I was mulling over my predicament as I rolled into the parking lot. My brain is able to send thoughts to which people respond and all it took was chemical neurotransmitters and a crappy, defective desk lamp.
Of course a teenager would be plotting to fuck everything in sight, but I, I was seized with bouts of doubt and dread. My real, gut-twisting fear overshadowing all was what if I could control it; what if someone cut me off and I told him to drop dead? Would he? My cock may not have conscience, but I do.
Lost in thought, I eased up to the second floor of the R&D building and wound through the hallways to my small lab, which I shared with Elizabeth. I opened the door to my lab partner, Elizabeth, standing next to a half-eaten sandwich resting on top a stack of the files with mustard dripping down the side of the pile onto the table.
To call her a slob only begins the description and it was her slovenly ways that caused the accident last night in the first place. My anger began to build.
"There you are," she drummed, "Where the hell have you been and why the fuck did you screw up my samples last night?" Hands on her hips and attitude in the air, my sight went red as I stormed to the table and slammed my fist on it.
"YOU didn't finish yesterday's samples!" I accused and since I was on a roll continued, "YOU left them on the table for me to deal with, and YOU are bitchin' me out? Your samples, your responsibility!" I felt something wet under my fist and looked down to find that I had slammed my fist into a puddle of her mustard.
Smooth, just call me Dr. Smooth.
I held up my hand to her face: "You're lazy, you're sloppy, and it is amazing more samples haven't been lost." I paused and considered in a quiet voice, "Or have they?"
I didn't wait for an answer but turned my back to grab the paper towels behind me. She started to say something as I bent down to unplug the desk lamp from Hell and grab it by its neck. Pointing my lamp at her with a death grip on its plastic neck I said simply: "I will deal with you later" and I felt my brain give a push, in her direction.
Suddenly, her body went tense and her eyes widened as if in fear.
Good,
I thought as I turned to leave,
let her stew on that for awhile.
And what the hell was that push? More to ponder.
Trekking through the hallways to the other side of the building to my supervisor's office, I took a shortcut through secretarial pool.
As I passed the filing cabinets I noticed the big boss, that is to say my boss's boss, personal assistant massaging file folders. Trust me on this one; she was the typical platinum blond, big hair, oversized fake-boobed airhead squeezed into an outfit that is just a teensy bit too tight.
My professional assessment is that those tight outfits cut off the circulation to her brain; but, if she makes the big boss happy in the pants, I'm with the program. After all, she was my favorite piece of unobtainable eye candy in the building.
I idly wondered for the umpteenth time what she thought of me and something flew from my head. She looked up from her task directly at me and spoke simply.
"You look like an idiot carrying that lamp and trailing the cord behind you on the floor."
"Ah, yeah, uh, thanks," I mumbled.
Am I always such a dork?
I wondered, and then hustled around the corner lest I hear an answer.
Taking my self-pity in stride, I pulled up to Dr. Bob's secretary and asked if the good doctor was in. She said she would check and picked up the phone to dial his extension while staring at my desk lamp.
Dork.