I went out to grab some lunch a few minutes ago, and got a bit more than I bargained for. I went to one of those places that tries to do a little bit of everything — they’ve got muffins, and coffee, and sandwiches, and chips, and pre-made pasta dishes, and pizza, and drinks… probably, there’s some guy in the back making baklava or sushi or something, ‘just in case!’ Kind of schizophrenic, really, but I suppose having options is nice.
Anyway, that’s not the point. As usual, I’m slowly circling the point, like that last little turdlet spinning down the crapper at the end of a flush. Which is far too realistic a metaphor for my writing than I’m really comfortable with, frankly. I’m going to go back to rambling now, and try to pretend that I never thought of that.
And if I can’t do it alone, maybe I’ll recruit some delicious frothy, hoppy friends of mine to help me out later.
(Yeah, I’m talking about beer, if you didn’t catch on, there, skippy. Those are the only ‘frothy, hoppy friends’ that I have. It’s not like I’m hanging out with rabid bunny rabbits over here, okay? Don’t be a smartass. Nobody likes a smartass, and I should know, goddammit.)
Anyway, here’s the point, or at least something slightly closer to it: as I was standing at the counter, looking over the foodstuffs, one of the employees came over and asked if he could help me. Only, he didn’t ask if he could help me, ‘sir‘, or could he help me, ‘dude‘, or even could he help me out, ‘brutha‘. No, this particular gentleman asked if he could help me, ‘boss‘. I hear that every now and then — maybe it’s a New England thing; I don’t know. But I do know that I’m really not comfortable with it.
First of all, it’s not true. Not even remotely. I’m not this guy’s boss, I’m not some other guy’s boss, I’m not anybody’s boss. I don’t need that kind of pressure, dammit. Let’s be clear about this. I’m only just barely able to handle keeping myself alive, clothed, and out of jail — I’m not the sort of person you’d want to make responsible for the well-being of others. I make bad decisions, don’t clean up my own messes, and I’m not above lying, cheating, or — should it ever become necessary — having a judge whacked to cover my ass. I forget things, lose things, and occasionally find myself wearing my underwear backwards. If it weren’t for my wife handling the bills, giving me an allowance, and pre-tying my shoes for me, I’d probably be living in a Greyhound station somewhere in the Midwest right now. And I need a haircut. Badly.
All of which argues, most eloquently, that I am not to be put in a position of responsibility. Or to be called ‘boss‘ — or ‘supervisor‘, or ‘big cheese‘, or a ‘honcho‘ of any kind — by anyone, anywhere, at any time. That road leads to Shitstown, I’m afraid.
And besides, even while this guy was calling me boss — after every damned sentence, I might add — his real boss was right there! I mean, the dude had to know I wasn’t his boss, when the genuine article was standing by the register, rearranging the muffins and picking his nose. And not necessarily in that order, people. I’d avoid the breakfast breads in that place, if you know what I’m saying. You might get a little more fiber in that bran muffin than you bargained for.
In the end, I guess it worked out okay. I got my tortellini to go, and hightailed it out of there before I had to perform any ‘official’ duties, like beating the staff or hiking the prices or paying off the health inspector for all the boogery fingers in the joint. Still, I’m just not cool with being called ‘boss‘. If I wanted that kind of responsibility, I’d have a damned kid. Then I could tell somebody what to do all the time, and wouldn’t have to pay them anything. And I’d know who was doing all the nose-picking, without putting in security cameras. Why, if it weren’t for all the cash and effort and soul-sucking aggravation of having one of those little dingleberries around, that’d be the way to go.
But, it’s not gonna happen. So, don’t be throwing any ‘boss‘es in my direction, just to be safe. And now, I think I’d better call my wife. That left shoelace is looking mighty loose, so I’m gonna need her services soon. And she may have to talk me through another undies adjustment — I just wiggled around in my chair a little, and I’ve got a funny feeling that I felt the boxer flap back there where it’s not supposed to be. Man, am I glad I have my ‘boss‘ to look after me. This shit is hard!Permalink | 5 Comments