What I should have been doing was depositing a large brown log into the toilet. Instead I was transfixed and horrified by what was happening in the stall next to mine. Yes, I take my craps at work and in public restrooms more than I do at home. Why foul up my own bathroom and put undue stress on my plumbing. The toilets at work were designed to take it and take it. I had an ex-girlfriend who eschewed defecating at her workplace. She would just hold it until she was home. She was afraid of offending someone else’s olfactory system. She was also afraid of being offended. I knew we had crossed a major threshold when she dookied at my place for the first time. Even then, she was still overly apologetic.
For the past year and half, while crapping in the work lavatory, I had been noticing someone was leaving behind tiny pills on the ground in one of the stalls. These were tiny toilet paper pills—some lightly coated with fecal matter. It baffled me. What was this person doing to himself? I was about to find out.
It was a particularly busy day in the men’s room. I had neighbors to my right and left. Fortunately no one had eaten anything recently or contracted some infection to really damage the immediate atmosphere. We were all getting the job done cleanly and efficiently, mobile device buttons clicking and tapping away. The occupant to my left had finished. He stood up, and then he began to unroll toilet paper at an alarming rate. I’m not the environmentalist Cody and Apuri would like me to be, but I try not to take more tree-derived goods than I need. This guy was creating a veritable mitten of toilet paper. Maybe he was bleeding profusely and was going to use the T.P. mitten to apply some direct pressure. I was readying myself to make the 911 call. But then it all became clear; the mystery was solved. This guy, using his newly fashioned T.P. mitten, just started scrubbing the holy fuck out of his asshole. I thought the mitten was going to catch on fire. It sounded like a choo-choo train to hell. The tiny pills of shit-encrusted toilet paper were dropping to the floor like sparks. Then he created another T.P. mitten, and repeated the process.
“The toilet paper ain’t going to hold up to that level of abuse. You want to borrow my ass hanky?”
There was silence from my neighbor to the left and stifled laughter from my neighbor to the right. Mr. Mittens left the stall, walked right past the sink, and left the restroom. He didn’t wash his hands. I will never forget those white Nikes and denim cuffs to my left. I imagine Mr. Mittens trashed those Nikes for fear I might match the shoes to the face.
After one of the more interesting bowel movements in my career, I made my way to Karen’s cubicle. Karen was Jeff’s vice president of administration. Don’t try to call her a secretary. She was Jeff’s gatekeeper.
“How open is his door today, Karen?”
“Well, howdy, Shel. Aren’t you a glutton for punishment.”
“Not as much as you. You have to deal with him non-stop. I only get the random phone call at two in the morning.”
“He’s booked solid for the rest of the day.”
“You can squeeze me in somewhere.”
“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”
“Will that change anything?”
“No.”
“You know in the movies and TV, how the ‘administrative assistant’ always says the boss is busy even though he’s not, and then the guy trying to see the boss just barges in…”
“Yeah, his door is locked. Conference call with Australia right now. I can put you on the calendar for… let me see… the week after next… Friday morning.”
“But it’s me—Sheldon.”
“Well, I’m here. You can talk to me.”
“Karen, if you could do something about it, I would.”
“Try me.”
“Ephimria.”
“Oh yeah, you need talk to Jeff.”
“I’m not worried. He’ll probably call me at five A.M. on Sunday anyway. Hey, I’m still good for the Staples box tonight, right?”
“Yes, it doesn’t look like Jeff has bumped you, so enjoy the game.”
“You going?”
“It’s Friday night, Shel. I have better things to do.”
“Babysitting Jeff is better than a Lakers game?”
“Ha ha. He’s giving me the night off. Ally is on call in case he needs anything.”
“Much deserved. Enjoy.”
I hate most people, but Karen was very low on my hate list, which I suppose makes her one of my favorite people at the office relatively speaking. I don’t know if it’s the way she looks or the way she talks. All I know is that if I had the same conversation with Ally, and Ally used the same exact words Karen used throughout the conversation, I’d have wanted to kill myself at about the halfway point. Karen’s delivery was always sincere and playful. Ally was always caustic and gratingly sarcastic. Ally was Karen’s assistant. Ally was an assistant’s assistant. Did Ally always get the crap shifts because she was a bitch? Or was she a bitch because she always got the crap shifts? I’ll bring that up with her next time I see her.
