Workday

WORKDAY

by

Ronald M. Kelly

Created December 26, 2007 / Revised August 26, 2017

Copyrights, December, 2007 & August, 2017

Workday...

Scene One: The Parking Lot Of The Pinal County Adult Probation Office...

Fade in...

Friday morning, just before eight am, I steer my 1993 Dodge Minvan into the parking lot of the Pinal County Adult Probation Department, adjacent to the building where I work, stopping in my assigned space. It's right next to the door, and has a sign that says "Handicapped Parking Only." I don't get out of the van, affectionately named “VannaDoom,” right away. As is my usual habit, I have one more cigarette, and finish my coffee before going in to work. This is usually the time that I reflect upon my life. Which isn't turning out the way I expected. Or hoped. Or planned.

For example, I never thought that I'd have an assigned parking disabled parking space. Or any reason to need one. Or get one.

Except for the Chief Probation Officer, Dave S, nobody in the department had an assigned parking space. Certainly not a Deputy Adult Probation Officer, like me. A Level Two, to be exact. Not that there's much of a difference between the job of a One or a Two. Or a Three, for that matter. Just the size of the paycheck. And the time in grade.

But, I have an assigned space, right? So, I'm handicapped, no? 

Well, not exactly...

A few months ago, I told my boss, Jon T, Deputy Chief Probation Officer, Director of the Field Services Unit, that I had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Upon hearing the sad and sorry news, he said that, legally, I was entitled to park in one of the two handicapped spaces next to the back door of the Field Services Unit. So, I do. I’m guessing that you would, too.

Jon's a real good egg. He's a fine man, and a real quality friend. I'm not absolutely sure of it, but I think he may have cried a little after I left his office. His eyes were watery when I saw him in the corridor a few minutes later. I was on the way into the men's room, while he was on the way out. Of course, watery eyes can also result from straining when you should be relaxing. Or, maybe due to a bit of painful urination. Which, thankfully, I don't have. Maybe Jon does. It’s really none of my business.

But I do have a brain tumor. I don't consider it a handicap. It's not like I have a broken leg or a bad heart. Or Erectile Dysfunction.

Erectile Dysfunction... now there's a handicap! Unless you're a priest. Then it's just a blessing. At least to all the little boys and girls of the parish.

But I am grateful for the special parking space. And for not being hassled over it by the people with whom I work.

Since the tumor was discovered, nobody hassles me over much of anything at all. Maybe they feel sorry for me. What difference does it make? No one else in my world, or their worlds, for that matter, has a brain tumor, so they really cannot relate to me on this issue. So they cut me some slack. Not that I give a shit. But I would do the same for them.

Not that I deserve it, but I'll take the consideration. And, naturally, the parking space. I'm not likely to get much of anything else in the way of special treatment. Nor am I likely to feel much in the way of any shame over taking it. Working in a government job, a man's got to grab his perks whenever, and wherever, he can. Well deserved, or not so much.

But, along with this one special consideration, I have the feeling that everyone in the office is a little afraid of me, as if my brain tumor might somehow be contagious to them. Or maybe they're just afraid for me.

I'm sure they think I'm going to die soon, and they feel bad.

But not for me, I'm sure. Or, at least, mostly not for me, I think.

I’m very sure it’s mostly for themselves. For their guilt and their shame. For the relief they feel. Because they're happy they aren't like me, living in the shadow of the Angel of Death.

"It's too bad he might die," they think. "But I thank God it's not me!"

Fade Out...

Scene Two: Truth Or Consequences...

Fade In...

But I know the truth. Actually, I know three truths. They're important truths.

They're huge truths.

You need to know these truths, so listen up and pay attention. Take my word for it. If you miss these truths, you miss everything. Nothing else matters. Ever. Ever.

Here We Go:

Important Huge Truth Number One: Everyone Dies...

It's just a matter of time. It's true. Nobody leaves the planet alive. You could ask Elvis Presley to confirm this for you, but that isn't possible right now. Elvis has left the building. And the whole damn Earth, for that matter. You can leave him a message. But, he won't be getting back to you. At least, not any time real soon. His phone has been disconnected. He didn't leave a forwarding address. All of his mail is marked, “Return to Sender, Address Unknown.”

Important Huge Truth Number Two: Thanking God That You're Not The One Who Might Die Won't Help You To Avoid Death In The Long
Run...

And, He just might take umbrage at your egocentric selfishness. Everyone dies, sooner or later. Even you, too, really quite soon enough. Much sooner than you’d hoped, given your perfect life, but much later than you should, given all the recent and incredible advances in geriatric care. If you don't believe me, just refer back to Important Huge Truth Number One. Or ask Elvis. When you see him, I mean. Which you won't. Because it's doubtful that you both have the same Final Destination.

Huge Important Truth Number Three: The Real Key To Happiness Is A Daily, Good, Healthy Bowel Movement...

