Message from a standard inspirational sign in the hallway of the office in which I'm working (you know the ones, big pretty color picture, inspirational quote beneath):
Message (one of two identical ones) in the bathroom of the same office:
The “Testing Room”--my home-away-from-home-away-from-home for the next week--smells like B.O. and ass.
I awoke at 5:00 am this morning. Not because I set my alarm; not because I was hung over; not because my apartment was too hot (although it was). I woke up at 5 because I was apprehensive about the impending business trip.
After repacking and re-repacking, I got to the office (at which I no longer work but they allow me to keep an office) at about 7. A couple of things happened at the office. First, I looked at the assignment board where my name had been erased and everyone else's name had been moved up. In my exhausted state, I almost cried. I shit you not. Second, upon looking at the calendar of events (“this document is due this day, at this time) I noticed the following for last Wed (when I stopped in in the AM before heading out to for travel): “Santulli stops by.” Again, exhausted, I almost cried. Next, I got the asshole reception that I deserve for being an asshole (those folks who know what I’m talking about can agree with this).
At about 8 I went to Union Station to catch my train to Philly, and then on to the unnamed state capitol. I met a friend on the same train to the capitol and had quite a nice ride. It was the last pleasant experience I’d have related to the voyage from DC to the capitol.
Upon “de-training” (that is the word the Amtrak folks use) into the pouring rain and saying goodbye to my friend I looked for a cab to take me to the corporate site. It is a 15 dollar cab ride; 15 to 20 min.
I should have passed this cab by when I saw it. There was a line of cabs waiting to pick up folks from the Philly train (presumably the only train of any volume that dumps off in this town). I walk around to the back of the cab, waiting for the driver to pop the trunk. Instead, the driver tosses open the back passenger side door, “Come on, you can put it in here,” he says. As if not having to put my luggage in the trunk is a favor he’ll do only for me (apparently sitting next to one’s luggage in a cab is a bonus in this town). But it’s raining too much for me to argue. I toss the bag on the seat and get in.
He asks me where I’m going and I tell him. I show him a map since I wasn’t sure he’d know where to go. He pulls up next to another cab driver, “Jimmy.” He asks “Jimmy” if he knows where we’re going- since “Jimmy” lives in the town we’re going to. This is about where I should have gotten out of the cab. “Jimmy” begins to make fun of make fun of my cab driver to his face. “Jimmy” who is out in the pouring rain, is making fun of the dude in the cab- my driver.
My cab driver then pulls away and it is at this point that I realize two things:
First: The front triangular passenger window is no longer there and is replaced by a “Martins” grocery store bag.
And second: The “First” is a good thing because despite the rain that is spraying on my face through the absent window, it is giving me a brief relief from the unbelievable stench of vomit that the cab is emitting. I’m not just talking about puke stench, I’m talking about a bathmat at a frat house after pledge week (it is at this point that I notice my feet aren’t sitting on a floor mat, but are actually on a puke-stained bath mat).
My driver, “Sikh” once he learns I’m from DC, begins to talk about his experience driving a cab in DC for 10 years. He starts about how corrupt DC is in general. He then goes on to discuss how the “monkeys” all run the DC cab commission. All the “lazy monkeys,” Sikh tells me, keep the honest men from driving cabs. In order to drive a cab you have to bribe these “lazy monkeys that don’t know no better” at the inspection stations. Everyone knows this Sikh tells me, he’s even had FBI agents and congressmen in his cab who have agreed with his assessment regarding “the damn African monkeys.” Furthermore, DC is so corrupt that if he had some money he could have anything done to anyone. “I mean, if I wanted to I could have your girlfriend’s record show a bunch of tickets, or credit problems, or you could get rid of her.” Shortly thereafter I noticed the painfully obvious track marks on Sikh’s arms.
Needless to say 35 harrowing minutes after getting into the cab (I couldn’t get the seatbelt to work on the highway- and he clearly wasn’t paying attention to the highway during his racist rants) I arrived at the office. Sikh gave me his pager number, so that I could call him while I was in the capitol city in case I needed a cab.
Fun, fun, fun. Tomorrow, Cletus and Brandine.
Hello folks. I’m back. Well, my Internet alter-ego is back. The material, real me, however, is just outside the capital of a large mid-Atlantic state traveling for work. The blog has been resurrected as a vehicle for me to communicate with friends and family as I jaunt around the east coast for my company. The title of this humble blog and its subhead- “PretendingAlong... Please Get Me Out of Here” will likely be changed to reflect my current status: I did, in fact, succeed in getting myself out of there. I’m thinking something along the lines of “PretendingAlong… Imaginary Notes from the Corporate Byway” or something thereabouts. Maybe I can be the anti-Kerouac: a shining beacon of conformity making my way across the country; establishment oozing from my pores like brother Jack’s amphetamine sweat: automatic writing flowing from my pen, flavored not with sex and drugs, but anecdotes of system testing and humorous encounters with corporate bureaucracy…
Or maybe I’ll just bitch and moan like usual and throw in the odd pirate joke.
As soon as I figure how to retrieve pictures from my cell phone I’ll photographically document my journey through the mundane world of middle management and mid-volume banking operations implementation. But until then, you’ll have to rely on my mastery of the English language and occasional nonsensical ranting.
Talk soon.