I enjoy watching basketball played at the professional level, but it’s not really high up there for me as a pastime. What keeps me coming back to take advantage of our company’s luxury box at Staples Center is the dessert cart. Everyone down in the stands has to settle for the lame concessions some guy can fit in a box around his neck. Up in luxury box country, a cart comes by with a cornucopia of sweetness. Yeah, I could go to a nice restaurant and get a soufflé, but it just seems so awesomely ridiculous to be eating a giant hunk of chocolate cake while watching ten guys run around a wooden court and throw a ball through a hoop-- I’m drawn to it. It’s the same reason I’m drawn to salami and Nutella sandwiches. It doesn’t sound like it’s going to make sense at first, but it does. At least for me, it does.
Since the Lakers were in the middle of the play-offs, many big shots from the Classic News Channel were in the suite. I found myself hanging with Hans Reitherman, the executive producer of Weather or Not. I really hate Hans, but not for the reasons I hate most other people. I hate Hans because he’s probably the most genuinely cool fellow I’ve ever met—near perfect. He is impossible to hate, so I hate him for that. He oozes positive energy, warmth, humility, all that gooey stuff. He’s an accomplished mountain climber and shows incredible reverence towards nature. I’ve heard him rip it up on the piano and the blues harp; the cat wails. His wife is easily a ten in beauty and personality. He was born in Thailand to nomadic and philanthropic parents. You can’t beat this guy. Don’t bother trying. He will let you win, and you will lose. He even tolerates me.
While I was enjoying an oversized double-chocolate-dipped chocolate chip cookie, Hans and I discussed my bathroom incident earlier in the day, and we were trying to determine what proper wiping technique should be. Hans seemed to be enjoying the conversation.
“Shel, I don’t think I’ve ever talked about this with anyone.”
“And we’re watching the Lakers destroy the Nuggets while I’m eating this humungous cookie. It’s pretty crazy, I know.”
We switched our focus back to the game, when two new guests arrived who immediately caused a stir in the pants of all the males and the one lesbian in the suite. Now my days of being a globetrotting john were way behind me, but I could pick out a call girl from a line up of exotic dancers. These girls commanded top dollar. I must have been sitting in the right seat because they sauntered over to me. The taller one asked, “Are you Jeff?”
“No.”
I returned my focus to the game.
“Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sure he’s sitting in his courtside seat.”
“His friend told us to meet him here.”
“Well, then, grab an Amstel Light or a glass of chardonnay while you wait for Jeff to show up… maybe.”
“You think he won’t show?”
Just then the door opened, and in walked Jeff with two more attractive women in tow. Powerful men understand excess, but they’re also insanely disciplined. Jeff spotted me with his other new employees.
“Shel, we missed each other earlier. What did you want to talk about? Ladies, Hans, please excuse us. I can’t seem to get work off my mind.”
“Ephimria.”
“It’s great stuff, Shel. I’ve been taking their vitapack supplements for a couple weeks. Haven’t had a single canker sore since I started.”
“You get a lot of canker sores?”
“No, not really.”
“Jeff, I really think we’ll be taking our own brand down a few notches by associating with a product like Ephimria. I have hundreds of pitches ready for products and brands that I care about, and I think our viewers care about. They’re too sophisticated to not be offended by even one ad from these shysters.”
“You overestimate your audience and your show, and you underestimate Ephimria, Shel. I can sell anything to anyone, and so can the guys at Ephimria. There is one thing I care about and the shareholders of our company care about. Your show is cheap to make and it grabs a lot of eyes. That’s why it exists. Stop thinking that you are helping people on their path to enlightenment. You’re getting them to buy things.”
“We’re never going to agree on this, Jeff. You use me, and I use you. But I’ll tell you right now, people will stop watching Another Fifteen as Ephimria creeps in.”
“You met Mason Burnett, didn’t you. He’s fucking great.”
