Executive Derision

A beautiful woman with a Cheshire Cat smile loses the key to her lock. I engage her in some light flirtation. There is giggling (not me). While I'm being my natural, goofy, charming self, I sense my manager watching me through the tiny window in his office. This is the window that ruins my life at work:

"Don't lean. Where's your nametag? He owes us money. Did you check that person in? This is how you should do it next time..."

All shit I have to grin and bear. If I die and get reincarnated, I want to come back as the person that makes someone like me miserable. Just to gauge how much of a tool I really am on an intimate level.

I tell her I'll be up in a second with someone to cut the lock for her. She goes upstairs. I grab the bolt cutters. I like walking around with the bolt cutters. They make me feel tough and authoritative and I think I look semi bad-ass (especially in my tight black t-shirt). I usually sling them over my shoulder for a casual look, or, if I'm going for a more powerful look, I'll grip them in one hand and flex my bicep. The arm I do this with will vary depending on which side the most girls are on.

Just as I'm about to head upstairs, my manager comes out of his office:

"Wait for her to come back down. I'll get someone to help her."

What. A. Prick. He heard the conversation. He knows what he's doing. Keeping me at the desk serves the dual purpose of giving himself a chance to talk to her and making me look like a negligent asshole.

"But I like walking around with the bolt cutters," I mumble as I mope back to my front desk cage.

The woman comes back down a few minutes later and I quietly explain to her that my manager wouldn't let me come up to help her. I know this makes me sound like a powerless bitch, but that's better than a negligent asshole. Actually no, it's not. Fuck. Oh well.

My manager comes out of his office with his chest puffed out like a cartoon rooster's, imaginary lats flared to create the illusion that his arms hang three feet out from his sides. He clutches the bolt cutters tightly with one hand -- just like me -- and his face is fixed in the position that he thinks is sexiest. He's 175 lbs of Dep hair gel and micromanaging hotness.

"Hi."

He introduces himself and proceeds to make things awkward with his social ineptitude and general inability to deal with people in an unscripted dynamic. Normally this would be something alcohol can fix, but since he drinks on the job I know this not to be the case. Once he's asserted himself, made it known that he runs the place, and gotten enough of an eyeful for a possible masturbation or think-about-you-while-I-fuck-my-wife session later, he struts off to look for a female employee who can help her.

It's at this point our new maintenance manager comes out of the office. He's short, pudgy, and bearded -- a porker in a polo shirt, a white guy with a Hispanic last name. Probably hired for his Anglo looks and proficient Espanol. Latin workers always fear a white Spanish-speaking boss because he's not one of their own and has the ability to uncover any treachery or dissent. Corporations love white Spanish-speakers because they can deal with the undesirables and answer the phone without an accent. No accidental "holas" there.

"Hi."

It's his turn. He tries to engage the woman in small talk, realizes he has nothing to say, then scampers off to find a cleaning girl to help cut the lock. For a fat guy, talking to a beautiful girl for more than thirty seconds is an accomplishment. If he does it without sweating profusely or fumbling his words, it's a victory. It's his four-touchdowns-Al-Bundy moment, his touch with greatness. Something he can tell his grandchildren about if he's lucky enough to fuck someone, have a kid, then have his kid fuck someone or get fucked, and have more than one grandchild.

My manager returns with the girl from the shop and gets her to help the woman. He retreats back into his office to finish the pizza he ordered but didn't offer me or my coworker a slice of.

One thing that I hate about my job is the protocol for dealing with a situation can change depending on whether or not the member has an ass. Which is fine. I understand. But this means you can't sermonize to me. You can't spout bumbled maxims with your glassy eyes and vodka breath, comment on a pair of tits, and then tell me to be professional. That's the problem with my manager: he believes he's a corporate messiah when he's really just a false idol. Hell, they're all false idols, but he's a golden calf that shines brighter than most. His power is appointed, not earned, and yet you'd think he slayed the dragon, fucked the queen, and vanquished the invaders.

But really he just didn't go to college.