What the Hell was I Thinking ?

Water cooler story that sticks to your ribs.

WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING ?

 

You know how a friend will invite you over for dinner, maybe a barbecue. They’re kind of a new friend, so you don’t really know what to expect. But you fill in the blanks with what you like the best. Hmm, barbecued chicken with spicy barbecue sauce. Or those really big hot dogs. Or maybe a rib eye, medium rare. Grilled veggies, oh yeah corn on the cob roasted in its husk.
“Hey, Sparky, wanna come over for dinner tonight? I’ll barbecue.” 
“Sure. I’ll bring the wine.”
The image starts to form in your mind, the grill grilling, the steaks sizzling. You can smell the deliciousness as you’re standing at the front door. You ring the door bell. Ding Dong, or maybe brrrring, or BONG if you’re friend loves those giant gongs. You’re holding a bottle of excellent wine as a ‘thanks for inviting me gift’. Your friend, lets call her, or him, Marion. Hey why not? John Wayne’s real name was Marion, hard as that may be to believe. Anyway, Marion opens the door wearing an apron that has over sized oven mitts velcro’d to the front pockets. Like Dorothy Provine in ‘Good Neighbor Sam’. And she or he, OK let’s just say ‘she’ for the sake of argument, less confusion, and imagery. Because otherwise you’ll be picturing John Wayne wearing an apron with oven mitts Velcro’d to the front pockets.

The Marion thing really only works for a woman, even if that was John Wayne’s name, which it was, but, that’s just too bad for him. 
So back to this image. She answers the door wearing this apron with oven mitts velcro’d to the front pockets, “Hi Sparky, come on in. I’ve got a picture of Margaritas on the patio. Come on out back, steaks are on the grill.”

You both have big smiles on your faces. You walk straight through the eclectically designed home, the barbeque smoke tickling your nose, inviting you to the back yard.

It’s all good. Yeah. Charcoal grill doing it’s thing. Pitchers of Margaritas, original, not one of those crazy, new wave flavors like mango tango Margarita grita. Chips and fresh,  guacamole, yum. This is going to be good.

 And what timing. You just finish your Margarita, your appetite is sparked by the chips and homemade guac and the steaks are on the platter. Yeah baby, good bottle of wine, steak with corn on the cob, and some of that hot French bread, all crispy on the outside with those little grill marks showing it was toasted just perfect.This is what you're imaging dinner at your new friend’s house is going to be like. And why not? Dorothy Provine would have done it like that. But that’s not what happens. Not by a long shot. NO no no. Nope. Not by a long shot. 

Let’s rewind the tape. Take it to… you’re standing at the front door, holding a bottle of excellent wine in your hand, and you’v just rung the door bell. Something’s missing, oh yeah, the smell of the barbecue greeting you before the door opens. 

But that’s OK, maybe the wind's blowing the other way, or you forgot to sniff or something. You’re standing at the front door, looking at the beige paint on the door, thinking, Humph, didn’t I ring the bell? Yeah, I rang the bell, I remember hearing that big BONG sound. Anyway it was just 15 seconds ago, but I’ll ring the bell, or gong again. Maybe Marion didn't  hear it cuz she’s outside grilling those steaks. So you push the door bell again. BONG. It seems like five minutes go by. Which really seems like five hours. Five hours of humiliation, standing at the door, waiting for Marion to open the door, so you can step inside. So the neighbors don’t see you standing there like a big idiot with a bottle of wine in your hand waiting for the door to open. 

 OH MY GOD! Did I get the day wrong? I could have sworn Marion said, “come over for dinner today.” Well she didn't say ‘today’. I just assumed she meant today. I mean, I remember saying, “OK, see ya tonight.” Yeah, that’s right I said that.  So I am right. It’s the right night. So where the hell is she?

 I should just go. This is stupid. I feel stupid, standing here with a bottle of wine in my hand, staring at the front door, stupid front door. I would never paint my front door beige. I’d paint it dark brown, with little stripes on it, like the stripes on a finely grilled steak.
And just when you start to turn around, you’v got your car in your sights, you hear the door knob turn. Yep, the door finely opens. And there’s Marion, with bed hair, and pillow face, wearing a wrinkled hugely over sized tee shirt that has two fried eggs on the front. You know, one on each b**b. And a pair of heals. Strangely dressed for barbecue. But OK.
“Hey, Sparky, what are you doing here? How’d you figure out where I live? What time is it anyway?” 
 You’re a little thrown off, “What? You invited me for dinner. That was tonight right? Barbecue.”

