On The Job
by Ronald M. Kelly
Copyright December 2007
In the Parking Lot, Thinking of Life and Death
Friday morning, just before eight am, I drive into the parking lot, adjacent to the building where I work, stopping in my assigned space. It's right next to the door, and has a sign that says "Handicapped Parking Only." I don't get out of the Van of Doom right away. As is my usual habit, I have one more cigarette, and finish my coffee before going in to work. This is usually the time that I reflect upon my life. It isn't turning out the way I expected
For example, I never thought that I'd have an assigned parking lot. Or any reason to get one.
Except for the Chief Probation Officer, nobody in the department has an assigned parking space. Certainly not a Deputy Adult Probation Officer, like me. Level Two, to be exact. Not that there's much of a difference between the job of a One or a Two. Or a Three, for that matter. Just the size of the paycheck. And the time in grade.
But I'm handicapped, so I have one, right?
Not exactly...
A few months ago, I told my boss, John, Deputy Chief Probation Officer, Director of the Field Services Unit, that I had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Upon hearing the news he said that, legally, I was entitled to park in one of the two handicapped spaces next to door of the Field Services Office. So I do.
John's a good egg. He's a good man, and a real friend. I'm not absolutely sure of it, but I think he may have cried a little after I left his office. His eyes were watery when I saw him in the corridor a few minutes later. I was on the way into the Men's room, he was on the way out. Of course, watery eyes can also result from straining when you should be relaxing. Or painful urination. Which I don't have. Maybe John does.
But I do have a brain tumor. I don't consider it a handicap. It's not like I have a broken leg or a bad heart. Or Erectile Dysfunction.
Erectile Dysfunction... now theres a handicap. Unless you're a priest. Then it's a blessing. At least to all the little boys and girls of the parish.
But I am grateful for the special parking space. And for not being hassled over it by the people with whom I work.
Since the tumor was discovered, nobody hassles me over much of anything at all. Maybe they feel sorry for me. What difference does it make? No one else in my world, or their worlds, for that matter, has a brain tumor, so they really can't relate to me on this issue. So they cut me some slack. Not that I give a shit. But I would do the same for them.
Not that I deserve it, but I'll take the consideration. And the parking space. I'm not likely to get much of anything else in the way of special treatment. Nor am I likely to feel much in the way of shame over taking it. Working in a government job, a man's got to grab his perks whenever, and wherever he can. Deserved or not.
But along with this one special consideration, I have the feeling that everyone in the office is a little afraid of me, as if a brain tumor can somehow be contagious. Or maybe they're just afraid for me.
I'm sure they think I'm going to die soon, and they feel bad.
But not for me, I'm sure. Or at least mostly not for me.
Mostly for themselves. For their guilt and their shame. For the relief they feel. Because they're happy they aren't like me, living in the shadow of Death.
"It's too bad he might die," they think. "But thank God it's not me!"
But I know the truth. Actually I know three truths. They're important truths. They're huge truths.
You need to know these truths, so listen up and pay attention. Take my word: if you miss these truths, you miss everything. Nothing else matters. Ever. Ever.
Here we go:
Important HugeTruth Number One: Everyone Dies. It's just a matter of time.
It's true. Nobody leaves the planet alive. You could ask Elvis to confirm this for you, but that isn't possible right now. Elvis has left the building. Leave him a message. He won't be getting back to you. At least not any time soon. His phone has been disconnected. He didn't leave a forwarding address.
Important Huge Truth Number Two: Thanking God that you're not the one who might die won't help you avoid it in the long run. And He just might be offended by your self-centered selfishness.
Everyone dies. Even you, soon enough. Sooner than you hope, given your perfect life, but later than you should, given all the advances in geriatric care. If you don't believe me, just refer back to Important Huge Truth Number One. Or ask Elvis. When you see him, I mean.
Huge Important Truth Number Three: The real key to happiness is a good, healthy bowel movement. My Dad taught me that. Elvis should have known it. I mean, given where he died and all.
I recommend you have a good healthy bowel movement every day. Relax in there. Read the paper. Catch up on current events. Work on the crossword puzzle. Laugh at the cartoons. But don't dawdle too long. People might think you're in there masturbating. It's okay to masturbate. But there's a time and a place. The bathroom really isn't the time or the place for jerking off. But it's your choice, really... just try not to get caught.
So, anyway, Death is the great equalizer. We'll all meet him sooner or later. The only difference between you and me is that I no longer deny that I'll meet Death someday. You, most likely, still do.
Here's a little poem I wrote, to kind of bring it all into perspective.
First we live, and then we die... that's all there is, brother.
Not nearly enough of the one, and way too much of the other.
Thinking About the Doctor's Office, While Still in the Parking Lot
In reality is, if I continue with my medications, I'm not really in any danger of dying soon. At least not real soon.
Or so says my doctor. But the Hell does that son-of-bitch know? He doesn't have a brain tumor.
He probably doesn't have Erectile Dsyfunction, either. Lucky him.
Of course, neither do I have ED. My twice-monthly testosterone injections eliminate that possibility. Why testosterone? It's part of the course of therapy prescribed by my doctor. The tumor killed my balls. So I would have ED if it weren't for the shots. As long as I have the testo, and the hard cash to pay for it, I'll always have a hard-on. Even when I don't want one. But I'd rather have an erection when I didn't want one, than not have one when I did. I like having the option. Lucky me.
Here's how a typical monthly visit with my Doctor proceeds:
First, I'm taken into an examination room, where the nurse, Wanda, takes my vitals, and draws what seems like endless volumes of blood. After placing a bandage over the wound, she says "The Doctor will be in soon, Ronald. As she leaves, she throws a "Have a nice day!" over her shoulder.
