Okay, now, back from lunch and ready to roll yet again with more tales of rip-roaring suburban intrigue.

For some reason, I have a feeling this one is gonna be a long, involved mess, simply because that's the way I have planned it.

For those of you stumbling in here for the first time searching for photographs of Norah O'Donnell in her dressing gown, or various uses for egg beaters and Vaseline, or where to find the best pair of size 66 bib overalls, you are temporarily out of luck. For those who came looking for really stupid stuff, please grab a comfortable chair and lean back for a lengthy discourse which will result in your bursting out laughing exactly none. Smiling, smirking, or grinning likewise will be in short supply. We will be able to offer much in the way of perplexed glances and occasional tinnitus. LEAVE WHILE YOU STILL CAN!

SO, Reba and I rode together over to the infamous place of my last employ, and the site of our mortgage broker person. I was much more nervous about going back to the old place and possibly running into someone unpleasant I used to work with than anything doing with borrowing vast sums of money from mean, sucky usaryists. Honest to goodness, I had sweaty palms and heart palpitations walking across the crosswalk, simply from being near the spot that birthed Bitter Boy.

The company I used to work for moved into this place about a year after I went to work there. We had been in a small dark office near downtown, and this was a new suburban spec office building and we all thought we had gone to the promised land. Huge glass windows all around the drafting room, nice little cubicles, real restrooms that had not once been a converted meat locker, and the presence of other human beings. At the time it housed the headquarters for HealthSouth, along with a variety of other insurance and credit boiler-room type businesses, all of which had amazing quantities of real, live, women. Which for a bunch of goofball redneck architects used to a dim, windowless office devoid of any other life was like dying and going to Vegas.

Every day we took over the snack bar and ogled every double-X chromosome that came through the door. At least we were subtle. Never once did we scream, or stare for more than three minutes at a time (per person). It was interesting times, and the whole building was like some sort of odd little neighborhood with people moving in and moving out, along with a cast of regular guest stars. My Friend Jeff and I even developed an entire sitcom based upon our stupid office and all of the people in the building, from the opening montage and theme music to fully wrought episodes for an entire season. (Should there be any production people reading this, we are still shopping it, so let us know if you would like a pitch.) Long before there was "Ugly Naked Guy" on Friends, we had given nicknames to an entire ensemble cast of characters, both men and women, who happened to pass our observation stations.

There were three main groups of characters--Highly Paid Middle Management Professional Women, Low Wage Party Girls, and Dumb Guys--all entertaining in their own way, and each with highly evolved dossiers of imagined proclivities and interests. (And no, we never took the time to actually meet or talk to any of these people--that would have taken all the fun out of it!)

Now, if you want, you can skip this part--it is matched in detail only by its sheer idiocy...'kay, you were warned:

First, the HPMMPW were invariably good looking and paid three times what any three of us made combined. Most famous were...

The Goddess -- The most beautiful woman ever made. A tall, well-constructed brunette woman combining the various features of Jane Russell, Linda Carter, and Frank Cho's Cavewoman. It was said that if she ever looked at you, you would turn to stone. It was possible to feel this odd effect, even when not in her direct line of sight. Always wore very chaste power suit (this was the late-80s after all) but was once seen away from office wearing jeans. Observer required overnight hospitalization.

The Blonde Goddess -- The second most beautiful woman ever made. Some thought her a rival to THE Goddess, but her smaller stature and less impressive ability to cloud the mind destined her for second place status. Drove various high dollar vehicles, had gigantic diamond upon finger. Coworker once stated that he had never seen a ring big enough to, well..., act as his physical rival. "Yeah, Bud, but that Mercedes out there in the parking deck has sure got you beat."

There was also the Girl With the Ever Too Closely Set Eyes -- Very pretty brunette, but way down on the list due to interpupilary distance being at least three millimeters closer than optimal. Such a shame.

Then there were the LWPGs, whose population ebbed and flowed as the various teetering-on-the-brink-of-indictment telephone solicitation places moved out. There were a bunch, and unlike the HPM--whatever, they were not all easy upon the eye:

Poodle Haired Girl -- Again, a late-80s thing. Also known as the Crotch Watcher, which was so demeaning. I just HATE being treated like on object...

Girl With the Bow in Her Hair -- Yet again, a late-'80s deal. Due to length of name, was shortened down to Bow Head, then was relengthened to Girl With the Bone in Her Head and finally Bone Head. She was real cute.

Linebacker Woman -- 5'-8", 260 beefy pounds, broad shoulders, beer gut, no butt, fried peroxide hair styled as per the Rosanne Rosannadanna Book of Hairdos, perpetual pig-eyed scowl.

Swarthy Square Dance Woman -- Short, with heavy black unibrow, large nose, exaggerated hourglass figure made less attractive by the constant wardrobe of frilly country/western wear, complete with flouncy petticoats.

Porno Girl -- Often wore thin small tank tops, ragged jeans. Farrah Fawcett inspired winged hair (a fashion no-no in the late-80s, unless you made porno films). Enjoyed the attention she received from goombah architect boys, but suffered terribly while performing her patented slinky walk-by when one of her ratty tennis shoes stuck to the floor and caused her to trip slightly.

