Am I blogging...or am I pitching my existence?
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| High Concept Am I blogging...or am I pitching my existence? |
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Tuesday, September 23, 2003 The Pitch: It's like Seinfeld meets The Bodyguard! So for reasons I won't go into--in part because I'm not supposed to know them--three guys in suits showed up yesterday.Now, where I work, three guys in suits are always showing up, although as more women get further and further in the male-dominated workplace, it's more like two guys in a suit and a sharply dressed woman. Lawyers, and almost always, they have a lawyerly thing going on. These three guys didn't have the lawyerly thing going on. They moved their arms too quickly, making their arms jerk in their coats. They would lean over a counter and then grimace as their ties cut at their throat. Blue-collar guys in suits. Security. The security guys sit next to the receptionist, making small chat and watching everyone's beltline and hands and maybe looking you in the face. And about the third time I passed this one guy--a stocky, bald guy with a bit of a glare--I thought, "Man, that guy's a jerk." This marked dislike kind of caught me by surprise. After all, I didn't know the guy, and I knew the job he was doing was a hard one. He seemed a bit tougher than the other guys, but he wasn't being abusive. He was just subtly radiating enmity in a way that rubbed me the wrong way, and yet also felt familiar. I walked slowly up the stairs, looking at him as he sat in his chair with his fingers carefully crossed over his belly. He turned a bit to one side and I said to myself, "Holy crap! It's that asshole from the lobby!" Now, I hadn't seen that asshole from the lobby in four or five years but I realized it was him. He'd been new to the building's security force and he'd given crap to one of my co-workers and he and I had yelled at each other. (I think that's what happened.) Some really stupid rules were in place (a memo a decade earlier had been sent to reception, allowing people working on 28 to come and go before 8:00 a.m. as long as they signed in. Seven years later, we got cards we swiped over sensors in reception, which should have obviated the sign-in but, since no one had retracted the memo, people on 28 had to sign in as well as swipe their cards while people going to 30 didn't. It took me literally years to get this undone, since the memo had to be retracted by the person who wrote it who, of course, left the firm a year after they wrote it, and the current human resources people, who never showed up before 8:00 a.m., couldn't understand what the problem was and so never bothered to call and resolve it.) and we'd argued when he tried to crack down on somebody over something so stupid. I hadn't seen him, like I said, in four or five years, so it took me a few minutes to place him. It annoyed me to see him there, next to the receptionist, leaning back in his chair. He'd disappeared not long after our fight and after a year or so of not seeing him, I assumed he'd been quit or fired (frequently, they rotate out to different buildings so you don't see them for a while). Now, though, I realized he'd been promoted, and was working the plainclothes end of things. More money, more autonomy, all because he yelled at women over Kafkaesque regulations. It depressed me. I walked by him and glared. Fifteen minutes later, I passed by again to go get some mineral water from downstairs. As I came back again, I gave what I hoped was a quick dismissive glance and as I passed by the far side of the reception desk, he said, "Still working late?" I turned around, and he said, "I remember you from when you used to work downstairs," he said. "You always used to work late." The receptionist was literally between us as we looked at each other. "Yeah, yeah," I said. "Work early, work late." "Yeah," he said. "I remember you." "Hey, yeah," I said. "That's right. Wow. That was a long time ago." He nodded. "Well," I said, "I guess you're still with the company. Good to see you're still around." This was a craven lie. He'd caught me off-guard me because I almost never get recognized. I've walked by, or sat next to, high school friends, failed dates, ex-girlfriends, former co-workers, ex-girlfriends of acquaintances, women I drank with in cars, venerated college mentors, and girls I'd made out with in closets, and not been recognized (although some of those probably pretended not to recognize me, just as I pretended not to recognize them). I'm used to it--it's a charisma thing. But he'd recognized me. Our argument occurred in the morning--I wonder if he remembered I worked late because he'd hoped to catch me after work? "Yeah," he said, glaring at me while I glared at him. "Good to see you, too." It's funny because it's inconsequential, but it's creepy because I really don't like this guy and he really doesn't like me. And although it kind of makes sense, what with a heated argument and all, I'll be honest. Back before I'd ever argued with that guy, I hadn't liked him. He'd struck me as a short guy who'd come out of the military without proving to whomever what he'd wanted to prove, and he was going to prove it to everyone now that he was surrounded by people who weren't also issued guns. Who knows what it is? People talk about pheromones, or vibes, or past life blah-de-blahs, but it seems both deeper and more absurdly trivial than that. In a way, it's as comforting as it is amusingly sad. It is something that, although fleeting, even four or five years couldn't erase. As I get older, something strong enough to resist the erosion of time can't help but be respected by me, perhaps even treasured a bit, no matter how dark and furious. posted by Jeff Lester | 8:05 AM | |
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