I'm not a real fan of the off-hand "Have a nice day" thing. But I forgive Wanda, though. She has a great ass. She knows I like the way her ass moves. She knows this because I told her that I liked her ass. It just slipped out of my mouth one day. She wasn't offended, though. She knew she had a great ass.
Next, after Wanda, leaves, Dr. Alex comes in. I'm not being familiar. Alex isn't his first name. I don't know his first name. I'm not sure he knows my last name. He's never used it.
"Don't worry, Ronald," he always says, after reviewing my file.
"All the tests that we've run show that the tumor is responding well to the medications I've prescribed. It seems to be under control. You really don't have anything to worry about. Just take your meds as directed, and you should be fine. Unless you have any problems, and need to come in sooner, I'll see you next month."
As he turns to leave, he pauses.
"By the way," he asks, "Do you want a refill of the pain medication?"
"Thanks," I say, "I do."
Not that I need them. I rarely have the headaches anymore. But I want them. I'm building up a stockpile of the little buggers. An emergency reserve. Or a pleasant way out, if need be.
"Fine," he said. "I leave it for you at the front desk."
Walking out of the exam room, as Wanda did, over his shoulder he says, "Have a nice day, okay?"
There it is again.
"Sure Doc. See you next month. You, too."
"Have a nice day?", I think to myself. "Have a nice day?"
Breaking my usual routine, I light up another cigarette. Maybe it will kill me before the tumor does. But I doubt it.
In my head I continue my soliloquy...
"Yeah, Doc, I'm gonna have a nice fucking day. Why the Hell wouldn't I have a nice day? Unlike yours, my life is fucking perfect."
"Don't think so. Well, Doc, listen up, and let me set you straight!"
"At the end of the day, I don't have to drive your BMW to your million dollar house on the fairway at your country club. I don't have to relax next to your swimming pool, kick back and have a few drinks out of your liquor cabinet. Top shelf booze only, I'm sure. It's not like I have to fuck your bleached blond trophy wive with the tanned trophy boobs. She probably fucks the poolman. You know that, don't you? You ever think about that while you're fucking the maid?"
"Like I said, Doc, my life is perfect. I get to drive my minivan to my house in the suburbs, have a few beers on my porch, kicked back next to my pool. My wading pool. I get to play with Max, my dog. He's not a trophy. He doesn't have giant tanned tits. But he is a faithful friend. He might piss in the wading pool, but he doesn't fuck the poolman. But he does know what love is all about. He proves it every time he humps my leg."
"Then, after a few beers, I talk to the tumor. He doesn't say much these days. Maybe the meds really do have him on the ropes. Or maybe he's just resting up, ready to come back with a vengence. What do you think, Doc? Am I really gonna beat the bastard? You're pretty confident I will, you cocky son of a bitch. I'm not so sure. He's not living in your skull. He's living in mine. Rent-free, I might add."
"Hey, Doc! Unlike you, I don't have to think about the fact that your opulent lifestyle is financed by the medical misfortunes of your patients. Do you? How does that make you feel Doc? Do you feel anything after a few martinis? Can you feel anything at all, or are you numb to the realities of my world?"
"Yeah, Doc, I'll have a nice day."
"I hope you do too, motherfucker. I hope you do, too. Say hello to your wife for me. Don't forget to tip the poolman."
Each time before I leave the office, I make another appointment with, Sheila, the office manager. As she leans over to write in her schedule book, I look down her dress. Nice boobs, slung in a sexy black lace bra. I'm pretty sure she knows I'm checking out her rack. She probably gets a thrill out of it. The cock-teasing little bitch. Her chest is the high point of my day. That particular day. I can't wait till next month.
Maybe I'll ask her out. Maybe she'll say yes. Maybe she won't. Maybe she'll fuck me, maybe she won't. It really doesn't matter much either way. I still think about her when I masturbate. But not while I'm in the bathroom.
Still in the Parking Lot, But No Longer Thinking About the Doctor's Office
So I'm not dying from a brain tumor. I think everyone knows this, but when you say "brain tumor" people start to treat you differently. As if you're somehow damaged goods.
But I've always been damaged goods. It just that until I started on the medications, I'd been able to keep it under control. As far as I know, I'd always appeared to the rest of the world to be normal. Whatever the Hell that means. Maybe the people that let the crazy out for the world to see are the true normals. I hope so. I'm finding it more and more difficult to hold back the crazy.
But every now and again, a little bit of it leaks out. So far as I know, nobody of any importance has noticed. Only the whores, masquerading as titty dancers. God bless their dead, black hearts, and their hot, wet pussies. Hot and wet if you've got the cash. Cold and dry if not. But as long as I've got a credit card, and a handy ATM nearby, they'll always be moist for me. And anyone one else with a fifty dollar bill.
But all in all, life is good. Compared to the alternative.
Gulping the last of my coffee, I take a long last drag of my cigarette. As I get out of my car, I flick the butt to the ground, and step on it, grinding it under my heel. I pretend it's the tumor. I'm sure it pisses him off. I don't care. He doesn't have to work.
He just waits. He 's very patient. Tumors are like that, generally speaking.
After checking my shirt for coffee stains and cigarette ash, I straighten my tie, hunch my shoulders to settle my jacket, and go into the office.
Passing through the doorway, I throw a "Have a nice day!" over my shoulder. Not to anyone in particular. Just to the world at large. Maybe it will have a nice day. but I doubt it.
It's time to clamp down on the crazy. I have to go to work.
***** more to come
Scene Two - Office
Scene Three - Courtroom
Scene Four - Field Work
Scene Five - Minivan Miles
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