Mean Rubber

Photo by Sylvar

You know, these days, I can remember strolling down stairs one fine hung over Sunday morning at the ripe old age of nineteen. Being a college sophomore and, well, Irish, I did what any fine young lad should do the night before: got shit housed.

I remember hearing my sister who was a few years out of college ramble on about how she had just been promoted, but work had gotten, “kind of depressing”. I sat there grilling about six pieces of toast thinking to myself “ I stuff bread in my stomach it will somehow absorb the alcohol and take the sharp pains out of my frigging head,” but, besides that, thinking to myself, “what the hell is this chick babbling on about? She majored in economics, what did she think she was gonna be? Indiana Fricken Jones?” I firmly set out to avidly avoid any corporate sell out career path and promptly skipped the business section of the course guide. Instead, I majored in history and criminal justice, thinking I could either go to law school, become an archaeologist, or perhaps gunfight with drug dealers. Something inherently badass was in my future.

Flash forward seven years later. Monday morning. 6 AM. Have to leave in an hour. Wake up, throw alarm clock at pile of magazines.

6:45. Finally roll out of bed. Look at Moneyball on the floor. Read two pages. Think about how this guy spent a portion of his life writing about baseball and I’m about to strap on my fag suit and best shit-eating grin to go to some place I hate. Promptly throw Moneyball at same pile of magazines.

7 AM. Time to leave. Log on to email. Read and respond to cute bartender who thinks I’m funny. Watch Youtube videos of sports fans fighting at games.

7:30. Running late. Go to get ice coffee. Look at obnoxiously long drive in line, and decide to wait in that and listen to radio instead of walking my lazy ass in.

Walk in to work late. Asked why I’m late. Respond, “because I didn’t get here on time”. Make peace with fact that this response will likely not advance my career. Sit down at cubicle. Toss homemade sandwich into top drawer, because I suddenly realize that I don’t even give a shit to put it in the fridge. Cold or disgustingly warm, the damn thing will suck anyway. Stare at Tom Brady and Jon Papelbon figures in cubicle for inspiration. Get depressed. Log in to system. Move papers I don’t want to work on. Realize I got notices that are virtually meaningless that I don’t even want to respond to; shred said notices. I then spend about an hour and a half clicking between my work screen and fantasy baseball wondering how the hell to save my team’s season when my two best third basemen are out for the year. Walk to the bathroom, stroll past “company guy” co-worker. He asks how I’m doing. I respond, “livin’ the dream”. He gives me awkward look and responds, “having fun, huh”. Look back with maniacal death stare and say in straightest face possible, “ALWAYS”.

Spend twenty minutes on the shitter reading sports transactions while pretending to take the Browns to the Super bowl. Return to work for about an hour or so. Give up. Start researching vacation packages to see where the Vikings lived. Run across “Viking Resort” which is essentially a sex club. Realize they offer a $7800 package that guarantees two women of your choice every night.

Realize there are bigger losers than me out there.

Re-energized. Do about another hour of work. Realize that I have this blinking red file that I haven’t looked at in three months and will probably get me fired if I don’t finally do it. Instead, go to sporcle.com and start quiz naming every NFL MVP ever. Slap myself so hard girl next to me hears it and asks what’s going on, did I screw something up? Respond with, “How the hell did I forget Eric Dickerson?” Fake an hour of work by moving things around and walking back and forth to the mailboxes. Go to movie and music store at lunch. Feel the awkward stare of the people my age making half what I do judging me for being a sell- out. Mentally agree and avoid eye contact. Go buy John Wayne movie since I realize I need to figure out how to get my nuts back. Return to work. An hour passes. Decide to rebound from my failure to name all the Batman villains in quiz by taking on quiz to name the top then rated TV shows in every decade since the 70s. Fail again. Refuse to believe Magnum, P.I. was not in the top 10. Get really pissed off when phone keeps ringing. Finally answer. Response to phone conversation goes something like this:

“Oh, let me stop you there, I can tell by the file number, that’s on the old system, and I can’t access that right now…Oh, I don’t know, I can’t get into the old system, for some reason I couldn’t log in today….No, I’m not sure what’s wrong, I haven’t actually asked anyone…well, I can’t say when it would be fixed, like I said, I haven’t even talked to anyone about it, so I’m not sure if its broke, could just be me….ya, ya, well, listen, why don’t you call back next week, I don’t want to tell you I’ll call you back and then forget or something”.

Hang up phone. Tell my friend, “Can you believe that bitch? She told me it was need to know information? Really? It’s frigging insurance crap. Need to know information involves your nuts, jumper cables, and a car battery”. Hear friend’s manager walk up behind me to inform us that they are monitoring phone calls. Thank her and tell her it’s been a pleasure working with her, because, “guess I won’t be around much longer”.

What the hell happened to me? I went into college all bright eyed thinking I’d actually do something. Instead I’m surfing the internet, developing office physique, and taking mediocrity to new levels. All while under the watchful hell of those goddamn fluorescent lights and that awful re-circulated air. I thought I was going to be Indiana Jones or something. How the hell did I end up here?