Shake, Rover, Shake!

I've been in the new store two days now and here is the low down.

On the surface, those people are creepy nice. It's like the movie Coraline. When the girl first is introduced to her “other” parents through the small door in her weird new house, she is amazed at how nice and accommodating they are; but eventually she realizes what they are up to, and by then it is almost too late.

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, but seriously now, in my entire life I have never shaken so many hands in so short a time. It's like I was just elected president of the store. Like I'm their first black president, like the last one was some sort of reactionary extremist hick that no one approved of anymore, and that I represented some sort of hope for their future.

Of course I know better than that. The scheming has to be taking place beneath the pretty surface - all covered in lotus petals and languishing frogs and salamanders.

Beyond the personnel differences that come with the new store, the building itself is like a football field. It is, without exaggerating, about 75 to 80 yards wide, a single floor, and fairly busy. That is to say, the store is about twice as busy as my old one; so while their sales may not be where they want them to be (and unless you work for Wal Mart, whose are?), they still do a brisk business.

Worst of all, the attached Starbucks (yes, them again) doesn't allow for a half-off discount like the one in my old store. This is due to the Starbucks at my new place being an actual bona fide 'bucks and not a B&N cafe licensed to sell Starbucks products.

I don't have many luxuries in my life, so cheap(er) coffee would be a nice one.

Oh well, guess I'll bring a coffee maker to the store and go that route. Actually, as it is, someone already has one up there but it's one of those two cup jobs, and god knows I spill about three cups on my pants a day, so that's no good.

Now, I gotta tell you about this.

Why is it that people spend so long in a workspace and yet somehow never seem to notice the snowdrift of dust and debris that piles up in the absence of taking two seconds to sweep the shit up? Then, there's the reams of dated paperwork clogging counters, file cabinets, and clipboards, not a sheet of which is useful or timely.

How do people go this far off the rails at work?

And my predecessor was not bad at his job by any means. In fact, he was rewarded with a promotion. And to be fair he deserved it. It's just that his housekeeping and organizational skills were practically nonexistent. I knew this would end up well for me because when I am in charge I can't handle clutter. In fact, the shit gets me in a bit if a state. Whenever you are in a work environment, and you have a group of people working with you, around you, before, during, and after you, anything you do to erode the sense of order translates into a plea for chaos.

If I am put in charge of a workspace, much as I am right now, it won't be long before I have to tidy up. Once things are under control you can focus on actual important things like staying on top of the work load, and kicking the lazy motherfuckers in their ass.

That shit takes your full attention.

Not that I'm tyrannical, because I am far from it. In fact, I am fairly easy going. Seriously. No, seriously.

I know that in my writing I have a tendency to come off like Goebbels after half a pound of dirty crystal meth, but in person I work hard at controlling the monster. Let him out too much and I become the Antichrist. Always a mistake.

Almost always.

The other day the Unspeakable and I were doing our thing, enjoying our evening, when it became apparent that the neighbor's dog was in no mood to let anyone else in the complex not pay him attention. To remedy this, the dog resorted to this shrill, carping, yappy bark, the kind that burrows into your consciousness until it is nearly impossible to ignore it.

I lurched directly into hyperdrive and set out to slaughter this hellhound.

On my way out the door, I grabbed my keys so that I could check the mail, because even in irrational rage I had the sense to see if I was getting some overdue money in the mail.

Miraculously, as I passed the patio of the offending dog he actually stayed indoors and didn't perform his customary ritual of screaming his fool head off at anyone who had the misfortune of walking by.

As I stood at the mailbox looking over the pile of crap for Moustafa and Abdul and every other Middle Eastern named person that lived in my apartment before me I heard the return of the baying beast.

It's funny, because much like the sound of a crying baby - whenever you aren't hearing one, merely reflecting on the horrors of listening to one - you might be forgiven for thinking that you tend to overreact to sounds like shrieking or barking. And yet, the moment the nail hits the chalkboard you are transformed into Edmund Kemper on mother's day.

I went from zero to kill-dog in about one second.

From there I beelined it to the offending mutt's patio and then it was on.

“Shut the fuck up,” I yelled maturely. “Take your dog inside,” I shouted at the open door.

More yapping. More ecstatic shrieking.

Again... “Put you dog inside!” I said even more loudly this time, now bordering on plot-loss.

Nothing. Nothing save for the dog.

Fuck it. I headed home.

Naturally, as I walk a bit up the way, I pass some people in the near distance off to my right leering at me with obvious disdain.

“What's your problem?” says a rather portly female member of this motley entourage. “The owner is right here if you have something to say.”

“Then tell your dog to shut up.” I reply sensitively.

“Why should we?” she says.

“Because other people besides you live here,” I add. “And, because it's been barking for an hour.”

“It hasn't been an hour,” she replies, now with a clear sense of righteous purpose. “Get over it.”

Bruce Banner time.

“Shut that fucking dog up!”

Fortunately I have the sense not to offer the dog some antifreeze, which, in retrospect, would have been a dramatically bad idea, one because saying that is illegal, and two because I would never do something like that, and best of all, I don't have any antifreeze.

Whoa, hey now, fuck you, asshole!” She says, somewhat shocked at my escalation.

Sensibly, at last, I walk away.

By the time I get home I am already feeling like the tool that I just was. I realize that I need to go back out there and try and ice things over.

On my way there I realize that one of these people is actually the insanely nice guy that lives in the complex. Yeah, the big, jolly fat guy who was so friendly during the hurricane, who always shares a word and a nice hello whenever we pass.

Great.

Once again, now I'm the asshole.

I wonder what went through their minds as they saw this 6 foot tall guy with a crazy beard and an obvious attitude walking towards them with purpose. I imagine they foresaw great ugliness on the horizon.

“I'm sorry for the language.”

“Whatever,” said the woman.

The big, nice guy just looked at me, almost with a hurt look on his face. In retrospect, it was probably surprise more than anything.

“No, no,” I said, “I'm sorry for the way I acted. I got angry and I flew off the handle. It was wrong and I shouldn't have said the things I said.”

The guy looked me and said that I shouldn't have let it get to that point, that all I had to do was go over and let him know.

I agreed, shook his hand, and told him I was embarrassed about the whole thing.

Even the lady said that we all have bad days.

I felt much better.

I got home. The barking stopped.

This event is beyond unlikely for me. I never do shit like this.

If you know me solely for my antics in blogs you might think that I am a perpetual jackass, but that simply isn't true. In writing, when you have the chance to think about what you are going to put out there, being sharp and direct is, to me, a gift. Say what you really want to say, and not because you are hiding behind an electronic curtain. On the contrary, say it because with only words to represent your point of view, your opinions, your stance, use them like missiles, use them like bullets, use them without mercy because they're yours and you are their master. Fall prey to fear and second-guessing and you're done.

In person, with a body attached to the words, there are so many more ways to communicate your ideas, your needs, your wants, you. It's a package deal in person.

So, what did I learn from the dog incident?

That dog hasn't barked longer than a moment since. And in the end, the fucking guy was totally responsible for not controlling his epically annoying animal, and in doing so (or not doing so in this case), he incurred the wrath of an otherwise mild-mannered guy who lives down the way.

Did he cry himself to sleep that night? Of course not. But he won't soon forget the nut job that lives down the way whenever that fucking banshee dog of his decides to spread hell the world throughout.

Sometimes a little venom goes a long-ass way.

You just have to know when to bite.

In a work setting, I refuse to act as stupid as I did the other day. I need the paycheck.

And besides, as long as that one lady keeps bringing in baked delights and candy, I'll shake every hand in the building. Twice.