Eraserhead -- Frightening, tall, pencil-thin woman with Grace Jonesian brush cut hair.

Uggh! -- Large woman who each day would go out to eat lunch in her little blue Ford Ranger pickup at precisely 11:30. Named thus due to habit of opening the door and "Uggh!" heaving herself into the driver's seat, causing the overburdened springs of said truck to oscillate wildly.

JiggleTwitch -- Very cute young lady whose manner of locomotion caused an alluring harmonic imbalance of forces which made the below-waist pieces jiggle and the upper torso parts twitch.

JuggleSlush -- The Antijiggletwitch, made of large quantities of some viscous substance which, when confronted with movement, slowly shifted side-to-side and up-and-down causing intense need for Dramamine.

Of course, not to be outdone were the Dumb Guys...

Gomez -- Mustachioed building maintenance guy so-named due to uncanny resemblance to John Astin as the leering Gomez Addams. Had a red S-10 festooned with various homemade aerodynamic aids, including rear wing made of wood crown molding and bed rails crafted of stainless steel handicapped toilet grab bars.

Hairy Nun Guy -- Greasy, hirsute fireplug of a kid, with lots of gold chains and hair gel. Worked as a runner for some company, prone to intense bouts of strutting, preening, and braggadocio. Got his name one Halloween when he came as a Catholic priest ready to perform an exorcism.

Blind Guy -- Handicapped man who worked in some company's mailroom so that someone could say they were helping out and pretend that they were on L.A. Law, looked a bit like Vince Lombardi, except with two-inch-thick glasses. Had much difficulty walking. Scary because he DROVE HIMSELF TO WORK EVERY DAY! Saw him several times, heading up the speedway that is I-459, going about 30, weaving across two lanes. Had a bumper sticker that said "Pray the Rosary." Amen to that.

Equilibrium Guy -- Oh man, where to start...Somewhat dim fellow trying to break into lower management, affected leather suspenders (okay, one more time, it was the late-'80s) which tended to hold his rumpled, pleated pants about two inches higher than comfort would dictate. Also wore very large, flat shoes which if painted red could have belonged to Bozo. Both things were killers when it comes to projecting a serious demeanor, but when combined with his peculiar way of walking--up slightly on his toes, with each footfall appearing to slip slightly as he made his way forward--made it look as if his suspenders were pulling him ever so slightly off the ground. Only a slight upward nudge and we were sure he would float right on off. He was perfectly balanced between earth and sky, and were he a perfomer in Cirque du Soliel, he would have played to rousing applause. As it was, he provided enjoyment for only a few.

Life was pretty good there for several years, until at some point we had a short-lived downturn in business and the honchos decided we had not bought them enough new cars or trips to Europe. Things changed and we got all sorts of new rules and overseers, and I got enough material to write a whole shelf of books on management and marketing mistakes. Business, of course, still drifted away and we continued to bear the brunt of the capricious ineptitude of those in charge, who became increasingly spiteful and power-hungry little martinets. The last two years there built up a lot of resentment, and the brief flashes you see of my angry side became pretty commonplace, which as I mentioned gave me the heroic tag of Bitter Boy.

I finally found another job and was able to give the place the ol' AMF. Thankfully all my friends were able to get out not long after, including My Friend Jeff, and for about a year there I wrote a monthly newletter called "What They Done Was, They Quit!" (taken from the way our runner talked, which was to say stuff, and sort run on his worrrrrds, and keep talkinnnn', and not really say anythinnnnnng, and say the same thinnnnng, over and over aginnnnnn.) I guess after a year, I had managed to pump out enough bile and venom to get rid of most of the bitterness, so the newletter sort of died away.

Going back to the building yesterday conjured up all those old memories.

One in particular was when my boss took me in his office after he found out I was quitting, ostensibly to go over the projects I was working on at the time. One of our straw boss, prison trusty "vice-presidents" was in the room, and after a moment or two of general talk, my boss narrowed his eyes and leaned way back, clasped his hands behind his head and said, "Yeah, I remember when you first interviewed here. You talked about how your mama and daddy were just hard-working folks, and that you were just sort of a common, honest, everyday guy, too. Just give you a chance and you'd work hard, too." I suppose the old bastard thought I might be getting uppity thinking I could leave, or that I should enjoy getting his shit wiped on me. The resentment in his voice was palpable. The little veep squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

I leaned forward and looked across the table and stared at the man who gave me my first job as an architect. "Have I ever done anything to disprove that?"

The color left his face and he brought his arms back down. "Uh. Well. No. No, you haven't."

"Alright then, let's go over the rest of this stuff."

Pitiful old man. How I hated going back into that building.

It looks older now, of course--it's been seven years since I last was there. The snack bar is closed. HealthSouth moved out. The carpet has been changed (several times, I'm sure), there are a few more cracks in the walls, the parking lot was half full. I didn't see anyone I knew; in fact, didn't see anyone at all except a couple of guys riding the elevator up with us. We signed papers for a while, and got all that money stuff taken care of and left.

I finally managed to exhale after we got back in the van.
posted by Terry at 3:31:00 PM