Intuitive Swooping

It isn’t often that you hear quotes as mind-waffling as the following: “The oldest car my family has ever owned is a 2001.” When you do, it is crucial to dive deeper into the psyche of the speaker in order to find out what normally plastic parts of the brain have been replaced with inert Moon Ice.

I thought out all possible responses, discarded a few inappropriate for work, and said to Man U., “If I accept your statement as true, Man U., then you are either from the future or you rented cars prior to 2001. Can I trust you?”

Man U. was not phased. He phrased, “Always trust the Indian kid because he doesn’t have an agenda.”

“Man U., what does that mean?” I'm baffled, nearly buffaloed.

“When is whenever?” He slips a question inside an answer inside a calamitous lifestyle. Some nuts you can’t crack. I left the conversation, about the 1000^th that we’ve had about him wanting me to buy a new car, as confused as a preschooler’s essay on what an essay is.

Fully convinced that my nut cracking abilities had “run away” like a feeble and diseased dog that could barely move the day before, I returned to my desk for a snack. Pouring the last of my shelled sunflower nuts into my hand, I heard from the next cubicle “You’re killin’ those nuts, Wes. Always munchin’ on something... usually nuts.”

I flashed back to 9^th grade basketball: While the rest of the team was gathered around the coach going over the weekly gameplan, I was shooting three’s like a mathematical heroin addict. The ball caromed behind a stool. Sitting beside the ball, crouched patiently, waiting, an empty wrapper with doughnut crumbs inside. I kicked at it, and the crumbs sang to me. I picked up the package, careful not to shake the crumbs, and inspected the tiny pieces of yellowcake with chocolate frosting. It radiated benevolence. I lifted it higher, crinkling the wrapper, tilting the open end toward me. From the other side of the court, a coach, “What the hell, Wes? Always munchin’ on something…” I threw the offending crumbs down my throat, and then drowned a basket from downtown. Don’t nobody tell an addict when not to shoot.

I told my cube mate that if he ever needed snacks, he knew where to turn, or who's "drawers to inspect". Can I possibly interact with another human with making some awkward sexual reference? Nope.

I’ve been listening to Irish talk shows. I downloaded about two hours worth of Irish commentary to my mp3 player. My goal is to have the sexiest accent of any American born male by January 1^st, 2010. I already had a pretty decent Irish accent in my repertoire, but I always aim to be the best. Feel free to request a phone call or a whispered “sweet nothing” if you want me to practice my skills on you. Everything in moderation… except modulation.

Whoa, is that Wes on January 1^st, 2010?

6-pack and I went for a long walk last weekend, mostly to poke coals in Chapel Hill that needed poking. We call it swooping. We walk with rhythm and then purpose for an undefined period of time, and then we “swoop” across the street and demand nothing. If a rolling stone gathers no moss, a perfect swoop leaves no trees (or trace). Our goal is to enter and exit before we enter. While we were mid-swoop, we ran into a co-worker’s girlfriend on the street. She invited us out with her friends. I never meant to make her cry.

Toward the end of the night, while the bartender was waging war on the credit card machine (yelling “If I swipe too hard it will SNAP!!!”), I started to give her relationship advice. She talked about how her and our co-worker were “taking a break,” and I told her I was so good at taking breaks that it was on my unofficial resume. I started to give her relationship advice; it ended with tears. Somewhere in the middle, I think I convinced her of love’s existential potential. Even as she wiped away her tears, her friend pulled me aside and said my advice was sound, and exactly what she needed to hear. Potential career change?

Last night, in a pre-sleep moment of mental lucidity, I figured myself out. I have been trying to find a pattern of times in my life when I have performed at my best; impressed even myself (hard to do). I discovered this: I thrive on chaos. The fewer defined variables, the quicker I solve. This is counter-intuitive to my usual thinking, which is to shoot last and ask questions never. I will be putting this discovery to personal scientific and judicial review.

Here is gay Clark Kent:

Oh no! Gawd-zeera!

So since Tuesday I have been working the phones at work and am starting to get a bit of a feel for the deal. It feels especially fulfilling when I ask to be granted access to their desktop and I am given a resounding “Yes, take me!” Honestly, they never say no. I rummage around for a bit on their computer, address the dilemma, and then ask if they would like to upgrade to premium service for a small monthly fee.

“Just make that check out to Wesley King, yep, $15 please.”

“Hey, Leslie?”

“Nevermind.”

From the time when I used to check out library books as a timid young homeschooler, many have asked “Leslie?” after I say Wesley. The librarians demanded that I whisper, and they misunderstood quite frequently. I fail to correct, and this may someday be my downfall.

_________________

On Thursday, I was shadowed by an awesome Jamaican guy who is looking to buy a home in the area. We traded war stories, as the calls were coming in quite frequently, and it was a good time. My second favorite call was from Italy, where I could hardly make out what the man was saying. At the end of the call, the man said “Thanks Leslie, Ciao!” When Mr. Jamaica busted out laughing and asked what the Italian had called me, I said “Chow.” He thought this was the funniest thing in the world and started referring to me as a little doggie treat (Haha, chow) and he probably thinks my name is Leslie. I don’t mind, I like people with accents.

