There's an old Bowie Song called "Station to Station." It was a semi-non hit in the late 70's. Before I was a Huge Pearl Jam fan - Or there even was a Pearl Jam - Before Mookie Blaylock even - I was a big huge David Bowie fan. The song starts with the line "The return of the thin white duke, throwing darts in lovers' eyes."
The personal meaning to me is obvious.
Back in the zeroes, I was working at the U.P. and cycling a lot. The U.P. was a great place to work if you wanted to be a cyclist. There were showers just a few steps from the front entrance and very near the newly installed bike rack. There was a lunch ride, which was great.
The corporate cycling challenge was sponsored by the company. They gave the "serious" riders U.P. jerseys. The funny thing was that some of those riders showed up in tennis shoes and old mountain bikes. The first year I did the CCC for the U.P. I didn't know about the jerseys. Then I was like, "Hey! Why's that old guy get one and I don't?" and they were all, "Shhh, Mr. Shimonek gets what he wants."
One day at the U.P. I asked for a raise/promotion and was not flatly denied, but I was told it would be an easier sell if I finished my bachelors degree. I only needed 26 measly credits to graduate. Of course the courses I needed to take totaled 45 credits. But hey, you say tomato, I say tomato.
So I started back up at the university. No more darts or cycling for me. I had to study. I wanted that raise/promotion.
My cycling and fitness slipped away. I felt at the time like it would never return and I didn't care.
A couple of years after starting back up at school, I was set to graduate in the spring. I went-a-whistling into the director's office to discuss the possibility of me getting a raise/promotion.
We're sorry. We have an initiative right now that we've given the clever title "Project 75" to. Throwing a couple of bucks your way would upset the whole thing and bring this department crashing down.
Oh alright, I said. Here's my notice. I found a new job that pays more.
Oh um. This is awkward. May we counter, please?
No you may not.
Now that I'm back into riding, I miss the convenience of the showers/locker room and the lunch rides.
After I'd been working at the new company for about a year, they put some concrete down and installed a bike rack. The bike rack is roughly 100 yards from the back door (servant's entrance). A significant walk in bike shoes. Then after I enter, the nearest restroom is another 60 feet from the entrance, right across from the break room/cafeteria. The walk in bike clothes is always awkward. Once in the restroom, I prefer to use the spacious wheel chair accessible stall. There are 4 stalls in the restroom. Three of them are just your normal sized, back up and sit your ass down variety. These make for precarious changing room conditions. No part of me or my clothes (except the bottom of my shoes) will ever touch the floor. It's just easier to do this in the big stall.
A lot of people where I work are not finding the job satisfaction they would like. I think they go home after a hard day and drown their sorrows in Bud Light. Lots and lots of Bud Light.
Bud Light is not like any beer. For one thing it takes a lot of it to get a person drunk. But it takes surprisingly little of it to give that same person "the shits." This is how I know there are a lot of Bud Light drinkers where I work. And for their daily bouts of explosive diarrhea, they want the big stall. I imagine it's because of the nice cool metal bars that go around the toilet. Something to grab onto, perhaps? The wonderfully cool chill of the metal pressed to your sweat dampened forehead?
So the whole commute by bike thing is a logistical nightmare at the company, but I'm doing it anyway. When the summer mornings are warm, I go to the nearby 24 Hour Fitness and shower. It is about a mile from work and I just ride in with my work clothes on.
The rest of the time. I change in the restroom next to Splashy McSquishyShits in the big stall. Ironically, when hangover hears the odd sounds of my changing clothes, he occasionally shouts, "What's going on over there." I always reply, "Sorry. Just unfastening my velcro underpants. Go on back to shitting brown water from your bottomhole and stuff. Smells great, by the way."