“He’s a fucking douche bag’s douche bag just like you.”
Jeff looked up and over my shoulder.
“Mason, you already know Shel.”
“We have met. No offense taken, Sheldon. My kids call me worse.”
That’s how these guys thought of me—as a child. Let the little one run off and make something awesome, and then we’ll take it and exploit it and strip it of everything that made it awesome. Well, this little kid could always take his ball and play somewhere else. The problem was I didn’t fully control the rights to Another Fifteen Minutes. The thought of some soulless prick stepping into my shoes as the producer made me want to pour cyanide sprinkles on my cookie. I would have to operate within the system to save the system. I’m just not ready to move to Canada.
“Your kids sound pretty cool.”
That got a chuckle from Mason. Both Jeff and Mason knew not to kill the goose that craps millions of dollars. Or maybe they had senses of humor.
“Full disclosure, Shel—Mason and I were fraternity brothers at UCSB. We both disappointed our parents by not going to Princeton.”
“Now it all makes sense. You’re both blinded by bromance.”
“That’s how it works. We help each other out.”
“So what do you get in return for helping out Mason here? Again no offense, Mason, but to me it looks like you’re getting the sweeter end of the deal.”
“The last name Burnett doesn’t mean anything to you?”
I started thinking, but it didn’t take long for me to figure it out.
“Oh, shit. You’re Gaston Burnett’s son.”
“I’m one of them, yes,” Mason replied with a smile.
Gaston Burnett was the head of Burnett Media, one of the largest media corporations in the world. Jeff takes care of Gaston Burnett’s third son, Gaston Burnett buys the Classic News Channel, and Jeff now has a chance to work his way up the Burnett Media ladder. It was exactly what Jeff would be thinking. Shit like this really happens.
“Say no more. I feel if I know too much, someone is going have to kill me. Let’s just get back to enjoying this compelling blowout.”
The lure of resignation was even greater now. I switched from cookies to gin. I began responding to the prods and pokes from the call girls. I was an oddity to them. Most guys just wanted to fuck them. I was talking to them and trying to figure out what broke them in the first place. I wasn’t trying to help them; I was just curious. Jeff scolded me once a while back for causing one to cry and walk out on a job. As the girls took over my time, Hans, the perfect family man and genuine nice guy, moved on. People at the top of my hate list now surrounded me.
For the past year and half, while crapping in the work lavatory, I had been noticing someone was leaving behind tiny pills on the ground in one of the stalls. These were tiny toilet paper pills—some lightly coated with fecal matter. It baffled me. What was this person doing to himself? I was about to find out.
It was a particularly busy day in the men’s room. I had neighbors to my right and left. Fortunately no one had eaten anything recently or contracted some infection to really damage the immediate atmosphere. We were all getting the job done cleanly and efficiently, mobile device buttons clicking and tapping away. The occupant to my left had finished. He stood up, and then he began to unroll toilet paper at an alarming rate. I’m not the environmentalist Cody and Apuri would like me to be, but I try not to take more tree-derived goods than I need. This guy was creating a veritable mitten of toilet paper. Maybe he was bleeding profusely and was going to use the T.P. mitten to apply some direct pressure. I was readying myself to make the 911 call. But then it all became clear; the mystery was solved. This guy, using his newly fashioned T.P. mitten, just started scrubbing the holy fuck out of his asshole. I thought the mitten was going to catch on fire. It sounded like a choo-choo train to hell. The tiny pills of shit-encrusted toilet paper were dropping to the floor like sparks. Then he created another T.P. mitten, and repeated the process.
“The toilet paper ain’t going to hold up to that level of abuse. You want to borrow my ass hanky?”
There was silence from my neighbor to the left and stifled laughter from my neighbor to the right. Mr. Mittens left the stall, walked right past the sink, and left the restroom. He didn’t wash his hands. I will never forget those white Nikes and denim cuffs to my left. I imagine Mr. Mittens trashed those Nikes for fear I might match the shoes to the face.
---
After one of the more interesting bowel movements in my career, I made my way to Karen’s cubicle. Karen was Jeff’s vice president of administration. Don’t try to call her a secretary. She was Jeff’s gatekeeper.
