Day Walker Talker

I sat behind the desk of an absent co-worker inquisitively scanning his office walls. Somewhere deep down I knew what had just transpired could only happen to me. The week had been miserable, but somehow here in the aftermath of absurdity I found myself at home. Maybe there is a reason these bizarre things happen to me. Maybe I was put here to navigate through life’s shits storms only to come out on the other side unscathed, ready to take on the next bizarre hurdle thrown in front of me. Or maybe I’m just an unlucky son of a bitch.

* * * * * * * *

3 hours earlier

It was a typical morning. I arrived at my office about 5 minutes late because the barista at my regular Starbucks refuses to have my order ready—despite the fact I’ve ordered the same drink everyday for 3 years—and I refuse to show up five minutes earlier to ensure I get to work on time. Once I settled into my cubicle I went through my morning routine, first tearing away the previous days page on my “2012 quotation calendar” and queuing up today’s inspiration which came in the form of one of my favorite people, Bill Watterson:

              “I find my life is a lot easier the lower I keep my expectations.”

I pondered it for a moment. Did I expect today to be any different than yesterday? Did I expect the annoying woman to my right to not break a bottle of perfume over her head before she arrived completely polluting the atmosphere of my well kept cubicle? The answer to my queries was obviously, no, and the bitch walked in reeking of patchouli blossoms and lavender accents a few minutes later to solidify this notion.

A quick tangent for a moment. Like most people, my cubicle is a manifestation of my passions and interests. It’s a universal interior design commonality that people design their cubicles/offices to embody the things most important to them (photos of family and loved ones, sports memorabilia, humorous anecdotes, etc). So when I escape into a birds eye view photo of Yankee Stadium, envisioning the atmosphere of a ball game to escape work only to be brought crashing back by the smell of ten dollar flea market perfume applied by a garden hose you can imagine how destructive it can be to cubicle feng shui.

Next I look at my computer itinerary, I’ve got to interview a prospective intern at 11am. I look at my clock, it reads 8:15. I grab the NY post and read whatever salacious bullshit it’s printed today while I drink my coffee. Once the clock strikes 9 I dial my interviewee’s number. We’ve spoken via phone 3 times already and have a fairly good repertoire, I’m not at all concerned she won’t show but I”ll give her a reminder none the less. I’ve got an extremely deep voice, so she has no problem discerning who has called. We speak briefly, I tell her where the office is located and we both are looking forward to meeting each other (only one of us is being honest and it’s not me). 

Despite my love for my 7x7 foot work space, it’s not ideal for 2 people. I cannot conduct this interview here. So I dip into my bosses office, informing her of my situation. My colleague A.J. is out of town and I’m given access to his office at the other end of the building. A.J. is one of the nicest African American’s I know and his office is beautiful. The mischievous side of me now wants to pretend the office is mine. After all, the prospective interns are all within my grasp age range, and being that they’re fresh out of college would probably be more attracted to a working man with a corner office in a Manhattan high rise then the normal drunk frat boys they’re used to. It doesn’t take me long to convince myself that I’m telling this girl the office is mine and I begin actually looking forward to meeting this girl.

At 10:55 on the dot my telephone rings. It’s the receptionist informing me that Kelly has arrived and is ready for our interview. “Keep her in the lobby for a minute, I’ll be right out,” I say authoritatively. I keep her on ice a few minutes, I remember going on interviews when I first got out of college and began thinking to myself how many of the assholes I’d met had actually done what I’m doing now?

I walked into the lobby a few minutes later to see an attractive young woman sitting on one of the couches. She’s wearing a puffy Eskimo jacket and has large hoop earrings. She looks very “thuglife.” I make eye contact with her as I walk across the room. She looks at me pensively as I extend my hand.

DayWalker: Hey Kelly?

Kelly: Yes, hello I’m here for an interview with DayWalker.

DayWalker: Yeah that’s me. You ready to head back?

Kelly: Oh…

DayWalker: Everything okay?

Kelly: yeah, yeah it’s fine. You’re just not what I was expecting that’s all.

DayWalker: Well what were you expecting?

Kelly: Well to be honest…I thought you’d be black. You have a real deep voice on the phone and I thought you’d be a black guy.

