Nobody Takes Me Seriously

11/04/2001

Tuesday, July 2:

Today has been unbearable. I am stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in this three-ring circus on I-95 in Providence, Rhode Island. I can’t tell if the traffic is a result of shoppers going to the Providence Place Mall or vacationers trying to get away from here. Days like today bring out the worst in people. I have been cut-off twice, flipped off a number of times and verbally accosted by complete strangers. It is hot and I am late.

I need the next exit but no one is giving an inch. Driving in this congestion is like walking on stilts for the first time. One wrong move, one improper shift in weight and you tumble down. I make my move. The asshole in the right hand lane is pissed. He flips me off while calling me a fucking bozo. I smile and wave. I am so goddamn late. They won’t understand, and they won’t listen to reason because nobody takes me seriously.

This has been the story of my life. Always the funny one. Always the class clown. I have been the butt of jokes since the day I was born. Rumor has it, that I was born butt first in a very difficult breach birth. My mother has said, when the doctor slapped my ass after delivery that I didn’t cry, but I laughed like some crazy Harlequin.

A Dodge Caravan pulls next to my small car, with its horn blasting like Harpo Marx. A van loaded with teenagers with nothing better to do than moon an old broken down man in a 75’ VW Beetle. I make everyone laugh but why can’t I laugh myself.

Once again, my poor wife will be disappointed, when she finds out that today’s interview was bad. He laughed all right but he would not take me seriously. He said that he would call me but that is what they all say. I even had Verizon test my phone but they just laughed. I need to get a job, a real job and then maybe someone, anyone, will take me seriously.

Once I got off the highway, I made good time to the Swartz’s home. I would be five minutes late. Not bad but the Swartz’s would laugh. I pulled into the driveway of their grand home, bringing my car to a complete stop. Quickly, I checked my face in the mirror. The white grease make-up was perfectly applied and the bright red eye shadow sweated in the heat. I was ready. Ready to make them laugh.

Confidential

10/27/2001

We stood in the center of the break area, like Robin Hood’s gang of merry men plotting against the Sheriff of Nottingham, when Jonathan entered. For a moment there was silence, all eyes watched him without actually looking at him. Coyly, Frank attempted to change the subject to this weeks Patriots and Broncos game while shuffling yesterday’s paper in his hands. Jonathan fumbled with the package under his arm, as he left the break area and the door swung shut. The impromptu session of the Avanti gossip club resumed.

“It’s just not right!” Shirley exclaimed. “How can he just walk back in here?” She was the high priestess of the rumor mill. She knew everyone. She knew everyone’s dirty little secrets. When she learned of these hidden treasures of juicy knowledge, she would broadcast them out to her network of friends just like the six o’clock news. Looking at Jennifer for support, she repeated herself “you know what I mean, it’s just not right!”

Jennifer the ever-pleasant lookout noted, “he’s watching us.” And in one fluid motion all heads turned and stared at Jonathan with that ‘I know what you did’ stare. Frank brought us back into focus as he unfolded the crinkled paper. He read, “At 10:56 on October 27, Jonathan Kempler and Donald Mitchell were arrested for lewd conduct, sodomy and immoral behavior in the parking lot of Newport’s second beach. The arresting officer indicated that Kempler and Mitchell were engaging in inappropriate sexual acts at the time of arrest. Both men were released on bail.”

“I knew there was something wrong with him all along. He never had me fooled.” Carol was saying with the conviction of a puritan. Earlier in the year, Carol was a major topic of conversation at the company, when her and Dave from shipping were having an affair and got caught by their spouses. Carol was a very attractive woman and we enjoyed tearing her to shreds. Now, she was this group’s most virulent member. “You remember when we tried to fix Amy up with him? Poor Amy she never knew that she was in love with a fag.” We giggled. “Poor Amy. Has anyone told her?”

