Part II of "The Seven."
Click here to read part one of The SevenFear is an odd weapon in the hands of man. It can give you amazing amounts of strength, heighten your sense to pin-point accuracy, even cripple you to a quivering paralyzed wreck. In my case, it gave me speed. I pumped my legs with a fury and insistance that made me feel nearly detached from my body. It was as if someone was controlling me. Like I was a giant marionette.
The seven are coming
I bolted around a corner off 5th onto Louton Street. The sidewalks were crowded with the normal afternoon rush of faceless pedestrians. Drinking coffee, reading newspapers, all rushing in that murmur of white noise that is the song of the commuter. The chatter today had a disorienting effect, as if I were swimming in the sounds of it all. The pace through this throng of human cattle was too slow for my dread to bear. I was programmed to run but the obstacles before me kept me at a a pace not much faster than a jog.
From behind me I heard the groan of metal followed by a ground shaking crash. I could hear glass breaking and people screaming. Tires squealed and horns honked in protest and alarm.
She couldn't hold the bus back any longer and it had collided with something large. Large enough to make the ground shutter.
I didn't bother looking back. Instead I sidestepped off the sidewalk and into the street. Right into the oncoming traffic. Luckily, at this hour, traffic was at little more than a crawl. My shoes slapped on the slick black pavement of the city street as I sprinted between the slow-moving cars.
My path felt predecided. I was heading in a direction that felt right but I couldn't say where my destination would be. I was being pulled or pushed towards some misfit destiny and I had no desire or urge to stop it. My crazy legs just kept driving me forward. My breath rushed from my lung with the heave and the huff of a thoroughbred.
Bounding through a four-way intersection, miraculously missing a collission with a late model minivan of some sort, my eyes fell on a dirty man standing on the dirty sidewalks infront of an equally dirty little church. The flight of steps leading up to the large scarred double-doors leading into the tiny church were cracked and skewed.
The man looked as if he were in his late fifties, early sixties. It was nearly summer but the man was dressed in layers of filthy, worn out rags. His face was covered with a dark, straggly, food and dirt-strewn beard that was graying at the ends. He stood on the sidewalk with a hand-made cardboard sign raised over his head as he shouted to the crowd.
"It is the time of trials. It is the time of judgement," He cried in a strong southern accent so that his words were drawn. Taaahhhm of traaahhhyaaallls.
"People repent for he is at the door," he cawed, thrusting his cardboard sign. The words on that sign stopped me so fast that the top half of my body nearly over ran my decelerating feet. I stared, my eyes blinking, at the words on the sign.
"There is no place to hide but with Jesus," he bellowed. No place ta haaad. As I looked into the face of the dishevelled homeless man, his dirty, drunken eyes met mine and his religious ranting and raving stopped. I watched in shock as his eye seemed to morph. His bloodshot eyes seemed to become clear and bright and the same shocking blue eyes that shot peircing arrows of bone chilling ice through my chest.
I've been looking for you
The ratty cardboard sign slowly dropped down to the sidewalk and skidded into the gutter along with the other trash so inconsiderately regarded. I followed the words of that sign as it came to rest in the street. The sign read: The Church is your sanctuary from THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS. But in its flight down to the ground a portion of the cardboard folded under itself. I read the sign as it lay in the gutter
The Church is your
sanctuary from
THE SEVEN
I ran past the bum, up the crooked steps and pushed my way into the church. I glanced over my shoulder as I yanked open the huge wooden door. The homeless man was gone. The sign was still there.
Another addition to the two-week notice follies:
The guerrilla tactics continue.
Today I walked up to the VP of Finance's Secretary's desk and yelled "SO THAT'S WHERE I PUT IT" and ran off with her mouse pad. I mailed it back to her through the inter-office mail.
I've been calling everyone "Chief." I thought about calling them Tonto but I didn't want to offend the American Indian Contingency at this fine corporation.
I sit in my cubicle all day and sing "I DON"T GIVE A FUCK" to the tune of Iron Man by Ozzy Osbourne. Try it...its contageous.
This isn't inter-office terrorism but we called a local chinese resturant today and asked if "Larry Lawright" was eating and laughed as they yelled for RAWWY RAWLIGHT"
Today I e-mailed the Application Manager and asked her to wake me up for our 2pm meeting. She actually called me at 2pm...what does that say about me?
