The Mark

It’s always funny to watch the nerd fall, right?

Taking a break from Herman this week, a friend of mine introduced quite possibly one of the saddest/funniest/head-scratching-est (is that a word?) stories that can come out of an office.

Say you’re at the fair, eating $8 cotton candy trying to ignore the pig-crap smell but playing it off and calling the wafting turd stench ”charming.”  Then you glance up and, looking passed the decrepid ferris whell, you see some four-eyes about to get tricked by the cool faux-punk-rock skater kids out for a raucus night.  One kid talks to Poindexter luring him into the cool world, when skater kid’s skater buddy walks behind said nerd and gets on all fours.

You know what’s coming.  You know that geek is getting tripped.  You know that even yelling to said nerd to alert him may set off the skater kids to push him down.  Whether you act or not act the result is the same:  The dork is taking a fall.

But on some level (as a cruel human), it’s pretty damn funny.

That’s what it felt like to hear the story of The Mark from a friend of mine.  Now, his name isn’t Mark, but his moniker will become apparent pretty quickly.  The Mark is your typical contrarian nerd.  You have an opinion on a movie, TV show, song, band, podcast or website, he make his point by taking the opposite of that view, even if he ultimately agrees with your taste.  Everything was cooler or better 20 or 30 years ago in his view, even though it wasn’t.  Think Comic-book Guy from the Simpsons accept with Hawaiian shirts:

And another view:

Best. Soda. Ever.

He’s not a guy who dates a lot.  When the subject turned to his new girlfriend, my friend did some investing and relayed to me one the greatest potential con jobs since Paper Moon.  The Mark started posting ads on Craigslist looking for women and dates.  Sure, you’re saying “Craigslist?  Isn’t that the website I hear about on ‘To Catch a Predator’ and on ‘Dateline NBC: the Craigslist Killer?’  Yes, one and the same.  But I’ll be blunt, guys like The Mark don’t get dates with eHarmony.com or Match.com…Craigslist suits them.

Who knows how it happened, but The Mark meet a girl through his CL post, and soon enough she was coming over and hanging out all the time at his place.  Finally, a girl who liked him.  At work, he even became somewhat more amiable and pleasant to be around.  But some issues arose after the new girlfriend had a chance meeting with my friend.  Other than meeting her on CL (red flag #1), The Mark admitted that she was unemployed (red flag #2) and that she had to constantly carry around a small, pager-size device (red flag #3) for her job.  Now, how someone can admit to be unemployed and employed simultaneously is a zen-like puzzle:  Yin and Yang rolled into one.

Here’s where the long con really begins.  Her pager relates to her job/not-job.  She claims it retrieves signals from any nearby television and it transmits that signal to a company that records the data.  She must wear it at all times just in case her employer calls her.

Unbelievable!

I’m not being facetious…I don’t believe her.

First off, I’ve done some digging (that is, google for 15 minutes) and no such device appears anywhere.  In fact most pagers, because they transmit signals, disrupt  TV clarity.  So, what does she need this pager-like device for?  Well, it’s a pager that’s why.  And who in this age of cell phones still uses a pager:  Paroles.

But what’s the con?  Well, she now has left her pager at The Mark’s house dozens of times.  In fact, whenever she has to fly out of town (New York, Florida, Texas), her pager mysteriously stays at his bedside.  Either its coincidence she leaves it behind, or  she’s a mule for the Columbian drug cartel that needs an alibi for her parole officer.  One or the other.  No other options here.  There can’t be if he doesn’t question the pager.

In her defense, I’m sure she’s really nice.  At least he wasn’t duped by some match.com fake profile picture.

The Return

Well, it’s been a few months since my last post and I’m here to announce a few changes to office awkward.  First off, after writing for two months the first time around, I quickly realized how limited it was only writing about Herman.  Yes, he’s completely fascinating and awesome, but it some ways it would be like if I focused an entire blog about the montage scene from The Karate Kid:

I could write a year’s worth of blogs about this and try to answer such questions as “Why does Laruso have a printed out name plate with the Miyagi dojo symbol (2:07 mark)?  Didn’t he just enter the contest that day?   That stuff takes days to make.  I can see Johnny having one, because he’s dope Karate master Johnny, but Danny?”  or “Is that Lamar Lamar from Revenge of the Nerds (:40 mark)?”  or “So many people get kicked to the face, yet not one face bruise or mark?”  or merely composing a piece on the perfections of Johnny’s hair…both emo with bangs, blonde and with a headband!  Are you kidding me!?!

