Bored at the Team Meeting

10:21 a.m., Tuesday, June 7, 2005.

We’re at our weekly team meeting. Our manager has just finished summarizing the topics discussed at his own manager’s meeting; twenty-one interminable minutes of communicating issues hashed out by the tall foreheads that either don’t impact me personally or don’t interest me very much.

“So, in staffing issues, Frances Bane will be returning to Group 3…”

“Who?”

“Frances Bane – she was seconded to another department for six months. She’s back now.”

“Oh.”

Someone thoughtfully purchased a box of donuts for our little get-together. The sun slants through the window to sparkle across various glazes and chocolate varnishes. Unfortunately, all the donuts are the filled variety; the only kinds that are left are blueberry and Boston Cream. I’ve always hated Boston Cream. The sickly yellow filling will forever remind me of pus and mucus, in that order.

Beside me, Jen is ignoring our manager and playing with her hair. In sudden concentration, she scribbles a hasty note on her pad and shows it to me:

fucking Bryce needs to close his legs o my god its gross

Bryce is sitting across from us. He is nearing fifty, and we have speculated that he is still a virgin.

“And he looks just like Cartman from ‘South Park’!” Conan said yesterday, his eyes bugging out at us. “His head is perfectly round, and it jiggles up and down when he laughs! ‘hyuh-huh-huh!’ And his torso is perfectly round too!”

We laughed, after looking over our shoulders.

Today, Bryce is wearing a loud Hawaiian-style shirt, only it’s printed with orange and yellow flames instead of a calming island pattern. He is also wearing shorts. For some bizarre reason, he is sitting with his knees lifted to his chest, his white deck shoes braced on the edge of the table. From her seat, Jen has a perfect view of his package. And if Bryce’s satin shorts ride up any farther, well…

“I’m going to puke on myself,” Jen hisses. She furiously braids her hair and stares at the ceiling. Our manager is now talking about the upcoming division picnic.

“And apparently there will be sandwiches and that sort of thing there. Veggies and dip,” he says.

“I want fajitas, like we had last year,” Conan announces.

“Sorry buddy, our new commish didn’t want to do that this year, so it’s gonna be veggies. It’s all you can eat, at least. And it’s only five bucks this time,” my boss says.

Bryce drops his feet to the floor, not noticing Jen’s groan of relief. “Hey! I was at the bar last weekend, and we ate like kings!” he says. “There was an Italian wedding upstairs, and the groom called the bride on his cellphone and told her the wedding was off. So the cooks had all these pans of pasta they had to get rid off. I haven’t eaten like that since Christ was a cowboy. God!,” he says, his head bobbing around like a pigeon. “Those were good eats. I guess the bride had it coming, too. Ate like kings.” Inspired, he reaches for a Boston Cream.

Conan rolls his eyes at me. Bryce, of all people, making disparaging comments about a failed wedding. The irony is hilarious.

“Bryce thinks I’m his friend or something,” Conan told us. “He was telling me about this great massage he said he had. I guess he has this ‘back problem’. Something. Anyway, he was saying that it felt so good when she put her hands ‘down there’, and that he ‘understands why guys would go down to Bank Street to get one of those massages.’” Conan made a face. “I think he was fishing around with me a bit to see if I approved of his behaviour. The guy is a mental case.”

“Eww! He’s creepy. He wants to be your buddy,” Jen said.

“He’s weird,” Conan said. “He’s a ball of rage. I bet he’s the guy who plugged up the urinal on purpose.”

Bryce, he’s chewing with his mouth open, and the tallowy mess is a hundred bukkake come-shots, squidging noisily in his cheeks.

The clock ticks over to 10:30, and my boss closes his notebook.

“That’s all I have,” he says.