She says, “Oh right, I forgot. I guess I fell asleep on the couch. Well, you’re here, you might as well come in. Yeah, come on in, I guess it’s OK”

 Now at this moment in time you’re thinking, which way do I step? Do I walk in to the living room? Or run for the car? This is one of those moments that can define your life. Although you don’t know it at the time, it very well could define the rest of your life.

You want to run. Or at least turn around , walk down the path waving your hand in the air saying, ‘It’s cool, see ya later, see ya at the water cooler.” But that little voice inside tells you, Stay, step inside the door. 

 So that’s what you do. You act like it’s no big deal that your new friend Marion, fell asleep on the couch and forgot you were coming over. Even if you just saw her at work an hour and half ago. So what, no big deal, it’s cool.  So you follow her in saying, “Little power nap on the couch, good for what ails you.” And even though you’re a little baffled by your boss’s reaction, you still have high expectations of a great dinner.

 Then you step inside the living room. It’s hard to say what hits you first, the visual pigsty that you wade through or the odorous pigsty that you try so hard not to acknowledge. No that’s not true. You want to pinch your nose closed all the while trying to decipher the mingling nasty smells that have entered your nostrils and are polluting your senses. My God what is that? Your inner voice is screaming. I don’t know, I don’t want to know. That’s the passive aggressive side of your inner voice answering back. But you nose knows something is rotten in this sty.

“Have a seat,” Marion says as she clears a spot on the couch. Some panties fall from the pile of clothes she’s bundled up in her arms.

You’re thinking , Oh God, get me out of here, so you say,“ Uh maybe this isn't  a good time. You know, ah, I’ve got a cat to wash and he LOVES his bath, hee hee.” 

Hey, you thought that was kind of funny, a good way to get out of an awkward situation. Only problem is, Marion didn’t get it.

“What? Are you trying to weasel out on me? Nice, wake me up from my nap, claim I invited you over for dinner then make up some phony baloney excuse about washing your bat. Your bat for God sakes ! What are you a vampire?” Her voice is getting louder, she’s starting to rant.

Now this is when the old introspection really kicks in. I personally hate ranting.

Oh Jeez I hate ranting. And I’v heard stories about Marion’s ranting. I ignored them of course because, well, because she’s got a great a*s, and I don’t care if she is my boss. I know laying your boss could complicate things, but that’s just details. Right? Details can be worked out. But the ranting, I’v heard stories about the ranting. I’v never actually seen it, but I heard about Paddy in the mailroom. It’s actually office legend. You know, like urban legend, but it just swirls around the office. It’s told to newbies their first week, or on Halloween.

Marion picks up the dropped panties, “What’s with you anyway?”
What’s with me? I’m thinking, There’s a whole lot of things with me, I mean, I’m feeling put out here, and starting to get uncomfortable.

“Uhh ,” I say while  I set my a*s on the edge of the couch.

“Is that all you have to say? Uhh?” Her tone is sarcastic, but not in a funny way. She’s kind of  over reacting here. There’s defiant signs of ranting going on, and it’s beginning to freak me out.

My eyes glaze over, I’m remembering the story about Paddy. He used to be an exec. Until one day, one dark and stormy day…

 He had just stepped into the elevator holding his Grande half caf soy mocha latte in his right hand, because, you know, he was carrying his lap top in this spiffy satchel, metro sexual style, in his left hand. And the New York Times wedged under his left pit, all executive cool like, when it happened. 

The elevator doors were stopped from closing. A very sexy foot donning a very sexy stiletto black pump was between the closing elevator doors. 

“God dam it, hold the door, hold the door.” 

Naturally the doors opened automatically which is why everyone is so inclined to risk arm and limb by sticking them between two closing doors. I mean think about it.
When you were a kid your folks taught you not to do stupid things like run out into the street chasing after a ball. Or play chicken with trains when you’re walking down the railroad tracks. Of course your folks didn't know you were walking down the rail road tracks, because they would never say that was OK. Because even walking down the rail road tracks is too dangerous. But if they DID know, and said it was OK, “just this once”, they certainly would freak out if they new you were playing chicken with a train.

