Bramble Tamble

Yesterday at lunch, I was sitting outside at the picnic table in the dumb heat with another guy who I don't have a blog-ready pseudonym for yet. We're sitting out there smoking, not saying much: "Hot." "Yep." (It's a quiet respect we have for one another, I'm certain.)

The door to the office opens. It's Sandals. And he's walking our way.

"If you are out here waiting on rain," he says in his best Samir Nagheenanajar voice, "you will be waiting a long time."

(Great, I think to myself. Can't operate a microwave, and now he's a friggin' weatherman?)

"Heh. Yeah," I replied. (Nameless Guy says nothing.)

So Sandals lands at the picnic table. We all sit sweating in silence for about a minute, then he starts talking about his daughter's wedding reception. Which would have been appropriate if it were, say, last weekend or something. But it was in 2003.

"The appetizers were excellent. And we had two types of chicken. Both prepared Indian-style."

I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Worse, at this point, Nameless gets up and goes back in the building.

So, it's 90 degrees, and I'm sitting in the sun, listening to Sandals blather about endless inanities, and, like the bulk of our conversations do, it goes back to how wonderful of a school IU is and how a person graduating from the business school there can move immediately into a job starting out at $70,000 a year. (This usually comes up in conjunction with a discussion about the college I graduated from, and he always says, "I've not heard of that school." I think that Indians - dots, not feathers* - are preoccupied with prestige and annual income. At least this one is.)

And I'm feeling like a hostage. A sweaty hostage who, instead of having a bomb strapped to me, has Sandals strapped to me listing all of the prestigious business schools in America. (Yes. For real.)

... "and the Ivy League schools, and the Wharton School at Northwestern, and Stanford, and ..."

So, while I'm sitting there wondering through what immigration loophole he slipped into the country, Nameless comes back out and gets in his truck. I eyed him all the way there and gave him the dirtiest look I could muster. (It's a quiet respect that we share.)

And then - yes, it gets weirder - he says that if he remembers it, he will bring in a Bollywood movie for me to watch. Like I've not been fucked in the ass enough already.

Finally, I have to put a bullet in this conversation. "It's really hot out. I'm sweating. I need to go in."

"Sweating? It's probably because you are smoking."

Yes. Probably so. I thought it was my all-consuming ennui that burns hotter than 1000 suns, one of which is beating down on me right now. But it's because of my tobacco habit. A weatherman, a top-notch microwave operator, and a general physician. What a beautiful man.

****

Upon my return to the air-conditioned environs in which I work, I immediately tapped out an e-mail to Nameless:

"Just so you know, just so you won't think that Sandals has one up on me - I, too, had two types of chicken at my wedding reception. Grilled and McNuggeted."**

About an hour later, I heard a laugh come from his cube.

* - thanks, A.
** - thanks, Earl.