You get the picture, I could write about it for months.  But at some point you start repeating yourself and the writing becomes stale.  So, I’m opening it up to other people in my office, other randoms in other offices and other stories about bizarre office life in general.  Don’t get me wrong, Herman will still be the focus, and this is the place for all your Herman news.  It’s just that every world needs a solid supporting cast.  So, I open up the next story next week about an odd little creature from my friend’s work I dub “The Mark.”

The Wheels on the Bus

Herman pulled the unthinkable and remained normal, or close to it, this week.  Actually, he was in and out of the office, so I didn’t get much time to sit and talk with him or observe him proper.  A cubicle wall separates us, but sometimes it feels like that metal-and-felt barrier is miles wide.  So, time to dig threw the bag of classic stories that inspired this blog. 

Herman takes the bus to work everyday.  There’s no shame in that.  It’s economical, gives a rider the time to reflect and its good for the environment.  Unless that environment is the bus you’re riding at the same time as Mr. Endall.  Then it’s just bizarre.  One story a coworker, and fellow bus rider, told me was when she had the honor of riding at the same time on the same bus as Herman.

Public buses are a fascinating place.  They look clean on the outside, but feel conspicuously dirty when you’re in them.  One thing about buses is that you often imagine the comings and going of the people who are going and coming off the bus.  Now, imagine you’re on this bus.  It’s early, the sun isn’t up, a fog rolls along the side of the road and the cabin is quiet, expect for one man.

“Whoa!  Swoosh!  Ah…AHHH!  Hey!  Ahhgg…ah.  Whoa!  Hmgh.”

A grown man making noises at each movement the bus makes.

You can’t help but look at this man.  It becomes apparent why there’s an empty seat next to him.  Even though he looks harmless, the constant noises may startle you.  His gray hair, his heavy set frame, his worn satchel, wearing a stained polo shirt tucked into jean shorts.  Every time the bus moves, swerves, dips and rises, he makes a noise.  Every time the driver gently taps the brakes or signals a stop, he gasps and makes a burbing-grumbling noise.  He doesn’t talk to anybody (unless you count himself) and doesn’t cover anybody’s body in an effort to save them from this “terrifying” death trap that is public transportation.  He just sits there everyday and makes noises each time it moves, which is all the time.

Why is he freaking out?  What place could be so important that he puts himself through this?  Surely, not to a job where he merely talks to people over the phone all day. 

He’s on the bus before it picked you up, and he gets off at a stop that has a gas station and a liquor store…nothing worth going to at dawn.  Is he going to the gas station to work?  The liquor store?  Neither of those places require a satchel.  (I have to interject in this dream for a moment.  Our offices are about half a mile away from the bus station, set back in what looks like a neighborhood, but is actually a business complex.  At the bus stop, it’s basically impossible to see that there are offices nearby.  Let’s now continue to your dream…)

He waddles a way up the street, but where to?  For all you know, this man gets on the bus, makes noises like it’s going to crash, hops off at the stop, then picks up a bus heading the opposite direction.  An endless loop of terrifying stops and swerves that he forces on himself.  Some sort of punishment he bestowed on himself.  But for what?  And why? 

Now imagine your confusion/horror/shock/surprise/confusion-again when you’re told he has a corporate job.  He talks to people on the phone all day.  At work, he doesn’t make noises of fear (unless grumbles), and he converses with his coworkers, awkwardly, but nearly coherently.  You wouldn’t know what to do the next time you say him on the bus.  Yes, you’d still stare and be annoyed by his noises, but I bet you’d pass him, sit a few rows away and think, “At least, I don’t have to sit next to him.”

Why Herman?

Before I begin this post, I’d like to reiterate that I don’t hate Herman.  I started this blog as an attempt to vent some of the annoyances I have and to dissect his more random habits and tendencies.  In fact, since I’ve started this study of him, I find myself defending him when others complain aobut his behavior.  He’s a good guy with a wife, kids(?), a decent job and, from what I can gather, a positive outlook on life.  But, he still does do weird things.  This week I’m devoting the blog to a “second-hand” Endall story.  A story that was told to me that I will retell as best as possible.

One Last Inauguration Story…

Two historic events occurred last Tuesday.   As you may have heard, Barack Obama was sworn in as our 44th president (43rd if you count Grover Cleveland’s two four-year terms separated by Benjamin Harrison).  At the same moment, Herman was the real event to be seen.  Let’s back up a bit.

