Friday, June 03, 2005

Summertime at the Goose Preserve

It's summertime at the goose preserve, our busiest time of the year. There I go again nattering about what a busy-bee I am. Next thing you know I'll be talking about my assistants, one of whom is very nice and cute and reminds me of Jennifer Aniston and the other one who reminds me of Eve in "All About Eve." Scary.

In the summer our office becomes magically populated with a vast army of young college helpers. There's a tall beautiful red head and a brooding lad with gorgeous brown curly locks who reads "Faust" on his lunch hour. Scrumptious! I can see the looks of horror on their faces as they take in the absurdist wasteland of officiana, making silent pacts with themselves to never become a part of this soulless, wretched world. I recognize the looks on their faces because it's the one that was frozen on mine for so many years. A Munchian scream of "NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Don't let this happen to me!" They look at us old workers like we're animals who've been in the zoo too long, who pace back and forth with an insane determination, to make the hours tick by faster and bring an end to the cruel vacant days.

I walked down the hall, the office equivalent of vogueing, to look "purposeful," and ran into Ms. Lago who was wearing an unthinkable pale green fedora. I guess because it's raining outside. Nothing stands between Ms. Lago and her lunch hour. I had to quickly avert my eyes from her haughty gaze so I wouldn't slip up and betray myself staring aghast at the green fedora. She reminds me of Albin in "La Cage Aux Folles"--the really effeminate one. She is built like him and they dress the same--sort of Big Person camouflage gear comprised of large shirts over outfits and way too much coordination. Red snakeskin belt with matching shoes and a red snakeskin patterned shirt. Clothes you don't find in nature sort of thing. And she has the same kind of feminine affectations as Albin that are all the more preposterous given her size and lumbering manner. She says, "I don't do boxes. Get one of the boys to move them." Which would be fine if she were a dainty little thing, but she's not, so it doesn't translate too well.

I'm definitely in an offiacious torpor. A ceaseless rainy Friday afternoon, existential horror mirrored back to me in the fresh young faces of the temporary vital gorgeous staff, rubbing in the hopeless reality of my lot in life. Must be time for another soda, vogue down the hallway, terse expression, convey intense ruthless commitment to job at hand. Back to desk. Pace, ignore visitors, lap up some water. Bite my keeper. Try to erase green fedora image permanently from brain.


Cynicism is another word for reality

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