December 2006 Archives

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 21, 2006 9:32 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: Goodbye, Mr. Chips

Good morning Toby Shlameel,

I can’t believe today is your last day. In the words of our favorite band Weezer, who we used to listen to together on a concrete bench, side by side, pressing play on our Discmans at the exact same moment, giving each other the thumbs up at the chorus, or even mouthing the words to each other playfully while sipping an iced beverage from the local Starbucks (I love your hair): “Say it Ain’t So”!!!!!

Please, Tobes, for the love of the baby Jesus; I NEED you to say it ain’t sooo oh whoa oh woe.

What will I do at 9:32 every morning and 3:56 every afternoon when I don’t get to hear your voice? I can’t imagine a world where there are no updates about your ridiculous co-worker, Sharmaine Klytamestra St. Pierre-on-Sprey. I guess I’ll just have to make up stories in my head. I don’t even know what she looks like, Toby. WHY ARE YOU LEAVING ME??

So, cheers and all that. To your new job and your new life or whatever. Midtown is stupid. I hope you know that. It’s stupid and it smells like feet and metal. You’ve had it good over here. Just because people don’t talk to you and think you’re invisible and stuff doesn’t mean that you’re not going to be missed. I happen to know of one person who will shed tears over the absence of your presence. Speaking of which, did Pinky from the mailroom say goodbye to you yet?

Yeah, so MIDtown. Human Resources, right? Sounds like a step up for you. That’s nice. You’re moving on up to a life of health insurance and extra cash for burritos from Chipotle instead of those cheap sandwiches you usually get from the deli down the street. You’re selling out is what you’re doing. But that’s fine. Gotta do it someday, right? I remember the moment I knew I had sold my soul to the Man. You called me up that day to welcome me to the company. When I saw your name flash across my phone, it brought sunshine into my cubicle and silenced the humming from the fluorescent lights above my head. I knew right then that life in this place was special.

When I hung up, though, I sensed how far away you were. If I can’t have you near, NOBODY can. I mean, not, um the people HERE. Since you’re leaving. THESE people can’t have you. Because you’ll be at another place with other people. So those people WILL get to have you. Near. To them. Whatever, Toby, you get what I’m saying. Don’t leave me, T-Bone.

Au revoir. Adios. Domo Arrigato, Mr. Roboto and all that jazz! I guess I’ll just make friends with someone else and call them everyday to talk about nothing. Or maybe I’ll just do my work. OMG. I just realized how much work I have to do. I’ve gotta go. Psych! Gotcha! Call me?

Ok ok ok. Seriously. Goodbye Toby S. It’s been great working with you. I’ll never forget it, and I EXPECT you to write to me from your new email address over at the new place you’ll be spreading your newness all over. I have to go the bathroom.

Peace out,

Leisel Shlamozzle

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 21, 2006 9:56 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: RE: Goodbye, Mr. Chips

Oh, Mandy Fellows. Where do I begin?

I’d like to start by reminding you that people like working with me. You know! You’ve worked with me. You’ve worked with people who’ve worked with me. I’m the guy you like working with. I’m equal parts funny and hard-working. If you’re working with me, you can expect a SERIOUSLY FUNNY joke or two about getting effed by the Man, while knowing that you won’t be saddled with work that I didn’t do. It’s the best of both worlds really. I am the best of both worlds.

Yet, these people are impermeable. No amount of funny or hard work can make them like, nay, freaking SEE me. I feel like Remains of the Day here, people.

So, it is with heart light as a feather and messenger bag filled with bottles of wine that were a gift from a vendor (hey, nobody took them) that I bid this brainless bone-dry snippy little den of Bizitches “Adieu.”

You know, I do give a lot of latitude for the differences in people; and I realize that not everyone is going to think I’m the bee’s knees, but…I know what goes on here. It’s not so freaking consuming that you can’t say “Hi,” “Good morning,” or “I’m taking your stapler and I’m never giving it back.” I’ve concluded that these guys aren’t overworked, they’re not overly focused, they’re not just dry – they’re snobs. They’re a bunch of trust fund kids who studied art history and interior design. I could go on about why that’s awful, but I’m leaving and I don’t have to care anymore. I’ll just say that, one day, when they look around and see that nothing in their life is actually interesting and all of their friends are boring and bored just like them, I hope they realize that it’s their faults. And, then I hope their ankles crack under the weight of their enormous asses. Their asses aren’t enormous right now, that’s just something else that I’m hoping for their futures.

And, we’ll always be together, Mandy Pandy. Soon, a new pattern of correspondence will form. Don’t you worry.

Farewell,

Ignatius Allen

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Friday, December 08, 2006 9:53 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: Friday Morning

Dear Meadow Renee Castiglione,

It was very funny seeing our exchange on Verbose Coma. I’m seeing a new regular feature in the blog’s future, as well as an outlet for the pain of indignities suffered at the hands of the MAN. I suggested to someone that they put a LoJack on my boss’ ankle if they expected me to know where she was all of the time. It felt cleansing to say that.

No Exit,

Jason Yu

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 07, 2006 11:50 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: What's Anthony Doing Up In Here?