And your folks always rammed into your head, I mean rammed it, in to your head, not to stick your arms or legs or fingers into closing doors. You know like, the car door. That could really hurt, at the very least. Or worst case scenario could cause a terrible accident. Like the cuff of your pant leg gets caught in the door, unbeknownst to the driver, and you’re dragged down the street. Maybe for miles. Ugh, disgusting.

 But somewhere along the line, somewhere when you’re growing up you see someone stop the elevator door with an arm or foot or maybe a shoulder, and like magic, the doors pull back. As if they’re saying “Oh pardon me, of course I’ll let you in. Always room for one more.” And you think to your little eight year old self, “How cool is that? I’m going to have to try that some day.”

And someday you do try it. The first time’s a little scary, but hey, that’s half the fun, right? Then once you realize it’s all good you put yourself in the position of HAVING to stop the elevator door with your arm or leg or foot, like the sexy foot that stopped the elevator door that fateful day.
That fateful day, the day fate changed Paddy’s life from going up in the elevator to the executive floor to taking him down, down, down, taking him all the way down to the mail room.

Paddy acknowledged her, “Oh, sorry I didn't see you” 

It was Marion in all her charm, and her sexy stiletto black pumps.
“Like hell you didn't see me.”

“No, no I didn’t. Well no harm done. You made it right?”

“Yeah I guess so”.

Paddy was thinking, Cool, no big deal. She made it in, just in the nick of time. No harm no fowl. Who gives a s**t anyway, there’s elevators coming every 30 seconds . But ‘whatever’. As long as miss sexy shoes is happy then the world is happy.

Now the executives domain is way the hell up there, floor five thousand and ten or something like that. Miss Marion sexy stilettos is one floor beneath the execs floor so it’s a long ride because it’s morning commute in the elevator land. People get on, people get off, get on, get off. There’s about ten more floors to go before Miss Marion sexy stilettos disembarks and the elevator is pretty full, so the story goes. Because you do realize this story wasn't told to me first hand, by Paddy. Hell no, I've never even met the poor b*****d. This story is legend, passed down by word of mouth at the water cooler. OK not really, I heard it in the head. But that’s beside the point. It’s still legendary in office world.

 By now Paddy is pushed one layer from the back and Miss Marion in standing directly in front of him. The box is nearly packed, jammed like sardines when the doors open and the shuffle commences . Some tall lady in the rear left corner says, “ ’scuse me this is my floor.” But no one else is getting off. People move that fake jester, sort of one inch to the right but no body mass is actually shifting. Her voice gets a little louder. “Pardon me, I have to get off here.” Finally some dude in front steps off the elevator so everyone else can do their rubrics cube shifting so tall lady can get to work. Polite guy gets back on plus two more. I don’t know if they were big or small, short or tall, but this is when Paddy starts looking at the weight allowance and begins estimating everyone’s weight and multiplying it by the amount of passengers. They’re all squeezed in, sardine like, Paddy’s pushed up against the back wall with some guy with the sniffles wedged in the right corner. 

 Then it happened. Sniffles can no longer control that little annoying drizzle making it’s way down his right nostril, he reaches up to access his black handkerchief neatly folded, and probably never been used, because they’re germ sponges and just for looks. His left forearm bumps Paddy’s right hand clutching his Grande half caf soy mocha latte,(which by the way he hadn't had one descent sip since it was too hot when he first got it). 
Paddy tried, oh God he tried, to keep his half caf from tilting to one side. But he had been side swiped with an upswing for Christ sake and the synergy was in motion. Even with the top on the cup, and Paddy’s determination not to spill his delicious half caf, the cup erupted a spurt of soy mocha latte straight up in the air, then gravity kicked in and down it came, on the back of Miss Marion sexy black stiletto. To be more precise, the majority landed on her right well rounded hip. And it didn't stop there. It really wasn't all that much latte, but enough to run down her skirt, pit stop on her calf, and hit the finish line on the heal of that sexy stiletto. The very stiletto that had so boldly stopped the oncoming elevator doors dead in their tracks.

Before Paddy could utter an apology Marion cut loose.

“Oh Holy S**t! What the F____ was that?”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry I…”

But his voice was drowned out by the loud cat whaler that ensued. Fellow passengers tried shuffling and looking over their shoulders, (more as a mock concern, than anything else). 