During the course of the morning, no one was getting anything done at work.  Everyone wanted to watch the Inauguration, buzzing at the chance to witness history.  No one bothered to pick up a phone, to research a report, to write emails, nothing.  It was like 15 people plugged into the monitors and shut everything else out.  Even Herman was suspiciously quiet all morning, anticipating the moment.  But, as the swearing in came closer, everyone’s internet connection froze.  On top of that, there are no radios in the office.  Basically, they couldn’t witness the event.  Only one computer worked:  mine.

It would have been better if it were Herman’s, but were getting to that.  So, 15 or so people march over to my cubicle and watch the speeches of Boxer, Yo Yo Ma’s pseudo-performance (you play cello at 5 degrees), etc., etc.  And they’re so excited they don’t even mind that there’s no speakers for my computer and watch the events unfold in silence.  Everyone is captivated, glued to the monitor and there’s not a sound…until…

“YES.  THIS IS HERMAN ENDALL FROM…”

Herman decides to make phone calls and leave messages.  Two feet from the entire group.  At a volume that sounds like a jet engine.

Let me pause here for a moment and illustrate the scene.  The entire staff of an office (except for one) crowded into a cubicle watching, waiting, in complete silence, anticipating the dawn of a new era.  The first African-American president and one that everyone in the office (including Herman) was very excited for.  Then the verbal explosion that ruined any chance one had of staying “in the moment.”  Sitting next to him is like living under an airport.  You never get used to the sound.

Once again, here’s Herman desperately trying to get someone–ANYONE–to communicate with him, trying to upstage President Obama’s Inauguration.  Are you kidding me?  Is there really going to be someone on the other end of that phone?!  No!  Of course not.  He immediately hangs up and makes another call.  Over and over again, Herman keeps making calls with 15 people trying to bask in the moment.

No one bothered to shush Herman, because only the conductor can stop that train.  Instead, they scattered to their cars to listen on their radios.  The sad part is that he had no malicious intent, no anger at us for not working.  He just wanted to start his work at the exact moment Barack Obama took the oath.

Someday, somewhere, someone will ask him, “What were you doing, Herman, that fateful morning?”  And he’ll say, “Ruining it for my coworkers.”

Question of the Week:

Last Week’s Question:  What does Herman think of the weather?

Answer:  Oh, ho, ho.  It’s cold alright.

This Week’s Question:  How did he meet his wife?

Dolphin Shorts

I don’t gallop around Paris or head to New York during Fashion Week.  I don’t have expensive tastes in suits, nor do I wear anything resembling “hip” or modern.  So, when it comes to work, mostly I wear slacks and a polo shirt, typical business attire.  Sometimes I throw in a button-down long-sleeve to mix it up.

Until the start of the New Year, Herman was prone to wearing jean shorts, a baseball hat and tennis shoes to work.  In what must be a resolution to dress better, which should be saluted, Herman has come to work in slacks and nice polos in recent weeks.  But he has a way of taking anything he does and trying to find a way to be noticed.  Normally, I could care less what people wear, except when they posts bulletins on the company board about how people need to dress better for work.  The company  has a community bulletin we at the office use to post interesting news and fun tidbits.  

As per office policy, you have to initial anything you post.  Herman posted an article on proper work attire with six points of why your office mates would find your sloppy dress inappropriate for work. Herman initialed it H. E. with a little note about how annoying it is to see people come to work in “party clothes.”  This from a guy who, up until a month ago, wore a green polo shirt tucked into baggy shorts with white socks that lost their elasticity, white tennis shoes and a blue baseball hat.  You know, business attire.  

As per usual, the post got people’s attention and the big boss of the company came over to Herman’s desk to talk about business dress.  He talked cordially and was really quite pleasant about it.  Then the conversation took a turn straight off a cliff.  I sat down next to the two just as Herman gave out the quote of the year, and he only got through half of it! 

The boss cut him off just as he started the sentence, “For someone who’s been accused of sexual harassment for wearing shorts…”

Let’s take a moment here…

…

Wow!  I don’t even know where to begin.  How do you get accused of sexual harassment for wearing shorts?  What kind of shorts was he wearing?  Dolphin shorts?  Was there underwear involved?  God, I hope so.  But then how could one be accused of harassment while wearing underwear?  Maybe boxers.  Either way, tightie whities couldn’t have been involved.  I’m sure it didn’t happen at our office at any time, because the boss made no mention of it.  He didn’t cut Mr. Endall short in order to save face.  He just cut him short, because, well, wouldn’t you?  Other than morbid curiosity, would you really want to know?

