When my heart bled at 5am or earlier.
A truck driver, not a drunk driver, (or trunk driver, for that matter), took to calling me "Little Buddy" on Friday. I took to feeling uncomfortable. My manager took to telling my co-workers, I took to telling Ryan - for some reason - and he took to saying on the intercom, "Little Buddy to the front." But back to Friday. "Hey there Little Buddy." Hey, a little stunned, not sure if I heard him right. "You want the totes first Little Buddy?" I stare at him. What is your intent? I ask. "Hey now Little Buddy, I'm just trying to work my life away." And break my heart with your sobriquet? I quivered. "Oh dear Litte Buddy, my little baby, I didn't mean to damage your sober key." I shake my head, still looking down. "Well chin up, little birdy. I just want to make you laugh your day away. Brighten your life." You've torn my heart, I whimpered. "What's that, you Little Kid Baby Boy?" My heart is broke for this! I am wasted on your dagger-words! I thought. No, let's start with the boxes first, I say, looking up. "Oh, my little Lucas!" he cries.
Ok, not all of that is true. Here is the whole truth. It's 4:30 am. I am barely awake, which is a truism at this heart-breaking hour. I hate things, things I usually do not think about, like the back bumper of the truck, the wooden fence that surrounds our cardboard dumpster - things like that. I am about to hate the Johnny Takes-His-Time truck driver when he comes waddling from the front towards me. "It's a beautiful day in paradise, Little Buddy!" I could not agree any less. He speaks in a Southern falsetto, which instinctively makes me want to laugh. You smack! I say, smiling. And I smack his smack.
Another lie. Damn it. Ok. This is the whole truth. Truck is over. I am glad it is over (another truism). The driver is just about to leave when he offers me his track. (A side note about the 'track' that drivers use. First of all, so you know, track is a conveyor belt made of metal rollers that transports stuff from one place to another place with ease and swiftness and a sort-of 'swooshing' sound. MARVEL! Another thing about track - your typical driver is overly protective of it. Truck drivers, to their chagrin, I'm sure, are known to receive shiny new track as part or the sum of their bonus. That and long grueling back-breaking days! God love 'em.)
No, thanks, I say. I couldn't do that to him; maybe he's new and he doesn't know. "No, take it, Little Buddy - I don't give a shit." He says "I don't give a shit" with such I-don't-give-a-shitness that its almost a pantomime. He reeks of "I don't give a shit," his raison d'etre. Really? You don't care? "I don't give a shit. I'm about to throw 'em in the fuckin garbage. Maybe they'll give me some new ones." Ok, well, I guess I'll take this one. "Take 'em all. I don't give a shit." As I grab the track his hand touches mine. What are you doing Little buddy? I ask. "My name's Richard," he says. Okey-dokey, I say. And we crescendo-laughed about the life we led that morning.
Fridays are lies.
Ok, not all of that is true. Here is the whole truth. It's 4:30 am. I am barely awake, which is a truism at this heart-breaking hour. I hate things, things I usually do not think about, like the back bumper of the truck, the wooden fence that surrounds our cardboard dumpster - things like that. I am about to hate the Johnny Takes-His-Time truck driver when he comes waddling from the front towards me. "It's a beautiful day in paradise, Little Buddy!" I could not agree any less. He speaks in a Southern falsetto, which instinctively makes me want to laugh. You smack! I say, smiling. And I smack his smack.
Another lie. Damn it. Ok. This is the whole truth. Truck is over. I am glad it is over (another truism). The driver is just about to leave when he offers me his track. (A side note about the 'track' that drivers use. First of all, so you know, track is a conveyor belt made of metal rollers that transports stuff from one place to another place with ease and swiftness and a sort-of 'swooshing' sound. MARVEL! Another thing about track - your typical driver is overly protective of it. Truck drivers, to their chagrin, I'm sure, are known to receive shiny new track as part or the sum of their bonus. That and long grueling back-breaking days! God love 'em.)
No, thanks, I say. I couldn't do that to him; maybe he's new and he doesn't know. "No, take it, Little Buddy - I don't give a shit." He says "I don't give a shit" with such I-don't-give-a-shitness that its almost a pantomime. He reeks of "I don't give a shit," his raison d'etre. Really? You don't care? "I don't give a shit. I'm about to throw 'em in the fuckin garbage. Maybe they'll give me some new ones." Ok, well, I guess I'll take this one. "Take 'em all. I don't give a shit." As I grab the track his hand touches mine. What are you doing Little buddy? I ask. "My name's Richard," he says. Okey-dokey, I say. And we crescendo-laughed about the life we led that morning.
Fridays are lies.
posted by Rosemeyer at 10:28 PM
sometimes i think about your thoughts and they make me laugh.
more work stories?! life is miserble!