I wake up at 6:00 on the dot every
morning, but it is really 5:50 since my alarm clock is a raging moron. Reasons unbeknownst to me force this
contraption to think I am setting the actual time when I’m actually just
setting my alarm time. The clock takes
these phantom minutes and decides to infuse them into its own warped sense of
time just to screw with my head. I can
hear the clock laughing at me every morning.
It is a repeated high pitched wail that can only be described as an
entirely more annoying Woody Woodpecker laugh.
I swear if I wasn’t so dependant on that mocking timepiece I’d destroy
it slowly with a lighter just to hear it scream.
I then blindly walk to the bathroom
with my towel strewn over my shoulder only to find my roommate in there. My mind can’t comprehend why he is up so
early because he is unemployed, but he’s there every morning anyway. My next conundrum is that I have actually
entered the awakened world, and as penalty for that I now realize I have to pee
so badly. Now, since I can’t go back to sleep I pace around
for 20 minutes doing the urine dance while waiting for the Hobbit to stop
clearing his nose in the shower where my feet will be residing soon. Here’s the thing about my bathroom
relationship with this particular roommate, I respect his privacy in
there. However, when I’m in there it is
no holds barred. “Heeeyyy QUinnnny!!!”,
to alert me of his presence. Then I get
to hear his river ballad on the toilet and of course the flush, which is great
when you are in the shower (insert sarcasm here). Following this he has the audacity to leave
the door wide open so everyone can see my shriveled penis in all its
glory. It is already small to begin
with, but now I have the extra added indignity of exiting the shower only to be
exposed further as a pitiful display of male anatomy. Why can’t people catch me in the morning when
I have to go to the bathroom, and the thing could be mistaken for a pool cue or
something else flatteringly large (yes I make up words). Don’t get me wrong, no one has actually seen
it except me, my ex, and my mom. Yes,
that last part sounded strange, but my mom doesn’t count because the last time
it was exposed was when I was 9 and an embarrassing tick (as in the insect)
story ensues. That is a story for
another time, but it goes down in my family’s lore for something to reminisce
about at the most inopportune times.
Fine, the insect rhymes with the body part it was stuck to, ha ha, we
get it already, no need to make a song of it.
Where was I? Oh yes, getting out of the shower. So I step out of the shower on to the bath mat
(insert sarcasm here as they are just old newspapers). I in turn get frustrated because I just
cleaned the goddamn bathroom the day before, and yet somehow someone manages to
make it look like a Mobil station restroom, graffiti included by the way. I make my way to close aforementioned door,
and turn to look at what waits in the mirror.
Grimacing ensues due to the enormity of my nipples. They are like pepp…scratch that, they are
like salami sized (just as a side note here to all the ladies out there who
will forever cringe when I walk by them or am even mentioned in a sentence, I
am sorry). Next comes the brushing,
flossing, and combing of the hair. I
actually look somewhat presentable at this point, but now I have to get
dressed.
Wardrobe selection has never been my
strong suit. No one has ever said that I
was a clothes horse. Anyway, I have to
hurry my choice up because 6:35 is rapidly approaching, and that is the exact
moment I have to leave to get to the bus stop.
I tried 6:36 once, and made a comical run after the bus that ended in me
breathing entirely too heavy. Let me
preface my choosing outfits by saying I don’t particularly care what I look
like. I mean, I do, but I don’t if that
makes sense. I’m conscious of what other
people say about my fashion sense, but I’m too lazy and cheap to go shopping
for the newest style. All of my shirts
are wrinkled, my ties are frayed, and my pants are falling apart. Also, many of these garments don’t even fit. No one complains about this to my face except
my mom, but I tuned her out when I was about 7 or 8. All of that aside, getting dressed in the
morning comes to its apex when I have to find a matching pair of socks. I’m not talking about socks that match my
outfit, I mean socks that match period. I
think I have 8 pairs, but that can be stretched to 10 with similar colors in a
pinch. The thing is with those 20
individual socks there are 179 others in the draw that are orphans. I realize this is a cliché mystery that will
go down in history as unsolved with the Kennedy assassination, but it has to be
the single most aggravating thing about me waking up in the morning.