“How open is his door today, Karen?”
“Well, howdy, Shel. Aren’t you a glutton for punishment.”
“Not as much as you. You have to deal with him non-stop. I only get the random phone call at two in the morning.”
“He’s booked solid for the rest of the day.”
“You can squeeze me in somewhere.”
“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”
“Will that change anything?”
“No.”
“You know in the movies and TV, how the ‘administrative assistant’ always says the boss is busy even though he’s not, and then the guy trying to see the boss just barges in…”
“Yeah, his door is locked. Conference call with Australia right now. I can put you on the calendar for… let me see… the week after next… Friday morning.”
“But it’s me—Sheldon.”
“Well, I’m here. You can talk to me.”
“Karen, if you could do something about it, I would.”
“Try me.”
“Ephimria.”
“Oh yeah, you need talk to Jeff.”
“I’m not worried. He’ll probably call me at five A.M. on Sunday anyway. Hey, I’m still good for the Staples box tonight, right?”
“Yes, it doesn’t look like Jeff has bumped you, so enjoy the game.”
“You going?”
“It’s Friday night, Shel. I have better things to do.”
“Babysitting Jeff is better than a Lakers game?”
“Ha ha. He’s giving me the night off. Ally is on call in case he needs anything.”
“Much deserved. Enjoy.”
I hate most people, but Karen was very low on my hate list, which I suppose makes her one of my favorite people at the office relatively speaking. I don’t know if it’s the way she looks or the way she talks. All I know is that if I had the same conversation with Ally, and Ally used the same exact words Karen used throughout the conversation, I’d have wanted to kill myself at about the halfway point. Karen’s delivery was always sincere and playful. Ally was always caustic and gratingly sarcastic. Ally was Karen’s assistant. Ally was an assistant’s assistant. Did Ally always get the crap shifts because she was a bitch? Or was she a bitch because she always got the crap shifts? I’ll bring that up with her next time I see her.
---
I enjoy watching basketball played at the professional level, but it’s not really high up there for me as a pastime. What keeps me coming back to take advantage of our company’s luxury box at Staples Center is the dessert cart. Everyone down in the stands has to settle for the lame concessions some guy can fit in a box around his neck. Up in luxury box country, a cart comes by with a cornucopia of sweetness. Yeah, I could go to a nice restaurant and get a soufflé, but it just seems so awesomely ridiculous to be eating a giant hunk of chocolate cake while watching ten guys run around a wooden court and throw a ball through a hoop-- I’m drawn to it. It’s the same reason I’m drawn to salami and Nutella sandwiches. It doesn’t sound like it’s going to make sense at first, but it does. At least for me, it does.
Since the Lakers were in the middle of the play-offs, many big shots from the Classic News Channel were in the suite. I found myself hanging with Hans Reitherman, the executive producer of Weather or Not. I really hate Hans, but not for the reasons I hate most other people. I hate Hans because he’s probably the most genuinely cool fellow I’ve ever met—near perfect. He is impossible to hate, so I hate him for that. He oozes positive energy, warmth, humility, all that gooey stuff. He’s an accomplished mountain climber and shows incredible reverence towards nature. I’ve heard him rip it up on the piano and the blues harp; the cat wails. His wife is easily a ten in beauty and personality. He was born in Thailand to nomadic and philanthropic parents. You can’t beat this guy. Don’t bother trying. He will let you win, and you will lose. He even tolerates me.
While I was enjoying an oversized double-chocolate-dipped chocolate chip cookie, Hans and I discussed my bathroom incident earlier in the day, and we were trying to determine what proper wiping technique should be. Hans seemed to be enjoying the conversation.
“Shel, I don’t think I’ve ever talked about this with anyone.”
“And we’re watching the Lakers destroy the Nuggets while I’m eating this humungous cookie. It’s pretty crazy, I know.”
We switched our focus back to the game, when two new guests arrived who immediately caused a stir in the pants of all the males and the one lesbian in the suite. Now my days of being a globetrotting john were way behind me, but I could pick out a call girl from a line up of exotic dancers. These girls commanded top dollar. I must have been sitting in the right seat because they sauntered over to me. The taller one asked, “Are you Jeff?”