My Dad taught me that. Elvis should have known it. I mean, given where he died and all. I recommend you have a good, healthy bowel movement every day. Relax in there. Read the paper. Catch up on current events. Work on the crossword puzzle. Laugh at the cartoons. But don't dawdle too long. People might think you're in there masturbating. It's okay to masturbate. But there's a time and a place. The bathroom really isn't the time or the place for jerking off. But, it's your choice, really... just try not to get caught! That would be embarrassing. Most people would never be able to live it down.

So, anyway, like I said, Death is the great equalizer. We'll all set to meet him sooner or later. The only difference between you and me is that I no longer deny that I'll meet Death, personally, someday. You, most likely, still do.

Here's a little poem I wrote, to kind of bring it all into perspective:

First, we live, and then we die, 

That's all there is, my brother. 

Not nearly enough of the first one, 

And way too much of the other.

Fade out...

Scene Three: Meditations On My Medical Care…

Fade in...

In reality, if I continue with my medications, I'm not really in real danger of dying anytime soon. At least not too soon. At least not real soon.

Or so says my doctor. But, what the Hell does that pill-passing, son-of-bitchen bastard know? He doesn't have a brain tumor.

For that matter, he probably doesn't have Erectile Dsyfunction, either. How lucky for him. Not that I care. I'm just saying...

Of course, neither do I have ED. My twice-monthly testosterone injections eliminate that possibility. Why testosterone? It's part of the course of therapy prescribed by my doctor. The tumor had put my balls down for a permanent slumber. So, I would certainly have ED if it weren't for the shots.

As long as I have the testo, and the hard cash to pay for it, I'll always have a hard-on. Even when there are times in which it is actually counterproductive to sport wood. Like, school, and, church, and, Court. And, and, and, and on, into infinity. When I want one, and need one, I want and need one. But I'd rather have an erection when I didn't want one, than not have one when I did. I like having the option. How so very lucky of me.

Here's how a typical monthly visit with my Doctor proceeds:

First, I'm taken into an examination room, where the hot nurse, Wanda, takes my vitals, and draws what seems like endless volumes of blood. After placing a bandage over the wound, she says, "The DOCTOR will be in soon, Ronald.”

DOCTOR. By just the way she said it, I could hear all of the capital letters clearly ennunciated. As she leaves, she turns and throws a "Have a nice day!" over her right shoulder.

I'm not a real fan of the off-hand, "Have a nice day" thing. But I forgive Wanda, though. This is because she has such a great ass, and knows how to work it. She knows that I like the way her ass moves. She knows this, because I told her that I liked her ass. It just slipped out of my mouth one day. She wasn't offended, though. She knows that she has a great ass. And she knows, that I know, that she knows, that I know it.

Next, after Wanda, leaves, Dr. Alex comes in. I'm not being familiar. Alex isn't his first name. I don't know his first name. I'm not even sure he knows my last name. He's never used it, ever. Not a big fan of the usual bedside manner, is our DOCTOR Alex.

"Don't worry, Ronald," as he says, as always, upon reviewing my chart.

"All the tests that we've run show that the tumor is responding well to the medications I've prescribed. It seems to be under control. You really don't have anything to worry about. Just take your meds as directed, and you should be fine. Unless you have any problems, and need to come in sooner, I'll see you next month."

As he turns to leave, he pauses.

"By the way," he asks, "Do you want a refill of the pain medication?"

"Thanks, Doctor Alex," I say, "I do." No ALLCAPS crap for me.

Not that I need them, as I rarely have the migraine headaches anymore. But I want them. I'm building up a stockpile of the little buggers. An emergency reserve, if you will. A temporary vacation that does not require an intinerary, travel agent, or much in the way of luggage. Maybe, just maybe, simply a pleasant way out, if needs must be met. If that time ever comes.

"Fine," he said. "I leave it for you at the check-out desk."

While walking out of the exam room, as Wanda did, over his left shoulder he suddenly throws a "Have a nice day, okay?"

There it is again. Have a nice day. Have a nice day! Have a nice, fucking day, you miserable little cocksucker!

Sure Doc. You, too! I’ll see you next month.

"Have a nice day?" I think to myself. "Have a nice day..." At this point in my life, I'll take any kind of day, not just the nice ones. The “nice” ones are just too few and far between to be of any great utility to me, at this point in my life.

Fade out...

Scene Four: Inside VannaDoom, Contemplating The Dregs Of His Coffee…

Fade in...

Breaking my usual routine, I light up another cigarette. Maybe it will kill me before the tumor does. But I doubt it.

In my head I continue the story of my PCP...

"Yeah, Doc, I'm going to have a nice fucking day. Why the Hell wouldn't I have a nice day? Unlike yours, my life is fucking perfect."

"You don't think so? Well, Doc, listen right up, and let me set you straight!"