The receptionist spits her water out in shock. I don’t know what they’re teaching kids in college these days but this has to be commonsense in the interview process. I laugh though, I mean how often will you hear something like this? Plus I can tell she’s very uncomfortable and I feel bad. “Oh don’t worry, I get that all the time,” I say. “I was actually Denzel’s stunt double in Man on Fire.” She laughs as we walk around the office exchanging pleasantries. As we approach A.J.’s office door I realize I’ve forgotten her resume at my real desk. Being the quick thinker I am, I open the office door and let her in. “Make yourself comfortable,” I say, “I’m just gonna grab a coffee, can I get you anything?” She declines.

I run back around the office to my desk and grab her resume laughing at the audacity of this chick to tell me she thought I was black. I take another look at my quote calendar, I guess I should lower my expectations for the youth of America. When I open the office door, Kelly is sitting there looking at the office walls. I sit down behind the desk.

Kelly: This is a nice office.

DayWalker: Thanks.

Kelly: Is this autographed Bob Marley album real?

A.J. much like myself, has designed his office in a state that’s representative of his passions. His African American heritage. I begin scanning the walls as Kelly does. An Obama “Hope” poster, a Martin Luther King Jr. “I Have A Dream” plaque, African Masks, Muhammad Ali fight cards, an autographed photograph of Oprah, and a signed Bob Marley and the Wailers album. Kelly is now staring at me with a very incriminating gaze. A gaze that says she thinks I pretend to be black on purpose. I get back to her resume and try and navigate through this.

                                             * * * * * * * *

There I sat, staring at the walls taking in the African culture. The interview had ended…it didn’t go well. But then again, what the hell was I expecting? The phone began to ring…I thought for a minute..Should I?…No Daywalker, no you shouldn’t. I got up and walked out of the office, laughing to myself as I exited. 

Back when bed bugs were coursing their way through Manhattan apartments like an unstoppable rebel force (about a year ago), there was no feeling worse than waking up to a few itchy red blemishes on your body. Or at least that’s what I thought….

There I stood, staring at myself in the mirror one fateful August morning. I had a terrible toothache but more disconcerting I had what looked like bug bites all over my chest and neck. Immediately I ripped all the sheets and bedding from my room and threw them in the washing machine. Like the cunning sleuth I fancy myself to be, I inspected the mattress to find and destroy my adversary. I saw nothing…had they moved on? Perhaps the sweet taste of ginger blood had caused them to spontaneously combust? I began getting dressed for work battling with the feeling that bugs were crawling all over my skin. Since the sight of a bed bug bite to an outside party was liken to having leprosy I decided to cover my skin entirely. It was August and I was wearing jeans and a blazer…I began thinking of myself as one of those characters in every zombie movie that gets bit and tries to hide his infection from the rest of the crew as not to be cast out.

I got to the office and was sweating like a whore at Easter Sunday mass. The itching was getting unbearable. I went to the men’s room to inspect the bites, they had doubled in numbers and spread to my arms. What was happening! Were the beasts in my clothing? I started googling “bed bug bites.” A co-worker came by and said, “Daywalker you’ve got hives on your neck.” Hives? I was having an allergic reaction? I was revealed that I didn’t have to fumigate my apartment but vexed by what the hell I could have possibly been allergic to. I had introduced nothing new to my diet, and as far as I know my sheets and bedding were all of respectable enough thread count to not irritate my delicate milky skin.  I left work and went to my doctors office to have some blood work done. Much to my surprise there was a new doctor in house…and it was a lady. A sexy lady. As she drew my blood I thought about those porno’s where patients seduce their physicians into office intercourse. Since I looked like I had slept on a bee hive the night before I knew my chances of wooing her were slim. I kept my charm in the holster. Doctor Sexy told me that ninety percent of the time these things are food allergies, but that she wouldn’t have a definite answer until the blood-work came back in 5 days.

My tooth was still killing me and had now began giving me migraines. There are 3 things I hate: Mushrooms, Liars, and the Dentist. Since migraine headaches were shooting up the hatred charts at an unrelenting pace I knew I had to make an appointment with the only dentist I’ve ever gone to. His office was back on Long Island, where I grew up. I couldn’t get an appointment until…

Fast Forward 5 days: Saturday

I lay in the dentist chair, listening to the dentist and his assistant talk about a company picnic as they look at my x-rays. There mundane conversation allowed me to drift away into the ocean landscape painted on the wall. The news of a double root canal brought me back to reality. Since I was going back to Manhattan later that day, I told him to take care of them while I was there. He obliged…for a hefty fee of course. His assistant armed him with 2 gigantic needles, filled with Novocaine. They were both dispensed into my gum line. In 5 minutes I couldn’t feel my face, could barely form a sentence and when asked to “rinse” completely missed the porcelain landing pad provided. Accenting the white tile with blood red saliva and mouth wash. Hell of a weekend so far. I drove home, and when I walked in the door was greeted by my parents, my sister and 2 of my sisters friends. They were eating pizza, which I couldn’t enjoy because of the “don’t eat for 45 minutes” after a dental appointment routine (Did I mention I hate the dentist?). The phone rang and my mother answered. She was giving me the “it’s for you look,” it was sexy doctor. The results of my blood work had arrived.