Even though I manage to commute with the much less than desirable conditions at my company, there's still one thing that the company has never been able to offer that U.P. had. I'm talking about the lunch ride. Well, that all changed today. I started the lunch ride. And man was it ever inconvenient. Lockers would be nice. I have nowhere to put my work clothes while I'm riding. At first I thought it would be no problem. I would just leave them at the bike rack. Who wants a backpack with some clothes in it? So the plan today was to go out and leave my backpack at the bike rack while I rode. I saw no problem with that. Do you?
As I was getting ready to take off for my lunch ride, I had a vivid image. What if someone sees this suspicious backpack sitting at the bike rack? Sure, it's very far from the building, but I could easily imagine coming back from my ride to find a bomb squad and stuff surrounding my jeans and polo. Perhaps neutralizing any threat with some sort of foam spray stuff or something.
So for today anyway, I decided to take the backpack with me. It was Taco Thursday after all. I could use the backpack to carry my tacos.
In the future though, I'll explain to security about the backpack in advance or something. Or maybe I'll just drop it off at 24 Hour Fitness.
When the U.P. first installed the bike rack, there were few who took advantage. After a while, the convenience became common knowledge such that a second and eventually a third rack were required to meet the demand. I'm led to understand that even with 3 bike racks out front, there is sometimes no place to park.
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| Let me just cram my scooter in here because I'm fucking lame. |
Especially after lunch:
But this is where my company's "throw a bone to those fitness fags" attitude has come to my aid. I can always find a place to park:
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| Keep Calm. It's sunny and 70. Drive to work. AC on 70. |
Even after lunch:
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| Scream if you want. No one will hear. |
And oh, what a lunch:
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| Extra gringo sauce, please. |
Best tacos in the world? How about solar system!
Ok I know I was going somewhere with this, but fuck it. Oh wait - I remember. The thin white duke is back. Making sure white stains. Today, I learned that the yabbadabadoo taco stains everything. But yum.
With the lunch ride in full swing at the company now, I'm ready to settle in here until the day I retire. For the first time in 5 years, I can see a future here and, hang on, there's a knock on the door ...
Oh it's you. Oh no. What are you doing? This is horrible. My tibia!
Hint: it was Nancy Kerrigan at the door.
4 comments:
Oxyclean will take most of that tangy orange stain away. I should note that I'm talking about your fingers here. Good luck with your clothes
Did you get a pink slip?
For my fingers, the orange residue mostly just blended in with my natural gringo tone. Then I just chewed on the corners of my fingernails for a while to prise away the last of the tasty goodness.
Remind me what the pink slip is about. I don't recall.
Pink slip, dismissal. I was wondering if the Nancy Kerrigan revenge theme had to do with the status of your employment, especially after you had just said how you started up your own lunch ride and were looking at a long career there
Oh that. No. Not yet. I've been reading Haruki Murakami lately (English translation) which I absolutely love, by the way. But I think it's changing some neural pathways. I'm sure there's a reason that a woman brutally attacked on an ice skating rink 20 years ago stands where there would typically be a garden variety vampire, but I don't know what it is. Excerpt from "Wild Sheep Chase":
I dreamed about a dairy cow. Rather nice and small this cow, the type that looked like she’d been through a lot. We passed each other on a big bridge. It was a pleasant spring afternoon. The cow was carrying an old electric fan in one hoof, and she asked whether I wouldn’t buy it from her cheap. “I don’t have much money,” I said. Really, I didn’t. “Well then,” said the cow, “I might trade it to you for a pair of pliers.” Not a bad deal. So the cow and I went home together, and I turned the house upside down looking for the pliers. But they were nowhere to be found. “Odd,” I said, “they were here just yesterday.” I had just brought a chair over so I could get up and look on top of the cabinet when the chauffeur tapped me on the shoulder. “We’re here,” he said succinctly. The car door opened and the waning light of a summer afternoon fell across my face. Thousands of cicadas were singing at a high pitch like the winding of a clockspring. There was the rich smell of earth. I got out of the limo, stretched, and took a deep breath. I prayed that there wasn’t some kind of symbolism to the dream.
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