Shirley piped in, “Amy is on vacation this week but I sent her an e-mail last night.” Her smug little face pinched with satisfaction at her efficiency. Despite her small ‘Weeble’ like stature, she ruled over us. She presided over this court like she governed over her family. We had heard that both of her children will be out of therapy soon. And her poor husband - God rest his soul. They say it was an accident but we know better. She continued, “I can’t believe it is true. He seemed like such a nice guy.”

“Here he comes!” whispered Jennifer through her rose colored chubby cheeks. We all said that Jennifer would be a striking woman if she would lose fifty pounds. We were quiet. Conspicuously, we sipped at our coffee. The tension was building, as Jonathan entered the break area carrying the package under his arm. He placed the package on the counter next to the coffee machine and he made himself a cup of tea. No one talked; no one made eye contact; no one breathed. We all noticed the manila package staring at us from the counter but the red word ‘Confidential’ indelibly stamped on the top cover intrigued us. As he left the room, we all suppressed our laughter, the laughter of teenagers that almost get caught smoking pot. Suddenly, seriousness set in as Carol wailed, “I wonder what is in that package?”

“Look at how he walks. He is definitely a Homo.” Frank blurted out. Frank, the oldest member of our cadre, was the emotional one of the group. It would take him the longest to come to terms with the situation. Frank had a rumor swapping old maid quality that made him annoyingly loveable. “I just don’t understand why they exist…” Frank was perplexed like the time he tried to explain to his wife about the massive amount of pornography that he downloaded from the Internet.

Then Jack came riding in like Paul Revere, “Did you hear?” he almost shouted. With one concert voice, we responded, “Yes. It all over the newspaper.”
“Well what are we going to do?” Jack anxiously asked. Jack was twenty years removed from being the star quarterback of his High School football team. He was ready for action. “My brother, Jeremy, is a cop in Newport and he told me that they were parking like a couple of kids after the prom. My brother always catches couples parking at that beach; he usually messes with them and then lets them go. But he has never caught a couple of queers. How perverted! What are we going to do?”

“It’s just not right!” we said.

“He is leaving his office.” Jennifer whispered. As Jonathan and his parcel headed towards the warehouse, we crowded to the window of the break area door. When we were sure he had entered the warehouse, we raced to Carol’s desk so that we could continue watching him. Carol commanded her phone like an intelligence agent collecting information from her field operatives. We tracked his every move with the precision of a guided missile. He had fooled us once, but we were on to him.

As he headed back to his office, Carol reported, “He had Dave in shipping make him a J12 box”. We looked at each other and wondered what Dave saw in the little slut. As he walked past our little committee carrying a small brown box, Jack spoke “Hi Jon, did you have a good weekend?” We lost it! We rumbled with laughter. We cried. He ignored us and continued to his office. “That was a good one, Jack. I almost pissed my pants!” cried Frank. “Did you see his face? He almost cried like a little faggot.” We erupted.

In his office, he looked at the bare walls. No family pictures made this office homey or warm. The sparse desk was not cluttered with pictures of his loved ones; no lovers, no kids, no dogs, no one. Jonathan removed his confidential package from the empty container he had the shipping department make. Placing the parcel on his desk; he packed his personal belongs: the Pride in Avanti award that he won last month, his two employee of year awards, a couple of books that he had been reading and the Cross pen his grandmother gave him for Christmas. Closing the box, he looked at his watch. He laid the confidential package on top of the brown J12 box. He lifted the memories of six years of work from his desk and placed them under his arm. He walked out of his office, through our gauntlet, through the break area, to the time clock by the break area door, he punched out at 8:47. Without saying a word, he walked over to the lunchroom table and placed his package on it. Turning he left the break area and finally disappeared out the front door.

It stared at us! The red word ‘Confidential’ beckoned us. Like vultures we descended on the package, ripping open the outer cover that protected the closely guarded contents. Nothing was safe; nothing was sacred from us. We would uncover every hidden action! Ferret out every disguised truth and then fabricate what was missing! We attacked. To our horror, we recoiled. As a manuscript titled CONFIDENTIAL: THE SECRET LIVES OF MY FELLOW EMPLOYEES, fell into our hands.