The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Read online

  "Sure. I have a Microsoft Server certification. Some Unix training."

  "I'm an MCTS. I got my certs a few months ago," he said. For you uninitiated, an MCTS is a Microsoft Certified Technology Specialist. It's also nerd-speak for 'I got skills.' What a bunch of bullshit. "I plan on running my own network at another company very soon. I won't be around this dump much longer."

  "That's cool."

  He continued to play pocket pool with his loose change and his nuts and his keys while he occupied what little space was left in my cube. It was pretty goddamn uncomfortable. The dank, stinky fog from his mouth was turning my cube into a toxic gas chamber. But his phone rang from his cube to save the day. He craned his neck, peering in that direction.

  "Oh shit, my phone," he said, running to answer it, tripping and stumbling over his untied tennis shoes.

  My phone suddenly rang too. It surprised me. I placed the headset over my ears and read the tiny caller ID screen on my phone. It read, "V. Johnson - 5106." V. Johnson? Could this be a man or a woman? Now, I don't want to sound sexist because really, there is nothing worse than a goddamn sexist. But, and this is a big BUT, woman are more difficult to support with technical calls than men. It's true. In fact, most women really seem uninterested in technology period, unless it's a cell phone. But computers, TVs, printers, scanners, streaming players, all things technical, women could give a rat's ass about. So trying to assist a woman with problems related to these technical things was a goddamn catastrophe. It's like trying to communicate with a Chinese man who only knows two English words: McDonald's and basketball. Huh? Anyway, I had to answer the goddamn phone. I picked up the receiver.

  "Thanks for calling The Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits technical support line. My name is Simon. How can I help you?"

  "Hello?" I heard some clicking and a muffled thud or two, then the sweet voice came through again. "Hello? Is this technical support? Sorry, I dropped my phone."

  "Yes, it is. My name is Simon. Can I help you?"

  "Hi, Simon. That's a nice name. I've always liked that name: Simon."

  "Oh... thanks."

  "If I had another boy, then I'd name him Simon. Not after you, of course. But because I've always liked that name."

  "Ummm."

  "Right, technical support. I called for help, I know, not to talk."

  "What can I help you with this morning?"

  "My computer, it..."

  "Yes?"

  "It's acting weird this morning." See? What did I tell you? How in the world can you troubleshoot a technical problem like that? Acting weird? Give me a goddamn break. I could already tell that I was in for a long morning in the vortex of technical support hell. It's true. "It's doing this thingy where the screen freezes up and the input fields flash and the mouse goes crazy and I can't do my work."

  "I see. When was the last time you rebooted your computer?"

  "Oh, I don't remember. Am I supposed to do that?"

  "Do you remember seeing any warning screens saying that updates have been applied to your computer and for you to reboot?"

  "Uh, I..." she paused, the embarrassment revealing itself. "I... I really don't know."

  "OK, I can't help you unless you help me."

  "Can you just come to my desk and fix it?"

  Uh oh. She wanted me to leave my cube and go help her? Since it was my first day, I had no idea how to get around the building and where certain departments were and the protocol for this and the procedure for that. It seemed to me that she was asking a bit much of me. But then I thought, "What the hell? I'm supposed to help people, right?" I went against my better judgment. It's true.

  "OK. Where are you located?"

  "Third floor. Room 335," she said, sounding relieved.

  "I'll be there shortly. What is your name?"

  "Valerie. Valerie Johnson."

  "See you soon, Valerie."

  She hung up the phone. I sat my headset on my desk and turned my phone off. I stood up and leaned over my cube wall, telling Rod about the situation. He was on the phone with a customer but got the gist of what I was saying. He gave me the "thumbs up." So off I went to dive into the vortex of technical support hell.

  4.

  Walking through a government building is kind of like walking in a time warp, a dreary, depressing, moldy time warp. It's true. The interesting thing about most government buildings (and the building for The Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits was no different) is that when they initially come into the consciousness of the officials with the power and authority to assign government funds to establish and build them, there is so much promise and hope placed upon them. Things like this are said: "This new building will help serve the great people of Texas" or "this building will be the symbol of hope for the citizens served by The Texas Commission of Employment and Benefits." A bunch of goddamn pomp and circumstance is thrown around like confetti in the wind. It's all very exciting at first. So millions of dollars are thrown at contractors and the buildings are built. It's made out to be a glorious fucking magnificent thing. And then, once the buildings are completed and staffed with enthusiastic government workers, the reality of the world sets in and the maintenance of these magnificent buildings goes to the way side. All the promise and hope dissipates and what is left behind is a drab building staffed with drab employees. It's true. My building, it seemed, was stuck in the horrific color palette of the 1950s: grey walls, grey floors, grayish green tile in the bathrooms, grey carpet in the offices, grey everywhere. It was an interior decorator's goddamn nightmare. It's true. If there was one interesting thing about my building, if you want to call it interesting, is that apparently tunnels went underground from my building to intersect with tunnels from several other buildings around the city, including The Capitol building. I thought that was pretty goddamn interesting and decided I would have to traverse them one of these days, just not this day.

  I climbed the barren stairwell to the third floor. The hallways were empty and lined with several doors with numbers on them. I was looking for room 335 and found that the numbers on the doors didn't have any discernable pattern: 301, 312, 317-A, 324, 329-C. What the fuck? Who was in charge of assigning room numbers back in the 1950s? Probably Lyndon Johnson, I bet. What a crazy character, that Lyndon Johnson. I bet he assigned these asinine numbers to these rooms thinking it would be a pretty goddamn funny thing to confuse us poor lowly government worker bastards. At least, the thought of Lyndon Johnson doing that was pretty goddamn funny, if not far-fetched. Supposedly, that cocksucker was a real prankster. I once read that he liked to pee with the bathroom door opened to annoy his staff and that he would splatter the toilet water all over the goddamn place like a filthy pig. He thought it was funny. That Lyndon Johnson. What a character. We celebrate his birthday as a state holiday in Texas, you know? I don't have to work on Lyndon Johnson's birthday. It's true. Anyway, I eventually found room 335 and went inside.

  Room 335 was filled with cubicles that had dividing walls roughly five feet tall, dozens and dozens of cubicles set in neat rows. I could tell there were a lot of desks in there but since the walls were so tall, I couldn't tell if they were occupied or not. With all the click-clacking from fingers tapping on plastic keyboards, it seemed as if the room was filled with busy, dreary, government worker bastards. But you never really could tell. It was an optical illusion; no doubt, put in place to show that tax dollars were hard at work (don't you see?). But I'm pretty sure the workers weren't doing anything more than browsing the internet for bikini-clad models, silly videos of cats playing piano, and deals on shoes or tube socks. It's true.

  I didn't know exactly where Valerie Johnson sat and I didn't want to ask anyone so I walked up and down the aisles, peeking in and around them for name plates. I discovered quite a few workers doing various things though none of them actually looked like they were doing a goddamn thing of any importance. I saw a guy picking his nose, another guy resting his head on his desk, a lady filing her nails,
another lady putting on makeup, and a dude watching videos on his computer. It was a fucking miracle that this goddamn place even conducted business. It's true. I eventually found a cubicle with a name plate that read, "Valerie Johnson." I poked my head inside and found a young woman staring at her computer screen, as if staring at it a few minutes longer would fix whatever problem she was experiencing. I was pretty sure that wouldn't accomplish a thing. It's true.

  "Valerie?" I asked, muffling my voice so I wouldn't disturb the other lazy assholes in the cubes nearby.

  "Hi," she said, quickly shuffling some papers around on her desk, then making room with a swipe of her arm, pushing aside whatever junk was there. She pulled a second chair out from her desk and patted the seat softly with her hand. "Please, have a seat."

  I sat down and gazed at some framed photos she had on a shelf above her desk. There were pictures of a couple of sweet looking kids, a dog, a cat, and various combinations of the kids, dog, and cat in cutesy poses. The cat appeared to be at the bottom of the family totem pole of importance; one photo showed him being mauled by the dog while the kids laughed, his cat face frozen in photographic horror. Poor little bastard. Cats usually get thrown at the bottom of the family totem pole, mainly because sometimes they can act like such pompous assholes. It's true. Cats can be real shitheads. I had this cat once that had issues with his litter box. That little fucker would squat in that box and hang his feline ass off the side and shit or piss right there on the floor, even if you were watching him. He would just look at you with disdain while he did it. So I thought I would be smart and line up three cat boxes instead of one for him to fit his fat ass in but he still would mount himself in the last cat box and hang his fuzzy butt off the side. I wanted to choke his skinny cat neck but I didn't. You know why? That little bastard had personality for miles. Sometimes, personality trumps urination / defecation issues. It's true. Valerie's cat looked like he had a long road ahead of him living with that sadistic dog.

  "Is your computer still having the same problem," I asked. Stupid question, I know, but sometimes you just have to break the ice with strangers by asking stupid questions. Don't ask me why because I don't know. It's just one of those things.

  "Yes. It's been giving me problems for the last few days."

  "I see. Can I sit there?"

  "Oh, sure." She stood up, quick yet awkward, and accidentally tripped herself. She stumbled sideways and I instinctively put my hands out to catch her. I caught her at the wrist by her shirt sleeve and commenced (accidentally I tell you, accidentally) to ripping her shirt sleeve right off her goddamn blouse. I stepped back, with my one hand raised to my mouth, and stared at the loose sleeve in my other hand with utter disbelief. It was one of those freaky moments, moments that are so out of your realm of everyday normal moments, that when they happen, it's like getting struck by lightning. I couldn't believe it was happening but there I was, standing like a goddamn idiot with a strange woman's ripped shirt sleeve dangling in my hand. At that moment, right then and there, I couldn't think of another time where I had embarrassed myself so thoroughly. I felt like dog shit.

  "Oh... my... I'm so sorry," I said, holding the sleeve like it was a baby bird with its wing crushed. To my surprise, all she did was giggle. She giggled like it was the cutest thing in the whole goddamn world. "I'm really sorry."

  "It's OK," she said, giggling some more. She was really starting to laugh it up too, even though her face was as red as a baboon's butt. She had tears welling up in her eyes, giggling so hard. She then grabbed her other sleeve, and with one hard yank, pulled it right off her goddamn blouse. She was now completely sleeveless. She handed me the other sleeve then sat down like nothing happened. "Now you have a matching set."

  There are moments in your life when you encounter free spirits and those moments are pretty goddamn hard to miss. It's true. Most of the time, you glide along in your normal routine and encounter normal people, people so devoid of adventure, insight, and uniqueness that they just pass right through you, like ghosts. But free spirits, they are like hurricanes. They are pretty fucking hard to miss when you encounter them. They have the potential to do some real damage to your own calm existence but they are a beauty to behold. Lucky bastards. It must be nice to be a free spirit. They get to do what they want and not have the fear or worry about what other people think and frolic in an existential meadow and rip off their own sleeve like it was the most fucking normal thing to do in the goddamn world. It's true. I decided right then and there to just move on, move forward, and act like nothing had happened. I poked around on her computer then ran a simple diagnostic test. It was the right thing to do.

  "This test shouldn't take too long. I can come back in a little while, if you want," I said.

  "No, there's no reason for you to aimlessly wander around the building."

  "Oh, OK."

  "Tell me about yourself. How long have you worked here?"

  "This is my first day."

  "Really?! Your first day? And you got to rip a woman's sleeve off her blouse on your first day?"

  "I guess so." Boy, I didn't think that she would rub it in but that's what free spirits can do sometimes. They don't give a shit about anyone else's feelings but their own, which is part of being a free spirit. Did I mention that? I guess not. Free spirits can be pretty goddamn selfish bastards sometimes. It's true. "I said I was sorry."

  "I know you did. Are you married?"

  "I was. I'm divorced."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. I know how hard that is. I'm divorced too. How long were you married?"

  "Ten years."

  "I was married 15 years. I married quite young. I never should have gotten married so young but then I wouldn't have my wonderful children. Do you have kids?"

  "Yes, I have two kids, Jessica and Sammie."

  "Ah, what great names. I bet you're a proud father, aren't you?"

  "Yes, I am." I glanced at the diagnostic test and it was about halfway done, not soon enough though. She was really starting to get nosy and all, asking some pretty goddamn personal questions. She was really getting on my fucking nerves, what, with the questions and the guilt and the free spiriting and the goddamn nosiness. It was getting to be just too much to handle. It's true. But I soldiered forward. That's what a good support tech would do, right? That's what I thought.

  "Well, you seem like you would be a great father. I don't meet too many of those, you know? Great fathers, that is. When you get to our age and you get divorced, the dating pool really starts to shrink."

  "Ummm."

  "Do you date?" She was really starting to get on my last nerve. The diagnostic test was just about done. Almost. Goddamn it.

  "Not really. Well, sometimes. I don't have a lot of time to date. You know? Because of the kids."

  "That's true. It does make it hard. Why does life have to be so hard?" BINGO! There it was. She said it. Why does life have to be so goddamn hard? I could see it in her eyes. She was an introspective person, just like me. Maybe she wasn't a selfish bastard after all. Maybe there was more to her than I originally thought. Sometimes, people can be pretty complex beings and the good ones, the really good ones, are hard to find. It's true. I think this was her way of letting me know that she had empathy for me, being that she was divorced and had two kids and regretted getting married and all and thought about it all the time. It was just too much to take. It's true.

  "Yes, why does it have to be so hard sometimes?"

  "Ah, Simon. Don't take this the wrong way..." She leaned over towards me and placed her hand on my knee. Something was up and it was making me pretty goddamn uncomfortable, so uncomfortable that I really didn't want to know the answer to my question anymore. I didn't want to know anything at that moment. I just wanted to run away. Fuck what a good support tech would do. Fuck free spirits. She gently squeezed my knee and as I felt the jolt of adrenaline surge through my body, the diagnostic test on the computer signaled that it was complete. The computer beeped one of those BIOS / syst
em beeps, the kind straight out of the 1980s, and I knew it would reboot itself and be just fine. I decided right then and there that it was time to go. It was time to get out of that free-spirited, floozy, divorced, nosy coworker's cubicle. I quickly stood up and she withdrew her hand, startled.

  "Your computer will be fine after it reboots."

  "Simon?"

  "Have a good day."

  I left her cubicle and bolted straight for the door. I heard her call my name one more time but I didn't turn around. I didn't acknowledge that I heard anything. I just left her and the other lazy government bastards to do what they were doing before I came in. Nothing.

  5.

  Divorce is the scourge of our society. Absolute pile of shit. It's true. Nothing destroys families more than divorce. Marriage is tough enough. Mortgages. Children. Compromises. Jobs. School for the kids. Death of family members. Car loans. Groceries. Clothing. It all adds up to one big challenge. Then, when things get really tough, sometimes you decide it's time to give up. Divorce. Then you pour salt on that big gaping wound. More hurt. What do you do? You allow the government to decide what is best for your family. What a pile of shit. It's a goddamn travesty. When you decide to take the route of divorce in Texas, all the state cares about is your property, assets, and debts. No matter what led to the divorce, the state piles up all your assets and debts and says, "Divide up your assets and debts. Sayonara." You have kids? Great. "Here's your custody schedule. Hasta luego." Need a lawyer? Give them all of your money. Why do you need a fucking lawyer? Everything that is written up for a divorce is in a language that no one understands but the lawyers. My divorce decree makes absolutely no sense. It's a bunch of gibberish that cost a pile of money to draw up. "Thanks for your time. Good luck. You, my friend, are a failure." It's true.

  For 10 years, I spent every single night with my children. Now, I have them in an altering array of weekdays and every other weekend. "It's what is best for the children." Bullshit. My children are suffering. "Too bad. You are a failure." Child support. Twenty five percent of my paycheck is siphoned off for the benefit of the children. I pay it to the state to be divvied out minus a fee, of course. "Thanks for playing. Try again." Fuck you, assholes. Fuck you.