The Joys of the Two-Week Notice:
I have say, today I'm floating on a cloud. Last weekend I got a job offer from a company closer to my house and, after some brief consideration, decided to accept their offer. The current position I'm in was the first job I'd had after 10 years in the Air Force so I never had the pleasure of submitting a resignation.
Well last monday I finally had that uplifting experience. I handed my resignation letter to my boss and suddenly it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I literally stopped outside my boss's office with this dumbfounded deer-in-the-headlights look that gradually transformed into a smirk nearly equal to that Christmas Stealing Bastart, the Grinch. It was so extreme that I could HEAR the flesh on my face stretching.
Oh, I handed my boss my two weeks notice all right, but he handed me something greater. I had suddenly become that African White Guy in Lethal Weapon 4...i could do whatever I wanted and yell "Diplomatic Immunity" as i drove away in my Mercedes Benz cackling like a mad scientist...Of course, in this case its a Ford Focus and i'm not really that good at cackling...yet.
But seriously, i'd been given a License to Ill. My excuse? What are they gonna do...fire me?
It started out somewhat tame...i had to test the boundaries of my new found freedom. The first test was a reply e-mail to a certain customer who I really hated dealing with. This person was the kind of jerk (and i'm sure you have them where you work) where anytime something goes wrong, they e-mail you about it but CC everyone else in the organization in an attempt to make you look like a dipshit. I decided to return the favor. I was literally trembling with glee as I hit the "send" button. I've pasted the e-mail response into this blog for proof...read on, my friends (and note the "P.S.":
Patti,
I'm just a little curious why you don't contact us directly rather than CC a ton of people who have little or no responsibility (or care for that matter) concerning IT issues. It would probably be a better idea, in between picking out your zebra skinned skirts, if you gave MIS the opportunity to at least take a look at the problem before crying wolf to the masses. It tends to make us feel like you're dragging us through the mud.
We're here to help out and will provide the best support we possibly can. Please give us the opportunity to do so.
PS: Chill out on the perfume...its scary
So with that water tested successfully I began to try out other aspects of my freedom. Yesterday afternoon I decided that I wasn't going to walk anywhere in the department. Instead, I rolled around on my office chair claiming that my walking shoes were in the shop. Today, i followed my boss into the bathroom and waited until he went into the stall, then I turned out the lights and ran out...that was fun!
Being the Network Manager I have certain God-Like abilities. I am thinking of sending an e-mail to the entire company from the CEO with new employee rules such as:
1. From here on out all phone calls and e-mail will be concluded with "over and out!" The phrases "roger" and "aye aye" may also be used.
2. The outdoor smoking section has now been relocated to the first floor conference center. Smoke 'em if you got 'em!
3. The last friday of every month is now designated "Thong Day." Employees are highly urged to participate.
4. We've designated August as Cultural Growth Month. To help support this program we will be showing Cheech and Chong movies every Wednesday in the lunch room...over and out!
I'll keep you posted on the development of that one...
I thought it might be fun to call the helpdesk and pretend I was a customer. So this morning I picked up my cell phone and dialed in:
Helpdesk: Helpdesk, can I help you?
me *with southern accent*: how you doin?
Helpdesk: umm..i'm fine
me: thats good cause its hot, aint it?
Helpdesk: yes...i think it is.
me: man, I walked out in the driveway and the blacktop burnt the hell out mah feet
Helpdesk: ....hmmm, ok. so how can I help you
me: you know anything about chickens?
Helpdesk: about wha-
me: cause i got a chicken in here and I think the thing is confused.
Helpdesk: sir I-
me: damn thing keeps tryin' to hump the cat. I keep shooin' him off the cat but he just hops right back up there.
Helpdesk: uh...sir this is the Helpdesk
me: I tried using the hose on the bastard but that just pissed it off. Chickens don't have dicks do they?
Helpdesk: I...
me: cause if they don't...this dickless chicken is really confused...
Helpdesk: sir this is the helpdesk...we wouldn't know any-
me: that's why I called you...i need help. My chicken is tryin to fuck my cat!
Helpdesk: uh...
me: oh hell...here comes the money shot!!! *click*
So I figure I have about a week left of antics. I wonder if they'll keep me on that long? I'll keep you posted. Roger, over and out!