I’m out the door with one final look into the mirror to make sure my tie isn’t around my head, gym clothes in the bag (even though I probably won’t go), and I have scrounged up enough change for the bus. This is actually an adventure in itself as I get to burrow into the couch like a badger for 3 quarters, dunk my head into the smaller couch like an ostrich for a dime, and lift up the recliner like a gorilla for a nickel. Since it is a bitter cold outside I, of course, have no scarf or gloves on because I am a highly intelligent being to most critics (insert sarcasm once more.). “Aren’t you cold?” “Are you nuts?” are the popular questions that come my way. I don’t wear a hat because my hair will get all messed up. Now, I know that sounds girlish, but you don’t know my hair. I have a rather thick mane that takes gallons of gunk to get it under control, and even then I’m described as looking like Bobby from Bobby’s World so a hat is out of the question. I don’t wear a scarf because I don’t like that they are scratchy, remind me too much of that show Dr. Who on PBS, and only people from Harvard wear them. Gloves are just extra baggage that I don’t need since I have these things called pockets. If its colder out than usual I zip up my jacket more and flip up the collar Fonzie style. I’m not saying I’m immune to the cold, too tough for the cold, or stubborn. I’m just a weird man-child.
On my walk to the bus I say hello to the old guy that puts a smile on my face every morning. Oh wait, that is the peaceful summer version. This version old man river is probably in FL with the rest of the geese. I must apologize for my constant digressions. Anyway the walk to the bus isn’t all that bad as it is quite serene despite the constant rush of traffic. This is the time where I get to think, and I come up with most of my ideas on these jaunts. Until I got my portable notebook I wasn’t able to write them down, and I’d invariably forget them later. This is where I thank my parents for some much needed brownie points. I’m overdue for a deposit. I have about 3000 saved up, but it is a wasting account as I ask them for entirely too much, and of course the giving birth thing is like a lifelong mortgage payment I’ll forever be burdened with. Burdened is a harsh word so I’ll make a deduction of 500 brownie points to use it. Okey doke, I think I have destroyed that analogy successfully so back to bus journey. (*note, I actually lost the notebook at Home Depot earlier this year) The route I take takes about 12-15 minutes, and I usually get splashed by cars 13 times and trucks 23 times along the way.
Waiting for the bus isn’t all that interesting, but for the sake of showing you just how repetitive the traffic flow is I can tell you exactly when each type of car will show up at the traffic light. For instance, Mazzarelli’s bakery truck shows up at 6:52 on the dot every morning, and the kid inside the truck is always bopping to some kind of what the kids call “pop rock”. At 6:55, a Waltham police cruiser pulls up, turns on its lights, and cruises through the intersection because he is above waiting like the rest of the peasant drivers. Finally, the bus comes at 7:01 (depending on weather of course), and I give a courteous “Gooooood Morning!” that my dad would be proud of (family joke), only to get a bus driveresque nod in return. One of these times my charming hello will warm this automaton’s heart. I take my seat strategically next to the door in the back so I can get off first, but it never works this way as I’ll explain later. I then bury my head in my book or newspaper for the next 45 minutes, and it is actually entirely uneventful until we get to Central Sq.
Upon approaching Central Sq. you can see everyone on the bus getting ready to jump at once to exit the bus as if someone laid a stink bomb or something. Everybody’s grips tighten on what they are holding, brows are furrowed, and the stench of determination is in the air (either that or that smell is one of the drunken hobos that snuck on). This is why I choose the seat by the door because physics states that the shortest distance between 2 points is a straight line, and mine is a horizontal sidestep to the door…maybe 6 inches. I also feel like I have the upper hand because I’m 250 years younger than most of the people on board. However, in a shocking display of spryness these geriatrics pop up out of their seats and are at the door just as it opens. What is strange to me is once they reach the stairs they go back to being stupid old people again and waddle down the stairs. My reasoning is that they are paranoid that their insurance adjusters are out there so they have to keep up the act. Meanwhile I want to kick them down the stairs and use their bodies as a welcome mat to get over the puddles. How is it that I should logically be the first off the bus, but am the last?
Let me explain the reason why I have to get off the bus so fast. The old people I was just talking about are so goddamn slow, and there is a 2 minute window at Central Sq. in which you can get onto an empty Red Line car. After that it is a cattle train and I am relegated to acting like a Garfield window decoration. To recap, 7:46 train=Stevie happy, 7:54 train=Stevie wants to break things. You can imagine which train I catch everyday.
The train platform antics at Central Sq. are infuriating to me in the morning for the following reasons which can best be described in numbered points:
1)
Only 1-5
people can get on each train because they are so packed.
2)
For every 3
trains going outbound there is 1 train going inbound. This ratio is just ludicrous.
3)
I get to the
forefront of the line waiting for the next train, but without fail, EVERY day
this one brazen lady manages to cut in front of me. So annoying, but I can’t say anything because
then I’ll look like a monster for yelling at a middle aged woman. Instead I picture myself timing the exact
moment when I can push her into the oncoming train, then I realize it doesn’t
matter because I’d push her so hard she would fall into the third rail
anyway.
