Little Games We Play

18 Nov

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It’s been a slow day.

…You can tell cuz this morning, WHS Pimp and I took to emailing “did-you-know-this-exists?” to each other…under guise of actual “work.”

…Like that super important Memo Change #33757.

Keep in mind, our offices are exactly three steps apart.

Also: We ran outta Keurig cups early  this morning.

…So the WHS Pimp had to find and plug in the old Mr. Coffee machine…dig up some leftover filters, and this bag of grounds which have been ossifying in the supply closet for about six or eight months.

…It mostly tastes of burnt twigs mixed in used engine oil, with a soupçon of battery acid to finish.  Yet we are forcing it down with a grimace, because: Caffeine.

…Also: It’s really flipping cold right now.

Both The Pimp and WHS Chick are bundled up like Randy from “A Christmas Story,” wobbling around the yard with the dexterity of The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man as they load and unload product from the trucks.  Watching them try to maneuver the fork lift is bonus fun…as it requires a two-man team to do anything at all.  One to sit there, in a fused-bundle, without any movement radius at all…like an overstuffed pillow in traction…the other to stand behind or in front as the actual “eyes” of the driver, to tell them what to do.  They are just super uncomfortable-looking, with puffs of white smoke, constantly-blowing out of their mouths as they scream at one another over the motor.

…I can’t hear them, cuz I’m inside, where it’s warm-ish.  

(Apparently, they can’t hear one another either…)

…But I can imagine their conversation.  Cuz frankly, there’s nothing else to do:

WHS Pimp:  …To the left!

WHS Chick: …Mine or yours?!

WHS Pimp: (not hearing her) No!  Left! Left!

WHS Chick: I think the gear is frozen!

WHS Pimp: (still not hearing her) I said left! Left!

WHS Chick: …It’s won’t jam in! 

(Giant grinding sound.)

WHS Chick: Fuck-cock-a-shit!…Hear that grind?! It won’t ease in!

WHS Pimp: — Holy Hell! What are you…?!  Stop!

WHS Chick: …There it goes!  It’s in now!  Where do I go?!

WHS Pimp: Fig Newtons!

WHS Chick: What?! It sounded like you said “fig newtons”!

WHS Pimp: Eclaires! Eclaires!

WHS Chick: Why are you talking in food code?!

(I notice my tummy is grumbling. Guess I’m hungry. Back to the window:)

WHS Pimp: –What the hell are you…??! What’s happening?!

WHS Chick: (standing up from the seat and cupping her hands over her mouth.) WHERE DO I GO…?!

(She tries to look behind her, but the hoodie blocks all peripheral vision, and she can’t turn at the waist as she’s too bulked up.)

WHS Pimp: (still not hearing her.) What?! You want me to do it?!

WHS Chick: What?!

WHS Pimp: You getting down?! You wanna guide instead?!

WHS Chick: I can’t…I can’t hear you!!  My earmuffs are…Where do I go?!

WHS Pimp: Okay! I’m coming!

(He jumps over to her in a feined slow motion run, like Neil Armstrong on the moon. They yell at one another face-to-face over the motor.  Warring puffs of  breath-smoke colliding in the freezing air.  Lots of gestures are attempted as a mapping out, but with little elbow movement, it’s hard to make out what the gestures mean. Some agreement must have been made as they return to their posts.  WHS Chick revs the engine and takes off the brake.)

WHS Pimp: Alright! Now, go left!

WHS Chick: …What?!…

(I take a drink of the death-coffee and grimace, like a dog-yawn. the end.)

~D
 
 

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