To answer last week’s question:  what reoccurring dream(s) does Herman have?  Apparently none, because when I asked he just turned his head, said “No” like an enthusiastic boy, then turned back to his computer screen.  Poor guy, he doesn’t have any dreams, maybe other than to fascinate me.  This week’s question:  What does Herman think of the current weather?

Stomp!

Anger, frustration, hatred, flabergastation (is that a word?), surprise.  More often than not, people bring their feelings to work.  Most of us tend to stuff these emotions into a small hole in the back of our hearts (I’m watching too much Oprah?), but not Herman.  He wears his emotions on his sleeve, often spilling them on the floor.

Last Monday was his first day back to the office after two weeks on vacation, and he’s definitely back in top form.  Janice, a co-worker, was prepping the coffee, pouring drinking water into the coffee pot, when Herman walked in.

Stomp!  He slammed his foot to the ground and yelled, “What are you doing?” to Janice, startling both of us.  The paper I was reading slipped from my hand, and Janice hit the side of the pot against the drinking water stand, almost spilling it. 

“You know the boss wouldn’t like that.  In this economy we need to save money.  Use the tap!”

Now, Herman has no authority over anything.  And he sort of forced Janice to pour the perfectly clean drinking water out and replace it with tap.  But the thing that really scared me was how quick he was…like a ninja.  He walked in, stomped, pointed at the skylight talking about a burglary that happened at the office years ago, had her change the water, then left just as quickly.  Janice and I just stared at each other in amazement after he was gone.  What’s the saying?   Absence is the greatest presence.  And what the hell about the skylight?  He brings corporate theft into a casual conversation about coffee?

After that, the day was quiet.  But Herman is a sleeping giant.  Later that afternoon, when I was in the supply closet, I heard a voice yell “What do you mean!?!  That’s not fair!” he said with a banging Stomp!   He was in the stairwell that shared a wall with the storage closet.  Then I heard him slam the stairwell door and stomp, stomp, stomp passed the closet door, which was closed.

Now, I don’t know what’s not fair, what’s not being explained.  But he needs a new nickname to go along with his newly discovered temper: Hermanchild.

Hands over Head

I took Christmas week off from the blog, mostly because Herman is vacationing until the new year.  I hope he got me something for Christmas, even if he is already the gift that keeps on giving.

So, it had been a pretty slow few weeks until a week before last Tuesday, when the reason for this study showed itself.  

A new employee started at the beginning of this month, and it’s been my job to train her in the ways of the office.  Now to understand what happens next, know two things.  The first, is that entrance of my cubicle is about five feet wide.  The second, understand that Herman comes over once or twice a day with tidbits of research.  Items that he thinks would benefit me.

The newbie, Jenny, came to my cubicle and stood right outside of the entryway.  As we talked, Herman came by to make his usual tidbit drop off.  Now, keep in mind that Herman sits in the next cubicle over and can hear my entire conversation with Jenny.  He’s never more than 10 feet away, as ominous as that sounds.  As Jenny and I talk, Herman comes behind her and stands there, waiting for who knows what.  I see him getting antsy, his body twitching, his eyes blinking.  Rather than stand and wait or move back to his desk (a mere five feet away), he does the only natural thing:

He lifts his arms straight into the air, papers clinched in both hands, and tries to squeeze by Jenny to get into my cubicle.

It’s like a bizarre ballerina pose.   Now, Herman is not a small man.  He’s all gut and has the body of an older Orson Welles.  With his hands over his head, he looks like the opposite of an hourglass.  He tries to get around her, but he can’t.  He takes a step towards her side, shifts his body weight so that he faces her, then tries to shimmy passed her.  But he can’t make it around, so he stops, mumbles “Excuse me” half frustrated, half sincerely, and keeps trying.  Jenny gets so creeped out, she turns on her heel and hurries back to her desk.  After she leaves, Herman breathes a sigh, strolls in, and finally puts his harms down when he brings he the tidbits of research…mission accomplished.  

The whole thing lasts not more than 30 second, but the awkwardness lasts a lifetime.  I’ll never be able to understand why he just didn’t wait for Jenny and my conversation to end.  But, when Herman gets an itch, it needs to be scratched.  Or, at least sashayed around.  

Anyway, this week’s question was answered:  Herman is going to visit his and his wife’s parents for Christmas.  I like it, pretty normal.  Almost too normal, like he’s lying to me and maybe he’s really going to a petting zoo by himself.  I hope not…that’s just sad.

