Turns out, Hiram is a natural collaborator. We are both born to raise holy hell and battle the establishment. We regularly shout: “HEY, HOME-SLICE” and “FUCKING BLOW ME, BLANCHE” to one another across the office. Because I have begun calling him “Blanche”, too. The name seems to suit us both well, and with his office popularity it also makes it easier for me to get his attention. So we become Blanche and BLANCHE, the two-headed office-monster. People are constantly shushing us, which only serves to egg us on as we grin at one another conspiratorially: Mission
He is a smart cookie, my Blanche. Quick-witted and notices everything about everyone. Especially if he feels someone is targeting him for ridicule. For all of his humorous hi-jinx, he takes shit from no one. I marvel at the way he handles himself. One asshole project manager who fancies himself some kind of macho stud thinks he can flippantly talk down to Blanche and mock his sexuality. This moron soon learns who he is dealing with.
Blanche strides into Macho Dude’s office and shuts the door behind him, but I can hear him and see thru the glass window. He is standing right up in dude’s face, and every word he bites off angrily is punctuated by his beautifully manicured, pointed index finger:
“What the fuck is your problem? You think I’m some little BITCH? Lemme tell you something, BIG MAN. I got bigger BALLS than you will ever have and you’d BEST be watching how you talk to me if you want to keep those meager little balls. THANK. YOU.” Exit Blanche. Macho Dude sits stunned at his desk, does not emerge for at least half an hour. He is unfailingly polite to Blanche from that day forward.
Sigh. My hero.
I have found a new reason (the ONLY good reason, really) for coming to work and it’s to laugh and gossip the day away with Blanche. My soul soars as he swoops to his desk in the morning, DRAMA PERSONIFIED. Walkman half-hanging from his head, giant bottle of Gatorade in one hand, huge foil-wrapped Cuban sandwich in the other. He ceremoniously unwraps this pungent feast, all the while boasting about the delicioso self-gratification episode he enjoyed in the shower earlier this morning.
Together, we convene in one of our boss’ private offices, since either or both are usually out in the field. We chain-smoke cigarettes and slurp coffees and re-create last night’s episode of AB-FAB. And we bitch about everyone and everything. He is soooo funny. His comical, exaggerated impressions of various co-workers and business associates are ruthlessly spot-on. The laughter he never fails to bring out of me is a healing tonic. It is ambrosia.
We become each other’s therapists. We share the experience of having complicated relationships with our parents, whom we feel have never understood or approved of us. We defend one another and root for each other and when need be, we do not hesitate to give one another a good kick in the ass.
At some point, I go on vacation. I take a trip to London
Of course, the first thing I do is talk to Blanche about it. I am tearful and maudlin. He listens, shaking his head lovingly but with an expression that says: Gimme a break.
Me: “What? This is really hard, Blanche!”
Blanche: “I know, Boo-Boo, I know. But puh-LEEEZ. You are NOT the first and you will NOT be the last to get your ass divorced. PLUS, you’re still young and FABULOUS! GURRRRRL…..You should be out dancing in the STREETS!”
Smiling thru my tears, I rummage in my bag for the little British Changing of the Guard doll I’ve brought back for him from London
Blanche: (talking at the doll): “Yip! Pip! Cheerios!!”
Me: “Blanche, that is the worst British impression I have ever heard.”
Blanche: “What the fuck do you want from me - my only example is those drunken bitches on AB-FAB.”
* * * * * *
To be Continued….
No comments:
Post a Comment