It was 4:50 on Hobo Christmas, and I wanted to book it. All of the downtown leases end at noon on August 14, and most move-ins don't start until 9 AM on the 15th, and the curbs are piled high. Sure, there's a fair amount of garbage, but between all of the bins there is a plethora of furniture to be had, for free. Bookshelves, desks, dressers, microwaves, bedframes, you name it, you can find it in pretty good condition on the curb. For those of us who renewed our leases, it's an easy time to pick up some new furnishings to freshen up the place so you don't get too sick of it.
I was sitting at the desk, recapping the ridiculousness of the previous night to my supervisor. Initials' coworker had talked him into going to bingo, and Initials talked me into it. It'll be fun, he says, and lots of people play it ironically. Plus the beer is cheap. Plus we could win $1000. Of course, it was a sea of white hair and we won nothing. Also, Initials and his friends are all idiots who can't follow simple directions. Why aren't they calling any Ns? What do you mean, it has to be an X? This is complicated. Plus, none of them can hold their liquor, and we got lots of dirty looks by old ladies who wanted to beat us up with their walkers for interfering with their bingo game.
By 4:57 the conversation had mostly fizzled and segued into mindlessly staring at the clock, waiting for my replacement. The coworker who was coming to replace me walked in, black Jackie-O glasses doing a poor job of masking the flow of tears. Her chest was heaving, and you could hear her inhaling snot from across the lobby.
My supervisor immediately rushed to the front doors to comfort her, asking what was wrong. Through her tears, she says "Wet... pie your... cigarette."
She is asked to repeat herself. She sniffles and says "I sped lube pry ends."
Eventually, we catch on. She just said goodbye to her best friend.
Which is sad, sure. But her friend is studying abroad in Paris next semester. They have the postal service, and phones, and internet in France. She'll be back in December. There's no reason to scare off visitors in our front lobby. She was crying like her mom just died.
I know that girls are more sentimental about these types of things. I was never one for tears on the last day of school, and promises to write at the end of camp, and vows of keeping in touch. Maybe it's just a guy thing, not to get too worked up about stuff like that.
Eventually, at 5:02 she composed herself and made it to the breakroom to punch in. "I wasn't even supposed to work today" she mutters to herself, to which I reply "That sucks."
"Be nice" says my supervisor with a frown, and gives me the ok to head out.
I ended up with a new-to-me lamp, bedspring, headboard, and bookshelf. But now I'm pretty sure my coworkers think I'm a dick now. Whatever. They're a bunch of pussies.