“What is it? What the hell is dripping down my leg and, oh my God,” her understandable distress just went from normal freak out, raised an octave in pitch, and ten decibels in volume. “My shoe, my pump, my $489.00 Versachi black stiletto is drenched. You freaking idiot ! How could you do this to me?”

 “As a matter of fact I,”

It didn't matter ‘what the matter of fact’ was, Paddy’s voice was sucked into the typhoon of hysteria call Marion. She had managed, in her rage, to turn herself around to face him, mano y mano . The elevator bell had rung, but know one had heard it due to the high volume of guttural retribution, retaliation, relegation, humiliation, degradation, chastising, verbal castrating and b***h slapping. If it weren't for the doors opening automatically Sniffles, would have never weaseled out to freedom, leaving Paddy to defend himself. Two more abandoned ship and headed for the stairs. One buxom set of geriatric twins where in queue to step on . Instead they stood with mouths gaping and only watched, stunned, as the doors once again closed and sent the victims and vixen up to their destination, hearing the quaking ranting rise and wane, but never out of ear shot. 


It’s said that when the box from hell arrived at the next floor all but two passengers billowed out in great haste. Marion sexy stiletto and Paddy stood toe to toe. Although he towered over her in height she wasted him in domineer. She cut him to the quick emotionally.

Paddy never made it to his executive floor. He fell two stories shy of another wise mundane Wednesday. He was a broken man. Marion stepped off to her floor all the while reaming him until the doors closed. Paddy just hit that little arrow pointing down. And his career followed.

Now I’m not saying he never went to work again, but from that day on he was scarred. He got his executive wind blown out of him, and his executive sails never soared again. No more executive decisions. No more hobnobbing with fellow execs. As time went on, no more key to the bathroom, or special lunchroom, just lunch and a room. And a lot of mail. Never ending mail. A career broken by an insano,( beautiful and alluring), but insano  Marion sexy stiletto. 

My eyes cleared. I took a deep breath of the stagnate air in the stinky living room.
Marion stood in a door way, arms wrapped around  the foul bundle of clothes . “I’m going dump this stuff in the laundry room. I’m not through with you. I swear to God if you’re not here when I get back there’s going to be hell to pay.”

 I watched her, dumb founded, while she disappeared around the corner wearing that stupid oversized tee shirt with two fried eggs on the b***s and Oh My God, black stilettos. No s**t! And the right one has a little mocha stain on the heal.

Thank God I wasn't standing up, because if I was, I would have fallen over, flat on my face with shock. Oh s**t! The story’s true. It’s not just bath room legend. I had to think fast, you know, he who hesitates gets screwed. And not in the good way. 

My brain was screaming, I’m out of here. I’m making a break for it before she has a chance to suck ‘the will to be cool and executive’ right out of me. I mean it man, I gotta leave. You’d go, right?

 I pulled myself off the couch, it was like an evil dark weight was holding me down. I now know. I know it’s true, As long as I hear her voice going on and on, and incessantly on, I’m in danger of being blighted by her evil mean words. I must break free. I’m opening the door, almost to freedom, (and fresh air). There’s my car. Just a few more steps. I don’t care what the consequences are tomorrow. I can leave the company if I have to, I can leave the state if that’s what it takes. But I won’t fall under the dark spell of her ranting. I dive for the drivers seat just as I see her standing at the front door.
“ What the f--- are you doing?” Comes a whaler from the front door.
Start the car, start the car. My pro active inner voice is yelling at me. 
I can hear her screeching war cries, “Hey, I told you, I’m not through with you yet.”
Turn up the radio, turn up the radio, passive aggressive voice pitches in . 
The engine starts. I peeled out of there. I’m tearing down the road, a free man. The sunset in front of me and Marion sexy stilettos behind me, standing on curb. When I looked in the  rear view mirror I could see her mouth moving, but the words can’t penetrate my speeding car and blasting music. 

 That’s it man. That’s how I lived to tell the tale, and have a key to the executive bath room. Sure I take the stairs to the 22nd floor. Keeps me in shape, know what I mean? So what do you say? Want some barbecue after work? 

Reviews

[Goat]

Haha this story made me smile and then laugh. Great job, this is well written and tells a wonderful story.