Sexy Doctor: Good afternoon Mr. Daywalker, hope you’re doing well.

Daywalker: I’m good…thanks (struggled to get those words out of a completely numb mouth)

Sexy Doctor: Just wanted to inform you that your bloodwork came back, and as I suspected it was a food allergy. You’re allergic to peanuts.

I loved peanuts and had eaten them all my life. The news was shocking to me…but not as shocking as I’m sure my response was to sexy doctor. I learned that moment that trying to say the word “peanuts” with 200 milligrams of Novacaine in your mouth is a bad idea.

Daywalker: PENUSSSS? (eyes widened in horror)

Sexy Doctor: Pardon?

Daywalker: PEA NUSSS? PEANUSS…PEA…

frustrated I gave my mother the phone to finish the conversation. I hate the fucking dentist.

It’s a shitty, rainy day here in Manhattan and for the first time in a while I decided to stay shacked up in my office and have my lunch delivered to me. Little did I know that a mere 83 minutes later I’d feel terrible about myself and ultimately my decision making.

12:55- My stomach emits a sound alerting me that I need nourishment. I’ve only had a banana thus far in the day, and gauge my hunger level at about an 8 out of 10.

1:00- Being as famished as I am I decide the best bet is to order from the establishment with the closest proximity to my mouth. China Gourmet. I call and speak to a very kind, inarticulate woman who sounds as if she’s in the midst of a riot. She can’t understand me, I can’t understand her. But we power through and I have my order of General Tso’s Chicken with fried rice in by 1:05.

1:06- I hang up the phone, as the thought of impending food spikes my hunger level to a 9. I worry the guy won’t get here in time and I’ll have to resort to cannibalism. I look around the office for possible candidates.

1:45- No food has arrived. This is unacceptable, I begin salting my arm. Hunger level 9.5. 

1:55- my telephone rings, and Asian man I can barely understand screams into the receiver on the other end. Transcript:

• “Hello?” I say.
• “Herro, I’m in robby, herro.”
• “Okay I’ll be right down,”
• “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Robby.”

1:57- I’m in the lobby. I see no delivery guy. I walk to the opposite entrance, there is nobody here. I feel a vibration in my side, my stomach must have collapsed and began eating away at itself. I realize it is my phone.

• “Hey man I’m here, where are you?”
• “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
• “What?”
• “Herro? You orda food?”
• “Yes, WHERE ARE YOU? I’m in the lobby.”
• “Yeah, yeah, robby.”

2:01- He hangs up on me. I inhale deeply, meditatively. The guy won’t be able to understand me so how can I make sure he’s at the right building? I call the restaurant again, tell them I’m lost in translation and that the delivery guy is lost. They apologize and instruct me to stay put. They’ll call him now.

2:02- I utter the word “fuck.” Hunger level 10.

2:03- The security guard in the lobby sparks idle chatter. “You know I never understood when people say pardon my French when they say fuck. It’s actually old English.” I search for a blunt implement to strike him with.

2:10- I call this schmohawk again. This time I figure if I sound angry he’ll understand the language I speak. He does not. All he says is “yeah, yeah, yeah.” People that work in the building are entering with their bags of lunch, I strongly consider stealing a bag from a passerby and just jetting down the street. Meditative inhale. Hunger level 11.

2:13- The restaurant calls my phone, ensuring me the delivery guy is in the lobby. I am blown away by their refusal to believe me when I tell them he’s lost.

2:15- FINALLY. An Asian walks through the revolving doors holding a white plastic bag. I rush him like an Olympic sprinter.

• “He man sorry for all the confusion. How much?”
• The gentleman stares at me blankly. I’m furious he can’t understand even the most simple consumerism lingo of the English language.
• “China Gourmet, right?” I ask.
• “No…My name is David…I work on the 28th floor. This is my sandwich”

2:17-  I walk through the rain to the nearest deli. That awkward moment when you realize you’ve just displayed a grotesque form of unintentional racism. Meditative inhale.