so I couldn't pass it off like someone else did it. Nor could I claim that some mysteriously foul odor, smelling like the armpit of Zeus after a hot night of love making in the guise of a bull, had just wafted into my windowless prison of an office. And on top of all of that, there was nothing I could do to expel the offending stench. I was stuck, wallowing in the dank reek of my own decomposing innards, a putrid bouquet that no doubt would stick to my person long after it had faded in the room. Thankfully, no embarrassment befell me. But it was a trying few minutes.

Story #4: So I was walking back from lunch today, crossing 23rd and 6th, tacos in hand, and I see a very voluptuous blond walking towards me. She was wearing a low cut black dress, tight fitting under her chest, big, bug-eye black sunglasses, and a light white... oops! Her boob just popped out. In the middle of the intersection. I just started laughing because right as she approached me, moments before her bosom jumped up out of her dress and said, "Class, pay attention," I thought to myself, "Wow... if she's not careful, everybody's gonna get an eyeful of some nip." And sure enough, God smiled down upon man on this most blessed of days, and delivereth unto his children a supple teat for their viewing entertainment. And all were pleased. Needless to say, it was a good lunch break, and walking away from here I felt a strange, relaxed peace wash over me, like someone had slipped a few Vicodin into my oatmeal. So tonight, raise your drink to America... and boobs.

So there you have it. Some of my best stories from the dungeons of a paltry office life. It might not be the most glamorous of lives, and sure, it can't hold a candle to the all night parties, cavalcade of drugs, and copious amounts of naked relations that happened on Bon Jovi's 1988 Jersey Syndicate Tour. But hey, it's all I have right now, so let me live it up with what I have.

jellies are coming back in style...