Since Herman is gone this week, they’ll be no questions answered for two weeks.  Keep that edge of your seat warm, because you’ll need it.

The Siren

Herman’s been a little quiet this last week.  Perhaps the prospect of getting a bus pass for Christmas has quelled his usually odd demeanor.  So, today, we’ll delve into the past for one of the more random events that inspired this study.

After working at my job for a few months, it was time to get to know some of my fellow co-workers a bit better.  Even if someone seems odd on the outside, usually there’s something that grounds him or her, making he or she more relatable, once he or she opens up a bit.  There’s almost always commonalities to explore, and this generally leads to a friendlier work environment when people talk.  It was with this mission and naive mindset that I asked the question that may haunt me forever:  ”How was your weekend, Herman?”

Normally, you expect something simple and standard like “Good” or “Fine.”  Something that says “Go away, I don’t feel like talking.”  I was hoping for “The wife and I took the bus up to Windsor to shop for antiques” or “I took in a dip in the frigid ocean.”   Even a “Caught the Raiders game, they suck” would have sufficed.  Rather, I got an answer no one ever gets or wants to get from “How was your weekend?”  

“Just Fine!  Officer!”  he said while slowly turning his head from his monitor.  A grin smeared across his face, that had the look of a man who would skin me from head to toe.

It was the “officer” that threw me.  It sounded just the way a hobo would say it if an actual cop dragged him off the sidewalk and into a squad car.  The way he said it meant that I would be the first person shot, if Herman ever lost his job and went on a post-firing rampage.  But, what he did next was like the hammer click.

Twenty minutes after I slinked back to my desk, having found out that Herman’s weekend was “Just Fine, Officer,” he got up to retrieve a print out.  When he passed my desk, he began howling like a siren at me, because…you know…I’m an officer.  It wasn’t like a quiet siren, either, like a joke between him and I.  People about 40 yards away on the other end of the office heard him.  I know, because I looked around to gauge their reaction.  And I can’t say what’s worse:  his siren noise or the fact that all the old-crows didn’t even react.  Only the newbies turned their heads, peering in curiosity at this barely human being, and looked at me like I just brought on the impending rampage.

The newbies didn’t know whether to run out of the office or duck for cover.  I didn’t either.  Any movement would have caught this predator’s eyes, forcing him to reach for his gun.  Whether he stores it in his desk or keeps it under his belt strap at all times, no one knows.  But, we all do think there’s one hidden somewhere.  It’s probably in the tank of one of the toilets.  No one ever looks there.

Either way, Herman shuffled back from the printer with paper in hand, completely quiet, walking as if he hadn’t just made a noise like a mental patient and called me officer.  We carry on semi-human conversations now, but he and I have never spoken of his siren impersonation ever since.

—

Well, pretty cool, huh?  If he ever finds out about this website, he may just reach for the toilet tank and end us all.  With that spirit, I’m taking requests.  From here on in, I’m going to try to ask Herman a question a week.  The first one is from Sludwig, who wants to know “What is Herman doing for the holidays?”  We’ll find out next week.  Hopefully, it doesn’t involve mistletoe.

Human Contact

Everything about Herman is meant to repel.  

His wardrobe:  lime green polo shirt tucked into jean shorts.  An over-sized belt on a man with a large waste already.  White shoes with white socks hanging listlessly around his ankles, the elastic worn out.  Sometimes a baseball cap.  Perfect for the professional office environment.

His conversational skills:  He jumps into conversations uninvited and will try to talk with you while you wear your headphones.  Or, he just blurts out a sentence into the office void and hopes someone echoes back.  

For example, last week, while sitting and staring at his desk, he blurted out “People need to grow up” to his boss.  When his boss asked him what he was talking about, Herman just mumbled something about the recent trampling death of a shopper on Black Friday at Walmart.  I couldn’t tell if he meant that the person trampled should grow up or the ones who trampled him should grow up.  Rather than say something like “Did you hear about the guy who got stomped to death?” or “Hey Boss, can you believe that thing at Walmart?” or “Name the discount chain with consecutive years of trampling deaths on Black Friday.”  Christ, even a “Now a know why they call it Black Friday,” non sequitur would have been nice.  Instead, “People need to grow up.”  It’s like he’s already had half the conversation in his head before it spills out of his mouth.  

Also, he grumbles.  If you ignore speaking with him, he hunches over and walks away, while staring at his shoes and grumbling.