Maybe when I’m 30?

I don’t want to brag, but false modesty is just bragging too, really, and I am all about the Truth. See how I capitalize it. I am all about the Truth and so, even though I don’t want to brag: I’m not an idiot. I’m pretty smart. I figure things out. I’m what you call clever. I’m one of those guys who never says “I don’t know,” even when I don’t know. If I don’t know, I’ll tell you how I’d find out.

I’m pretty good at Bejeweled 2. Not scary good. Not creepy good. Good enough to hold my own. I’d lose in a tournament, if they had one, but like I said, I’m not I-don’t-have-a-life good. I can pretty much kick the ass of anyone who hasn’t played before. Don’t bring that shit into my house. Practice first, bitch.

I know I’m trendy, but I don’t try to be. People say “you’re so damn trendy, Waco.” I’m just a little bit ahead of the curve, is all. I’m what they call an “early adopter.” But I’m not into fads. I eschew fads. Lady Gaga? Never heard of her. Proud of it. Slack-lining? Yes. World Cup Soccer? No. And I fucking hate hipsters.

I work in an office. I bring my iPad and my VFFs. I run two miles a day in them. I mapped it out, and around the edge of the cube-farm is nearly an eighth of a mile. I head down a few floors, where there are fewer people. Mostly they work from home. I could never do that. I strictly divide work and play. Strictly. I don’t bring my work home with me. No no no.

Down on seven there’s usually only one person, most of the time. A chubby gal. I’d throw her a pity fuck, but we could never have a relationship. I’m not shallow like that, or at least I can admit that I am and own up to it. My girlfriend is not exactly bone skinny. She’s a size two, but not the kind of two that could do modeling. She’s hot, sure, but I’m in to her because she likes my poetry. I don’t write poetry anymore, but she reads my old stuff in my blog archive all the time.

I go down there twice a day. Do my eight laps, and usually with the AC blasting I don’t have to worry about sweat too much. I could sweat, though. Some days I wish the loop had some uphill portions. I could kill a few hills. There’s the stairs, but they’re not carpeted.

One time I was down there and chubby had a fan going. One lap, she has it pointed out, like she’s doing me a favor. Then it’s back at her, like, I don’t know, watching me run by got her overheated. I told August about it. She thought maybe chubby was stressing over quarterlies. I wondered if she was just having hot flashes cause it was that time of the month. August said that hot flashes are not menstruation related, they’re menopause related. I reminded her that menopause is itself menstruation related. Then she said something about Derrida. That dude falls into the Fad group, so: No.

August, by the way, is totally cool with my crush on Ellen Page.

One time I was down there, doing my second run of the day, and chubby was gone. So, fuck it, I skipped my last lap and sat down at her desk. First thing: smelled like cigarettes. Chubby was a smoker. I flipped on her PC, and when the password screen came up, I tried the usuals: “Password,” “God” “Sex” “1234.” Finally I just hit return when the password entry window was blank: bingo. Told you I was clever.

I don’t know what chubby does for the company, but right there on her desktop, a World of Warcraft icon. I double clicked it, and yep, it worked. Tried the password thing again, but none of them went through. Can you believe that? I’m up four floors, busting my ass on quarterlies, and she’s down here grinding a troll hunter to level 70 through the Outlands. Or whatever.

That’s jacked up, if you ask me. I tried to think of some way to get even with her. Maybe I could do a few more laps, except run them really hard, get a nice sweat going, then just strip down and get her chair all gooey with body juice. But I was kinda tired already, this being the second run of the day and everything. Maybe I could stop running on the seventh floor. I’m sure there’s other floors just as abandoned. That would show her. Lonely cow.

Then I got an idea. I got an iPad, right? There’s an app that you can use to control a desktop remotely. There you go... I could just download that, install it on her desktop, and mess with her. Wait till she was playing Warcraft, make her pet agro a bunch of ethereals when she’s running through the Mana Tombs. Or whatever.

And I did. I am bold as brass. I got brass nuts, as they say. I installed the app, put it on her desktop, and the next day instead of running I snuck around to an empty cube and got to work. It only took me about ten minutes to figure that chubby wasn’t there. Bathroom? Break room? Lunch date? Yeah, sure. I’m rolling my eyes at the idea.

I waited a while, at least as long as it would have taken me to run my eight. Gave up, went back to my own cube. Got in some Bejeweled 2, some 10-47s for Johansson (asshole), some Facebook updates. August was posting snippets from my old poetry blog, so I “liked” a few of them.

Went down when I would’ve for the afternoon run. Still no chubby. The fuck?

Three days in a row. Sick? Five days. Vacation? I tried to forget about it over the weekend, but every time I grabbed the iPad for some Bejeweled 2 or some Facebook updates, I saw that damn remote-control app, and it reminded me. And I’m not supposed to bring work into my home, so I was pretty pissed off.

Monday, fuck it, I took the elevator to seven first, to see if she was there. She was not. Seriously? This cow plays WoW on company time and she gets two weeks of vacation? Me, upstairs, snapping together power point presos and typing-up meeting notes until my finger tips are numb, I’m lucky if I can get three days in a row approved by HR? This was bullshit. So I checked her name tag. I’m going to send her an e-mail. I’m going to get the vacation auto-reply, but she’ll have a little something-something waiting for her when she gets back. I’ll send it from some fake Yahoo account, I’ll use my iPad, not the company computer. I’m not a fucking idiot.

I sent the e-mail. No reply. I checked the company’s online directory. She’s not there. I called HR. “Hi, sorry to bother you, was wondering if you could help me out, I was working with Carla Stevens on a project but I can’t seem to get ahold… Oh. I see. Wow. Okay. I’ll talk to my boss, get that reassigned. Thank you.”

I’m thinking about dumping August. When I told her chubby was gone she didn’t really care. She asked me if I cared, and I said no, of course. She said maybe chubby committed suicide. Think about it, she said. Smoker, chubby, works in a cube on a floor all by herself, so probably doesn’t have any friends. Plays Warcraft. Do the math, Waco.

August suggested I write a poem about it. That girl has a one track mind. Loser.