On Thursday night we went out to celebrate Andy’s birthday, an engineer who has been here for a year. Before I went over to join the festivities, I went to an elementary school to see if I could pick up any little kids. When I realized that I had mistimed my abduction (it was 5 PM,) I kept on rolling to the playground, where I got out and went to the basketball court for a “New Hire” event that Summertime Susan had coordinated. It ended up being only I, Candlewick, Summer, and Man U., due in no small part to the fetal and skittish nature of Interns and the fact that many people went over to celebrate Andy’s b-day after work. We four disbanded, after consoling Summertime, and I headed over to join the birthday festivities.

At the point in the evening when the celebrations and libations were winding down and we began to dread the next planned event, going to see “I love you, Beth Cooper,” we found ourselves shoved in the stuffy corner of a place called “Brixx.” Despite the two x’s, there were no scantily clad Midnight Cowgirls – we were only there having a drink. We made Andy order the most womanly drink possible – a maithai – and he asked the waitress for as many umbrellas to put in the drink as she could carry. She refused, citing some faux prose about their being out of umbrellas, so Andy requested tiny plastic swords. While she was away getting them, Zhang it! said something along the lines of “Did you guys see something outside?” and I immediately turned to him and said “Gawd-zeera!” in a perfectly flowing Asian accent. This joked worked quite well on many levels; everyone had been making fun of him the rest of the night for being Japanese even though he is decidedly Chinese. Countless times he had said “I’m not Japanese, bro.” What could he do when I brought up the most fearful monster ever to walk the streets of Japan? Hang his head and chuckle, while everyone else enjoyed my joke. After tossing out another line, “Four swords and seven beers ago…” I had done a sufficient night’s work of hooking the crowd and convincing them that you don’t mess with the best – especially when the best is Wes.

I’m not even going to mention how bad the movie was (13% approval rating). That might have counted as a mention.

On Friday, Michigan Mike and I convinced some people to come up and enjoy the pleasantries of Chapel Hill. I got to show off my Duck Crossing sign, and had enough “social juice” in me to go up to a group of peoples at the bar and start the conversation of how dominant the Big Ten is. One girl was from Penn State, her boyfriend from New York, and we had quite a good time talking to them. However, on the other side of the table sat a guy from Fort Bragg and his Flossie, and we had a hard time getting them to smile. Apparently he had his civvies in a knot.

Saturday I got an eye exam, glasses, and contacts that added up to more expensive than my car and my sense of accomplishment combined. Though my line of “Hey babe, I got vision insurance” didn’t quite have the potent effect that I’d hoped for, it did significantly lower my expense. I find it a bit nauseating that the only time I can knock $400 dollars of a bill is when I am gainfully employed; makes me feel a bit guilty. Well maybe someday I can write a book on the psychological damage inflicted on 22-year-olds with no fear and no emotions that for the first time in their lives find themselves with insurance… but probably not. I guess for now I’ll just grin and bare it. Har har.

At one point when I was picking out my glasses I had six ladies surrounding me, judging my looks and sightlines. Four were employed by the vision center, one was picking out her own pair before I came in, and one looked homeless. Well, this is America, and her opinion counted two (speeling?). I had narrowed it down to about ten pairs, and these ladies helped me get to two, and then there ensued a striking debate between several ladies about which pair I would take home with me. Deciding factors included but weren’t limited to: local female preference (southern wedding belles?), fashion trends, my strong cheekbones, my “native” complexion (what?), dress style at my workplace, weather patterns, and my penchant for skipping causation and going straight to effect. It was an orgy of opinions, and after it was over I had to go home and check myself for visualizational diseases.

This is how I will look when I put them on:

At 1 PM, Michigan Mike and I checked out a cute little piece of a place within walking distance of downtown Chapel Hill. As we were leaving, the realtor of record, maybe a few years older than us, looked at the floor and said in a whisper “There is one other interested party.” This was spoken with so little passion and such obvious acquiescence that I had to stop myself from laughing in his face. If no other places pique our interest over the next few days, we will probably end up there, unless that “other interested party” swoops in like a bird afowl.

Chilled at Lily Pad’s for the rest of the day, at another infamous southern Barbie-queue, thus leading us to an eventless Sunday afternoon. Well, there was the library trip.

I decided to walk, since I had about 100 pages left to read in my book, and I found myself with about ten left when I got there, so I sat down to finish in the lobby. It was there that I encountered my first legitimate OCD sufferer. A man with a bike helmet on was on his way out, but had to perform a specific task first. He would walk almost all the way to the sliding doors, and then walk back and stand on top of one particular tile, circle it, and walk back toward the door. He must have done this 7-10 times before he left. I was quite somber afterward, and had trouble finishing the last few pages of my read. I can’t imagine a life with such a burning need to ignore all else and only replicate movements; a life replete with repeat. As I finished reading, I looked up to see a tiny Asian boy bouncing on the bathroom door. He was looking and me and giggling; bouncing over and over again, and opening the door a little more with each bounce. He finally pushed too hard and fell all the way through, with a look of shock etched on his face that reminded me of how I feel when I think there is one more step at the top of a dark stairway and my foot hits the flat floor instead. There was a crash from in the bathroom, and then he bust out with a huge smile directed at me. It made me feel a bit better about watching the guy with OCD, but no less guilty.

In brighter news, I found the other book my Elliot Perlman, the author of Seven Types of Ambiguity, which is my favorite book. The guy is a barrister in Australia and has only written two books, so this was quite a pick-up, at least for me. After the library, went down to work to play some bball with Zhang it! and Wisconsin, and a few frolicking others. I’m quite spent, like a vial of tadpole spit after a pond frog drinking contest. Now I sit, getting ready to read, getting ready for a new work week, and looking forward to a trip home after this next weekend.