"At the end of the day, I don't have to drive your BMW to your million dollar house on the fairway at your country club. I don't have to relax next to your swimming pool, kick back, stretch out, and have a few drinks out of your liquor cabinet. Top shelf booze only, I am absolutely sure. It's not like I have to fuck your bleached blond trophy wife, the one with the tanned trophy knockers. You know, it’s highly likely that she probably fucks the pool man. You do know that, don't you? Do you ever think about that, while you’re getting busy, fucking the maid?"

"Like I said, Doc, my life is perfect. I get to drive my minivan to my house in the suburbs, have a few beers on my porch, kicked back next to my pool. My wading pool. I get to play with Max, my dog. He's not a trophy wife. On the contrary, he’s far from it. He doesn't have giant, tanned, trophy tits. But, he is a fearless, peerless, faithful friend, and loyal silent partner. He might piss in the wading pool, but he doesn't fuck the pool man. But, he does know what love is all about, and he proves it, every, single time he ever humps my leg."

"Then, after a few beers, I start to talk to the tumor. He doesn't say much these days. Maybe the meds really do have him on the ropes. Or maybe he's just resting up, ready to come back with a vengeance. What do you think, DOCTOR? Am I really going to beat the bastard? You're pretty confident I will, you cocky son of a bitch! I'm... not so sure. He's not living in your skull. He's living in mine. Rent-free, and without a lease, I might add."

"Hey, Doc! Unlike you, I don't have to think about the fact that your opulent lifestyle is financed by the medical misfortunes of your patients, fretting over the ethics and morality of the situation. Do you? How does that make you feel Doc? Do you feel anything after a few martinis? Can you feel anything at all, or are you numb to the realities of my world?"

"Yeah, DOCTOR, I'll have a nice day."

"I hope you do too, you silly motherfucker! I hope you do, too. Say, “hello,” to your slut wife for me. And, don't forget to tip the pool man."

Each time before I leave the office, I make another appointment with Sheila, the office manager. As she leans over to write in her schedule book, I look down her dress. Nice boobs, slung in a sexy black lace bra. I'm pretty sure she knows I'm checking out her rack. She probably gets a thrill out of it. She’s a man-hungry, cock-teasing, horny little bitch. Her ample bosom is the high point of my day. At least, it is on that particular day. I can hardly wait until next month. There’ll be another colored bra, with the same ol’ beautiful boobs. ‘Titties-a-GoGo!

Maybe I'll ask her out. Maybe she'll say yes. Maybe she’ll say no. Maybe she'll fuck me, maybe she won't. It really doesn't matter to me very much either way. I’ll still think about her when I masturbate. But, not while I'm in the bathroom.

Fade out...

Scene Five: A Reverie On Life In General...

Fade in...

So, I'm not dying of a brain tumor. I think everyone knows this, but when you say "brain tumor" people start to treat you differently. As if you're somehow damaged goods, to be held for return to the factory, there to be re-tooled into something more useful.

But, I've always been damaged goods. It’s just that until I started on the medications, I'd been able to keep the damage far under wraps, unobserved by the normies. As far as I know, I've always appeared to the rest of the world to be the very definition and image of the word “normal.” Whatever the Hell “normal” is supposed to mean. Maybe the people that let the crazy out for the world to see are the true normals. I certainly hope so. I'm finding it more and more difficult to hold back the cresting wave of the crazy tsunami. 

But, every now and again, a little bit of it leaks out. So far as I know, nobody of any importance has ever noticed. Only the whores, masquerading as titty dancers, God bless their cold, black hearts, and their hot, wet vaginas. Hot and wet, if you've got the cash. Cold and dry if not. But as long as I've got a credit card, and a handy ATM nearby, they'll always be moist for me. And, too, for anyone one else with a fifty-dollar bill.

But, all in all, life is good. Compared to the alternative...

Gulping the last of my coffee, I take a long last drag of my cigarette. As I exit VannaDoom, I flick the butt to the ground, stepping on it, grinding it under my heel. I pretend that it's the tumor. I'm sure my aggressive nature pisses him off, but there’s nothing that the little bastard can do about it... I don't care. He doesn't have to go to work. I do.

He just waits; and waits; and waits. He's very patient. Tumors are like that, generally speaking, the nasty pieces of shit.

After checking my shirt for coffee stains and cigarette ash, I straighten my tie, hunch my shoulders to settle my jacket, and go ahead into the office.

Passing through the doorway, I throw a, "Have a nice day!" over my left shoulder, then turn and say, "Thanks!," over my right. Not to anyone in particular. Just to the world at large. Maybe, it will have a nice day, after all, but, I seriously fucking doubt it.

It's time to righteously clamp down on the crazy. I have to go to work. I serve a very important societal function. I keep the savages at bay, away from the civilized folk. I am Ronald K, a Deputy Adult Probation Officer, Grade II. Champion of the weak, defender of the oppressed, servant of the strong. Noble. Bold. Valiant. I am the living embodiment of “The American Dream.” Which is killing me... Day-by-mother-humping day...

Fade out...

To Be Continued...