4)
Welfare
mothers and their whining crack baby children that are going through
withdrawals always have to sneak on even though there is no room on the goddamn
train. And how the hell do these mothers
afford these Hummeresque carriages anyway?
There’s even a place for them to put their needles! Ok I’m exaggerating and being evil, but
whatever.
5)
Everyone
manages to crowd around the doorway so no one can get out or in. This defies all logic, and I’m embarrassed to
say I’m a part of the rabble. The middle
of each car is as barren as most wastelands, but everyone must jam themselves
in front of the door because they have to be the first ones off to be the first
ones on somewhere else. I’m guilty of
this since I know there is only a 2 minute window in which I can get into
Dunkin Donuts for my coffee and muffin.
Boston prides itself
on being the first Subway in the world, and that is great. From the bowels of my fair city the word
“rude” was born, the notion of a urine soaked hell hole was developed, and
there was finally a place where humans and rats could coexist peacefully. Bravo, Boston…Bravo. Three pages later, and that is just my commute. The lesson here folks is to not drink and
drive, or get a better lawyer.
I saunter into work more relaxed as the harsher part of my day is over. I give my customary salute and hello to Shamus to which he responds with the weather report. What is great about Shamus is that he is dead on everyday with the weather. “Ahhh its going to be a cold one out dere, but it will pr’bly werm up tomorra”, in his heavily Irish laden accent. I’ll take Shamus’s word on the weather over any local newscaster. When I first met him I told him my name and he said, “Ahhh nice Irish name, any relation to the Quinn law firm upstairs?” I replied lamely, “Nah they spell their last name with 2 n’s, we Quin’s only spell it with 1 because we don’t stutter.” Shamus thought this was the funniest thing since the Potato Famine. So anyway everyday I say some kind of jolly cliché thing to him and he chortles like a school boy. For instance, this morning he said “Ahhh Stevie how’s it going?” and I said, “Ehhh can’t complain…who would listen though right?” Shamus almost had a heart attack over that. I’m thinking he must be drinking while he’s down there guarding the rest of the building’s safety.
I can't get off this topic, seriously, why do all old people find the lamest things funny? Another favorite of mine is when some older person asks you with an amused grin on their face "Working hard or hardly working?" as if they are the one who invented the phrase. And their name is always something like Pete or Paul. I trump that with my coveted response, "Well Petey, I'm working hard at harldy working!" This is invariably always met with raucous laughter. Why? That's funny? Ehhh, enough of that. I could wax on about this phenomenon for awhile.
From 8:00-9:00 I do all of the work I have to do for the day. That is no lie. I get paid for a full day’s work even though I only do 1 hour worth of work during the day. The other time is spent typing things like this, emails, checking ESPN every 5 minutes to see if Bill Simmons wrote something new, checking my fantasy football team even though the season is over, and reading entertainment news to see who the latest relationship casualty is (as of today it was Shannon Elizabeth and her no name husband). Instant Messenger is also a viable option to take up some of my time, but mostly I stare out the window until I hear the CEO lumbering down the hallway in which case I pull up a fake spreadsheet to make myself look busy. I won’t get into the office culture as this is just a description of my day, but without a doubt the most annoying thing of my work day is the file clerk. She can best be described as the maid from Billy Madison. Every morning she must make her annoying presence felt by saying hello to everybody. Examples include coming into my office and saying hello to my boss who sits behind me in this high pitched manner, “Hello Madame.” Then turning to me, “Hiii Teevie.” Ugh makes me want to vomit. I actually have enclosed a grainy picture of what I’d like to do to her. I sent it to my sister one day after I couldn’t take it anymore:
 |
| 5/12-Cripes I was in a bad mood when I wrote this. She was an extremely sweet lady. |
As you can see I have a lot of pent up angst towards certain people for no reason in particular. Since I usually blackout during work hours until designated times [12:30 (lunch), 2:30 (send trades, yes actual work), 4:50 (leave work)] there isn’t much to report on how I conduct my business during the day. My CEO is just as bored as I am apparently because he feels the need to come in every ½ hour to bother me while I’m obviously busy. I will revisit this part of my typical day some other time as I am starting to run out of steam, and I haven’t told you of my commute home yet, and as a matter of fact I’ll get to that later too. I need to give this whole piece the justice it deserves right now it seems like I’m trying too hard. (*5/1/12-I never revisited this...so painful, so very, very painful)
