"You guys are so lucky to be working for [where I work]. You have a great boss, a cause," he shakes his giant head. Light refects off of his teeth when he smiles, "You get to meet important people from all over. It's like a dream job."
I raise my eyebrows at him. "You say that again after you get one of my paychecks, and we'll talk."
"No, I'm being honest here. In fact, if Droz ever leaves, I would seriously consider vying for her position."
He smiles like an insurance salesman. Well, he is an insurance salesman, and he's been coming here every other week for two years trying to work his way onto the good side of like, all the rich guys that give us money. Right now he looks like he's about to go boating, sitting there doing the Guy Leg Cross, where one ankle carves around the opposite knee. All pseudo-authentic in his fucking pastel sweater and khakis. Who wears yellow pastel?
It's a shame that he's so good looking, even with that fat head, and he's such an obvious doucheba--
"What're you listening to?"
Shitfuckdamn and I downsize this page because son of a whore, he snuck up behind me while I was so captivated with writing about his fiberglass-osity. "It's ummm...hold on." I have to pull up the Pandora, because sometimes I can never tell what I'm listening to anymore. "The Eels. Nope, wait, wait...aaaaannnnnd now it's Barry White."
Wait, are you...don't put your hand on the back of my chair, Whiteteeth.
"You've always got sweet tunes on up here."
Sweet tunes, really? Did you just say that out loud? Jackass. I mean, sure, my friends say shit like that, but as Nautical Boy, you are not allowed to. It sounds wrong coming from a pastel sweater.
So I am confused, now. "Thanks. It's all kind of irregular."
"Do you do that thing where you've got like, a bunch of different stations and you click 'Quick Mix'?"
"No, I didn't even realize..." I look at my Pandora page. Sure enough, right there. Quick Mix. My lips pout because he knows more than me. Bastard. "I just kind of thumbs up and down as I go along."
"So what kind of feeds do you have on there?"
"Well," I feel like a bird, the way I'm cocking my head to the side. I refuse to look at him. "I guess, it started when I really wanted to hear Harry Nilsson, and then I added the Clash and Foreigner and it sort of like, spiraled from there."
"Nice. My stations are, uh, Willie Nelson, Van Halen, Beastie Boys, and uh..." he glances around, and blushes as he hushes, "and uh, Justin Timberlake." I want to make fun of him for being so white, but then I remember my own extremely ethnically diverse feeds and restrain myself, especially since MCA lives in my heart.
Yeah, and so then my spine goes a little wonky as he starts singing softly along with Barry. I'm starting to feel like I'm in a Time Life Classics Soft-Core Soul infomercial.
No, you did not just say that. I turn my head, slowly, and glance at him out of the corner of my eye, which is really hard to do because I have glasses and everything goes all split-focus, so now he has two giant heads.
"Ha!" He smiles. Jesus, his teeth are whiter than fuck. He turns to walk back over to the chair. "No, I really would love to have a job like Droz. People seem to think you're prepping yourself for it, though, if she ever leaves." He sits, assuming the position of douchebaggery once again.
"Pffff, fuck no, there's now way I could do that. Droz is like, 20% modesty, 20% ambition. Logic, likability, organization, all equal parts. She is absolutely perfect for this shit. I'm like, 10% modesty, ambition, and logic, like 7% psychic, 15% misunderstood. And you know, like, 30% satire, 30% ridicule, 12% lazy and 9% stupid."
"And misunderstood." I shrug my shoulders. "Bad joke. And I think I got too many percentage points."
"I think you're right."
"Extra credit, you know. Fuck you, standard distribution, bell curves and bullshit," I turn and look at him, eyebrows raised, "I've never been good at statistics."
He just looks wide-eyed and bewildered, and his head is slowly, ever so slowly, moving from side to side, in complete disbelief.
"So this could just be a nonsensical correlation. But I claimed stupidity to make up for it things like that in advance," I grin and nod, tap my temple and point my finger, "so I covered my tracks for the inevitable gibberish."
Now he's smiling a little, but I know he's still confused, not so much at what I'm saying, but the fact that I'm still speaking at all.
"Stop talking? Okay."
No, I'm not socially awkward. Not at all.