Category — rhythm and blues

There a million little signs, and a few that are too large to dismiss. Stunningly quiet. No announcements, no whispered reassurances. There is an overwhelming sensation of an ending that stretches beyond my own mind and heart, lacing our spirits together in silent despair. Perhaps we hope that by not acknowledging it to each other we can pretend that it is just another personal paranoia, not to be indulged. The thin veneer of normality is pierced sparingly- it keeps the fear trapped underneath.

We are waiting for destiny. For a collective destiny that breaks into a million pieces of individual fate. For one answer that asks a billion questions. The dread, the waiting- it is as horrible and painful as the answer could be. Worse, because all of the possibilities paralyze us until we know.

We all must make our own way, and we offer each other support and protection from the intrusion of our loved ones, who all think they understand, who all think they know what we will need to do, where we should go, how to pick up the pieces. We also know that focusing on survival, while crucial, minimizes our loss. Our sorrow and pain. We understand that asking those questions is akin to inquiring about funeral arrangements before offering condolences.

If this road ends, I know which turn to make. I sit at the intersection, waiting. Shielding my eyes from the sun, trying to see as far down both paths as I can. Trying and failing to stay neutral, to prepare myself equally for either journey, using the endless details of both roads as a worry stone for my troubled mind.

I’m waiting. Waiting to know whether I should hold on tighter or let go completely. The strain of such an uncertain pose is difficult but not impossible. I try to hide the struggle beneath an opaque veil of dark humor; calm, casual, resigned. Sometimes when the light is just right, that veil is translucent and you can see through it.

What you’re looking at is my heart, soul and mind- my very will- trembling under the weight of uncertainty, approaching failure.

Just like everyone else that waits with me.

A family of the undead, an army of zombies united by our battle scars. The blood, sweat, tears and laughter we’ve shared. Bonded by an agony so intimate that the lines between the individual and the collective blend and blur until they are almost unrecognizable. Both despite and because of the possibility that our story has thirty different endings.

We’re waiting to find out.

Back in the day, I was the female manager in the typical small business who was forced by stereotype and a cheap business owner to handle HR duties along with running the Accounting department. I was never any good at it, because I couldn’t help but provide differing levels of service. Like helping the bestie invest her 401(k) and telling that asshat from Project Management that if his dental claim was denied, well, your insurance card has a toll free number on the back of it for just that sort of problem. Then there’s the “I’m not good at pretending to like people I can’t stand” issue.

I’ve long since been relieved of those duties, or anything pertaining to them, but these people are like Pavlov’s dogs, and every time they have some stupid question (how do I change my withholding? IT’S CALLED A W4. HOW DO YOU OPERATE HERE IN ADULT LAND? SHOULD I FOLLOW YOU TO THE BATHROOM AND WIPE YOUR ASS FOR YOU TOO), they come arunnin’ to the Finance department.

Normally, the venerable B is seated prettily at her desk, right outside my office like a devoted sentry. She’s nicer, and better at acting like she likes people, so they usually whine to her about their boring, silly problems instead of bothering me.

She’s out today, and in a horribly inconvenient juxtaposition, one of my least favorite people in the office is suffering a personal crisis of catastrophic proportion.

My reasons for not liking the guy are several:

- I once claimed a pretty Christmas cookie tin with a note that said “Catherine wants this tin”, which when said five times fast still doesn’t sound like “Catherine wants this freakazoid”, but that’s what he thought it meant when he cornered me in the break room to ask me why I didn’t just tell him how I felt.

- He has a cackle that resounds through our entire office. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and not in a good way.

- He usually cackles as he makes his way through the cube farm, telling everyone who will listen the same lame joke, so that by the time he gets to Marketing (one row south of us in Finance), I could fucking tell it FOR HIM.

- He used to punch me in the arm when we passed each other in the hall. Like I was a teenage boy or something.

- He’s just creepy, and he tells all of us how pretty we are all the time. Which should be a compliment that makes me happy, but whenever he does it, I just imagine him cuddling up to the company directory with a jar of Vaseline. ~shudders~

Anyway. Rumor has it that his marriage ended today. Which is very sad and unfortunate, and I never like to hear of a marriage failing, though it is my understanding that they were merely perpetually engaged (for tax reasons? alimony? child support?), which is slightly less romantic. However. My point is that I am by no means belittling the significance of his crisis.

I still don’t fucking like him, though. So when he came all red-rimmed eyes and wobbly chin to ask me about changing his direct deposit, I answered his question without inquiring further. His disappointment was apparent in the way he sulked off with his figurative (or maybe literal, it wouldn’t surprise me) tail between his legs. It was also apparent when he came back to my office ANOTHER FOUR TIMES to sniffle and ask the same questions.

Hey, asshat? Did I fall sobbing into your arms when my own marriage ended? Natch. I did not. Did I like you yesterday? No, I did not. Do I like you today? No, I do not. Chances for tomorrow? Not lookin’ good. I know you must have a support system back there in Nerdtown (these guys are so undesirable that I refuse to call them geeks, because, well, geeks are guys you might consider dating, and these are bald-mullet-virgins), so go boo-hoo at them.

I don’t fucking like you, and no amount of personal tragedy is going to override my distaste.

I will give you some advice, though…

That pointy weirdo creeper goatee is not going to help you with the ladies when you get back out on the market.

Just sayin.