The 'talent'

We were sitting in the mostly dark of Lafitte’s. My boss was trying to convince me to keep fighting the good fight.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” I said, taking a swig of Dixie beer. I paused for a second to realize the bit of irony, bad tastes left in mouth and all…

“I come into the office and I’m dragged down consistently. Yes, there are moments where you remember why you do this, but in this corporate, stock-holder is the only God world we’ve allowed the industry to become, I just can’t. It hurts.”

“You’ve said all that before,” my boss, a shaggy-haired, unkempt fellow who once applied for and didn’t get a job I got years ago, said. He played the “game” much better than I did. I told people they sucked. I pointed out the hypocrisy of it all. And I made enemies. He kissed ass and told everyone how great a job they were doing, even when he had to go home and drink himself silly because of how horrid it was. Today, he was making nearly $100K a year. Me, I was lucking to top $30K if I could con my way into enough overtime.

“Yeah, I have. I’ve said a lot of things over and over and never followed through on them. It’s kind of my modus operandi. But this time, it’s got to end.”

Why was today the day the burning decided to flicker and die, my boss asked. And I tried to explain.

It all boiled down to the office that day. The woman next to me smelled of cigarettes – that in and of itself used to be a badge of honor, but when mixed with awful perfume and the worst nasally voice this side of Fran Drescher, and you get the point. I referred to her as the office’s wounded kitten. That nasally whine just permeated her entire existence. She made personal phone calls, which I can understand, but fucking leave the cubicle at least. So, after six months, I resorted to either watching N.W.A.  Over and over again. Or crinkling over and over the same Pop-Tart wrapper. She got the point, but only each time. Pavlov would not be proud.

That day, a person sat down next to her. I began to imagine we were in a Greyhound Station instead of the shell of a former newspaper. The first person lasted 30 seconds. The next chap a whopping 3 minutes. You know it’s bad when the dregs of society won’t sit next to you. Bus station beggars and thieves.

I stared in amazement when another fellow decided it was a good idea to occupy that piece of plastic that the bus station bean counters deem a seat.

“I love Hot Pockets,” she said to the man.

“I got a free empanada,” he replied with some kind of odd grin/frown.

I fully expected them to lock eyes, then lips and begin to procreate there in the middle of the terminal.

He wore a shirt three sizes too small for his impressive belly. At the right time, you could see stretch marks and black pubic-esque hair on it. The corduroy pants he had on were a few inches short of his striped white athletic socks. I’m sure they matched his tighty-whiteys.

“I’ve never had a Hot Pocket,” he continued. I’m guessing it was a lie from his physique.

“They are just dough-filled thingies with meats, cheeses, vegetables and other goodies packed inside,” a third person – a 25 year old scruffy looking, sort of hipter wanna be, added.

“Oh, I’ve had plenty of dough-filled treats!” the big man responded with glee. I thought maybe a dabble of drool formed along with his thought bubble.

“They give me gas,” the cigarette infested gal chirped in.

This finally caused my six Bloody Mary breakfast to come back. I puked on the floor, right in front of this conversation.

“How rude,” the girl nasally said.

“Just a response,” I uttered between dry heaves.

“To what?” the hipster said.

“Banality. And the death of journalism,” I said.

“Come on now, Randy, you know that didn’t really happen,” my boss interrupted the story I was weaving. I scowled at him and finished my beer. The bottle hit the table and I eyed it. My eyebrow cocked just a little bit. After a few seconds of silence, except for the tourists walking by at 10:30 in the morning, the bossman finally figured it out.

“I’ll get you another beer,” he said, walking to the bar.

“Damn right you will,” I said. “You brought me back to this world. After it had chucked me out like a redhead when she gets bored.”

“Here you go,” he handed me another beer. I popped the top and drank half of it.

“Slow down there, Mister. I’ve only got so much cash.”

“Fuck off, you’ve got plastic. Now, where was I?”

“Barfing.”

“Oh yeah.”

I turned to the big guy and the sight of him, and his smugness of knowing words – yet he had no feeling for them – triggered a final release. I purged the rest of my breakfast on the whiny, nasally bitch.

She then proceeded to puke up her McDonald’s french fries and what may have been some kind of beef product on the 25 year old.

He then threw up his breakfast – it appeared to be just a couple ears worth of corn and a grape soda. Right at the feet of the big man.

None of this, however, seemed to affect the biggest of the group. In fact, he peeled off the wrapper of a $100 Grand candy bar and took a large bite.

His chews set my mind off again. And somehow, my stomach responded again.

“Now, can you see why whatever passion I had had died?” I asked.

“Dude, you’ve a sick man. A sick, sick man.”

“Cheers to that,” I said clinking my bottle against his. I finished off the swill.

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to go finish my column,” I said.

“Knew it,” my boss said smiling. He smacked my back with his meaty hand.

“That’s going to cost you another round,” I sneered. “And this time, I want a Jameson. Double.”

He smiled and went back to the bar.

“Gotta feed the talent,” he said.

“Tell me how that works out for ya,” I replied.

It was going to be a long day I thought to myself as I walked – alone – back to the office. The first sight of it cause me to burp. It tasted of Bloody Mary.