Dear Trevor Degustus,

For the past few months I have worked here in the belly of a department filled with women who will not speak to me or even look in my direction when they’re inches away. I have silently dealt with their rather rude decision to play Top 40 Pop Music of Then and Now loudly on a daily basis. I guess their bosses don’t care or are away, but whatever the case, the music is NOT appropriate. It’s so loud that head Red Hot Chili Pepper, one Anthony Kiedis, is close enough to hug me. Seriously. If you’re going to play loud music, pick Chet Baker. Pick Ella. Charlie Paker. Louis Armstrong. Pick early Bob Dylan for goodness sake.

But a megamix (I have yet to mention that they play the EXACT SAME CD MEGAMIX OVER AND OVER) comprised of the complete Chili Peppers back catalogue, every raucous Guns n’ Roses song ever written, Coldplay on repeat, and a selection of Hits from the 80’s! played at a loud volume is not what clients probably want to listen to. It’s just inappropriate. You know what? I’m down with them playing the music that excites them (go ahead and blow out your ear drums with the tenderfooted Jack Johnson, Ladies!), but they should play it with their headphones on. Because I don’t want to hear it anymore. I CAN’T LISTEN TO COLDPLAY ANYMORE. And haven't we all grown tired of "99 Luftballons" by now? Call me a square, a snob, a party poopster, a dill pickle, what have you…I just don’t think it’s the right environment to be blasting squealing guitars and driving drum solos.

Don’t get me wrong, though, Trevor, I love the Peppers and dear ol' Axl. I just don’t want to hang out with the boys up here at my desk, y’know?

Welcome to the jungle, indeed.

Regards,

Shandi Toma

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 07, 2006 12:01 p.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: RE: What's Anthony Doing Up In Here?

Dear Baroness Heidi “Dill Pickle” Nixon,

I feel for you. Might I suggest fighting fire with, shall we say…fire? I’m suggesting that you set their desks on fire.

Yours,

Lesley Minnow

The uptown F train was crowded as usual. Straphangers smooshed together in a morning rush hour clump. I lucked out with a seat and wedged myself between the end of the partition near the door and a man in a cap and navy blue overcoat. The genleman occupying the space directly in front of my knees wore a black trench, black slacks, and a stern scowl. HIs glasses were tortoise. Everyone else was a quilt of tweeds, denims, courdoroys, iPods, paperbacks, and downward gazes stitched together into my periphery.

He entered at East Broadway. The door opened and closed followed by a loud grumble. There was nary an inch to move, but I could hear feet shuffling and bodies edging modestly out of His way. The hair on the back of my neck stood up when it hit us. My stomach flipped and collapsed. I looked up just as the man in the black trench and tortoise glasses seized my eyes with dissolving disgust. It hit us again. Stronger, louder, and foul foul foul. I turned to the left to take a look at Him but only caught a sliver of curly hair and a slice of ruddy skin. Again it hit us. The rot of pickling skin. The hot breath of a deeply blackened lung. He was one of the walking dead, and He wanted to be heard.

Suddenly, the train screeched to a halt, and the doors opened at 2nd Avenue. More people than usual scurried out, and He came into focus as they hurriedly dispersed. There was a dark mustache, navy blue zip-up sweatshirt, and eyes gray and shifting. He shouted in a foreign tongue while swaying and shooing people out of the door like a matador with an invisible cape. Once they were out and the doors shut again, He struggled to find stable footing while all nearby straphangers scattered. Footing was found with a slam against the partition nearest to my head.

Already being aware of Him to my immediate left, I leaned into the man in the navy blue overcoat on my right as I raised the book I'd been reading aloft to protect myself from His incoming elbow. He caught Himself just in time but kept the elbow suspended in front of my face. I looked to the man in the navy blue overcoat. The man in the navy blue overcoat looked away. I twsited my chin up to The Elbow while trying not to breathe in the stench of stagnant tobacco and ethanol. The Elbow would not move. With a tiny inhale, I lightly tapped the edge of my book into His lower back.

He stirred. He awoke. He whooshed around to face me. Both eyes fixed on mine, He lowered his lids while each corner of His mouth furled upwards in a closed-mouth grin. "Excuse me..." He mumbled. "Excuse me...YOU." I couldn't move for fear that I'd make Him angry by not accepting His apology.

"You..." He mumbled again.

I said nothing.

"YOU, youuu, YOU!" He began to spit.

I began to shiver.

"YOU, YOU... Jeeeew. " He hissed, "YOU JEWISH. YOU. JEW!"

My throat went dry. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to move. He was transfixed on me and swaying in fetid delirium. I looked to the man in the black trench for help, but he, like the man in the navy blue overcoat, averted his gaze while closing a gaping mouth. The train lurched to a halt again as my eyes moistened.

The door opened, and another rush of people stampeded out. I leapt out of my seat and into another available one further down in the train. As I fell into it, catching my breath and clutching my bag to my chest, I watched Him sink into the space I had just occupied. He promptly let His head fall to His chest, and I believe He fell asleep.