“No.”
I returned my focus to the game.
“Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sure he’s sitting in his courtside seat.”
“His friend told us to meet him here.”
“Well, then, grab an Amstel Light or a glass of chardonnay while you wait for Jeff to show up… maybe.”
“You think he won’t show?”
Just then the door opened, and in walked Jeff with two more attractive women in tow. Powerful men understand excess, but they’re also insanely disciplined. Jeff spotted me with his other new employees.
“Shel, we missed each other earlier. What did you want to talk about? Ladies, Hans, please excuse us. I can’t seem to get work off my mind.”
“Ephimria.”
“It’s great stuff, Shel. I’ve been taking their vitapack supplements for a couple weeks. Haven’t had a single canker sore since I started.”
“You get a lot of canker sores?”
“No, not really.”
“Jeff, I really think we’ll be taking our own brand down a few notches by associating with a product like Ephimria. I have hundreds of pitches ready for products and brands that I care about, and I think our viewers care about. They’re too sophisticated to not be offended by even one ad from these shysters.”
“You overestimate your audience and your show, and you underestimate Ephimria, Shel. I can sell anything to anyone, and so can the guys at Ephimria. There is one thing I care about and the shareholders of our company care about. Your show is cheap to make and it grabs a lot of eyes. That’s why it exists. Stop thinking that you are helping people on their path to enlightenment. You’re getting them to buy things.”
“We’re never going to agree on this, Jeff. You use me, and I use you. But I’ll tell you right now, people will stop watching Another Fifteen as Ephimria creeps in.”
“You met Mason Burnett, didn’t you. He’s fucking great.”
“He’s a fucking douche bag’s douche bag just like you.”
Jeff looked up and over my shoulder.
“Mason, you already know Shel.”
“We have met. No offense taken, Sheldon. My kids call me worse.”
That’s how these guys thought of me—as a child. Let the little one run off and make something awesome, and then we’ll take it and exploit it and strip it of everything that made it awesome. Well, this little kid could always take his ball and play somewhere else. The problem was I didn’t fully control the rights to Another Fifteen Minutes. The thought of some soulless prick stepping into my shoes as the producer made me want to pour cyanide sprinkles on my cookie. I would have to operate within the system to save the system. I’m just not ready to move to Canada.
“Your kids sound pretty cool.”
That got a chuckle from Mason. Both Jeff and Mason knew not to kill the goose that craps millions of dollars. Or maybe they had senses of humor.
“Full disclosure, Shel—Mason and I were fraternity brothers at UCSB. We both disappointed our parents by not going to Princeton.”
“Now it all makes sense. You’re both blinded by bromance.”
“That’s how it works. We help each other out.”
“So what do you get in return for helping out Mason here? Again no offense, Mason, but to me it looks like you’re getting the sweeter end of the deal.”
“The last name Burnett doesn’t mean anything to you?”
I started thinking, but it didn’t take long for me to figure it out.
“Oh, shit. You’re Gaston Burnett’s son.”
“I’m one of them, yes,” Mason replied with a smile.
Gaston Burnett was the head of Burnett Media, one of the largest media corporations in the world. Jeff takes care of Gaston Burnett’s third son, Gaston Burnett buys the Classic News Channel, and Jeff now has a chance to work his way up the Burnett Media ladder. It was exactly what Jeff would be thinking. Shit like this really happens.
“Say no more. I feel if I know too much, someone is going have to kill me. Let’s just get back to enjoying this compelling blowout.”
The lure of resignation was even greater now. I switched from cookies to gin. I began responding to the prods and pokes from the call girls. I was an oddity to them. Most guys just wanted to fuck them. I was talking to them and trying to figure out what broke them in the first place. I wasn’t trying to help them; I was just curious. Jeff scolded me once a while back for causing one to cry and walk out on a job. As the girls took over my time, Hans, the perfect family man and genuine nice guy, moved on. People at the top of my hate list now surrounded me.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment