That Slowest Of Passings

I've been on the new job in by current hours with my current responsibilities for about a month now and you'd think I'd be more adjusted than I am. Which obviously means I'm not that adjusted. I still have days where I'll get off and be struggling to keep those weighted lids of my eyes open as the sun and traffic both creep to their respective destinations only to get home and find myself staring wide-eyed into the false demi-night of my blacked out bedroom. A new co-worker, The Entrepreneur, swears it's the snack bars I have as a snack at night. I think it's that fact that I'm going to sleep when the damn sun, birds, neighbors, and leaf blowing Mexicans are getting started. Even my morning wood gets confused. It half salutes, looks around, and then decides to wait...hoping something better comes along I suppose.

But you didn't come here to read about my erections, though if you did definitely leave a comment. This is The Cubers, not The Pubers or any other quaint pun I could think of at the moment. You probably want to hear more about The Entrepreneur. Or how about Scarecrow, Bashful, The Groupie, and what about my new nickname? OK, we'll get back to my phallus later.

Now that things have settled down since the launch of the big project, I've had to go fishing for things to do. All those new shiny laptops on those new shiny piece of shit medical carts they paid $5k for aren't posing much of a problem, so they aren't demanding much of my time. So I've resorted to making rounds, floor by floor, just hoping to find some injured little laptop to make me feel like a hero. The benefit is that I've gotten to know the hospital a fair bit better, and have started identifying personalities amongst the constantly changing tide of nurses and doctors. Like Scarecrow in the ER. She's rather tall, scrawny, with wiry straw-like hair, and just about the only person in the whole Emergency Room who will give me the time of day. Seems my kind ain't welcome 'round them parts. Mostly cause they're not really sure who I am and what exactly I do...but I can't help them much because I don't know much better than they.

The Groupie is in the ER too. I'm a bit undecided about her. She's either a sad, desperate whore who would cross the deserts of Egypt to slurp the goodies from the EMT's tent poles, or she's really a prude in disguise as a horrible flirt. She hardly does any work without being goaded by Scarecrow and looks like she's faucet drip shy of swallowing a gun barrel, but when those EMT's come though those rickety supermarket doors and drop off a fresh load of alcoholic waste or geriatric heart ruin she starts to glow like a virgin bride on her wedding night. She's not necessarily the only one who eats up the bloated heroics of these medical-grade taxi drivers (trust me, I'm not being bitter, these guys aren't the cream of the emergency crop). She just happens to be the only one dripping wet in her seat when they walk in.

Up on one of the higher floors, things are usually a lot more laid back than in the ER. Which makes sense because there patients aren't coming through the door dying. They're either getting better, or just dying a whole lot slower. One of my favorite little mice up there is Bashful. I know absolutely nothing about her. She rarely says a word to me. She's not the hottest girl up there, but something just melts inside when I see her and she smiles, waves, turns red, and then disappears. Oddly, I find her on several floors, so I have no idea which one is hers and who is following who. Before you start jumping to any conclusions, she does this little routine with other people too. So far, the best moment was when we were both in the elevator together, she actually spoke up (the pressures of being alone together) and asked if I just wandered around looking for trouble and I joked and said I was just looking for her. She dropped her head down and to the side, trying to hide that she was blushing, and jumped out haphazardly waving at me at the next floor the elevator stopped on. Only problem was that she got out on my floor, not the floor she was going to and there was this awkward shuffle as I got out after her, she realized where she was (and that I was indeed following her), and hopped back in the elevator. For all I know she thinks I'm a serial killer...but it's still cute.

Then there's The Entrepreneur. He's the newest of the new guys here in the Cube Dungeon (oh yeah, we're stashed away in the basement of a building not even attached to the hospital). He got the same casting call that we did, went through the same hoops, and same orientation as everyone else, but he seems to feel like he was tricked. Every single one of us, The Entrepreneur included, got the phone call where they offered us a specific position and pay grade, and were asked Yes or No. Yet his first day on his agreed upon shift he's complaining about the shift, the hours, the fact that he had to work July 4th (completely dismissing everyone's pointing out the obvious fact that people don't stop dying just cause it's a holiday). The list so far has not stopped. On the other hand, he keeps talking about how he doesn't need this job. He's only here for the insurance. He doesn't need the money, because he's got so many other business ventures going on right now that this is more of an inconvenience than anything else. To emphasize his point, it's been rumored that he's offered to pay someone to switch shifts and that he'd be willing to take a 25% pay cut if management forced someone to switch with him. Supposedly he's an "Entertainment Producer" (what the fuck that means I don't know), an independent car salesmen (which sounds like one of those engineered titles to cover something really crappy or illegal), and who knows what else his supposed venture include. I have a feeling his story is going to evolve into a spectacular mess of chipping and rusting lies and exaggerations, and don't you doubt for a moment that I won't be there to bask in that glorious collapse.

Man, 3rd shift makes me an asshole...