The Mozart of Soft Hands
Let us not taint this introduction with the candid use of the common maxims, or my usual transcendental inquiries. Instead, I'd like to just hit this off from the starting line.
Inventory.
The word, alone, screams with the flames of God's a**s after a chili cook-off.
Four times a year, everything must be counted. Four times a year, we must prepare against the odds of countless, uncooperative co-workers. Four times a year, my a**s twitches something fierce with an undertone of loathing. Nevertheless, it is an undertaking that must be carried out, and I am at the forefront of the madness that ensues.
Rows of destitution. This is what I see. Neatly paralleled to one another, they line the floors of the storage room. Their silver bars twinkling in the dim lighting, impregnated by the hundreds of products in supply. Most will never be used.
I creep down the aisle, feeling engulfed in the misery that is numbers - Row A, shelf 02, item number 5508 - and I can't help but sigh in order to resolve my infatuation with dog poo. Why dog poo? I've no ******** clue. My mind wanders every five seconds within this environment. Helps keep the sanity, you see?
My job this morning is to check locations. I'm to make sure that they match their count sheets, that they're tidied enough to be easily found and counted. Preparation makes the C-Day all the more smooth.
I've been on my feet all morning, checking, lingering, fantasizing, and I can no longer keep my intestines in check. It's time to urinate! Huzzah!
Isn't it sad that urination is the highlight of my morning?
Venturing out of the storage room door after checking in with my co-worker, I skip and dance my way down the hall. I halt. There's a door. Patient room turned faculty lounge. I've been told that I'm not allowed to use the restroom here, but...it seems no one is around.
Zip! goes the door to my loins, and step goes the soles of my shoes. Onward to salvation!
"Ahem."
Onward to another restroom!
"You aren't allowed to use this restroom - it's off limits to your department." She spoke with an air of authority, a sense of demand that she wasn't entitled to.
"Why not?" I asked.
"You just aren't." She gazed into my eyes - a longing deep-seated, she totally wants me - and tapped her foot in emphasis.
Normally, I would fight this woman. To the death. Bare handed. Thing is, she's actually up there in 'management', so it would be futile and end horribly for myself. Middle-eastern of unknown, specific origin, (much like the rest of her department) wearing scrubs of a feminine nature; flowers, puppy dogs, frills - the works. She's also got the Horse's Dentures, so I'm not about to risk being turned into some were-horse.
Sighing, I admit defeat and trudge on over to the facilities in the Waiting Lobby of the Hospital. This particular washroom was halfway down the entire building; the public facilities. It was a chore, and an insecurity.
The Operator's desk is right next to the doorway. When you pass by, you just know she's thinking, "Oh, gawd, there he goes again. The Hell does he do in there? Smells like burritos and celery when he leaves."
Yes. She's counting the times I walk past. She's judging me and checking out my a**. I just know it!
The hallway's demeanor was a great distraction - awash in a mundane ivory, it gave off the impression that it was clean and presentable. Professional, almost. The floor tiles were neatly aligned, forming columns that reached out and fingered the horizon toward the end, mimicking the ceiling squares.
The fingered tyranny ended, however, whence carpeting took reign, spreading its fabrication across the floor in the lobby. The lobby gave off a welcoming perception with vibrant wall colors to counteract the gray sea below the feet.
I swiftly muttered an inaudible greeting to the Operator in response to her own perky salutation and ducked into the restroom. I sighed in the tender relief that could only be capsized by the endorphins raised amidst alcohol abuse. The stream carried its weight in gold, beating out the alien spaceship known as "Martian Cake." Their weakness is gold, you know. That's a fact.
Eyes closed, head back, hands gripping firmly - the usual song-and-dance was adhered to, up until a voice had broken the serenity.
"Holá, señor."
As I snapped back to the humble reality, my stream curved to the right wall of the urinal, miraculously staying within the designated boundaries.
“Oh, uh, hey.” I managed a weak half-smile and head bounce.
“Joo pee ve’y nicely, señor…”
“Um… Thank you?”
I turned my head nervously, suddenly very fascinated by the textiles that clung to the wall. While the janitor may have been a bit creepy, he certainly kept the washroom immaculate.
“Well, Pablo, I have to commend you on your janitorial skills. They’re…superior.”
“Gracias, señor.”
I cleared my throat, finished my business, and washed my hands. Silence hung in the air like a bad taco, ready to be eaten. This taco, however, had some funky guacamole, and that wasn’t going to fly with me. I escaped with my dignity intact.
The hallway was comforting, having left the mouth breather behind, and I was well on my way back to my work with plots to gain entry to the faculty bathroom running through my mind. But I was intercepted. Don’t they actually do any work?
“Kevs! Scrotum! Scrotum! You never brought me my scrotals.” This is Mona. Yes. She’s screaming at me for scrotums.
“Uh-wha – ahem, what now?” I was as confused as anyone could be.
Mona, moderately older than I and somewhat larger – she was as nice as could be, or mean as could be; really depended on the target. Female, yet balding, and altogether lovably humorous in a not-so-innocent way. She was followed by a newb. Catherine, I believe her name was.
“The scrotals, Kevs! You never gave us the-the-the scrotal things.”
“Oh, you mean the supports?”
“Yes! Those.”
“Yeah, the scrotals.” This was Catherine. I laughed at Catherine. I don’t think anyone could have not laughed. She proceeded to make hand gestures in order to provide a visual aide of Scrotal Suspension straps. Horizontal movements about the waste with a circular motion to emphasize the crotch.
“Ok, ok,” I mustered mid-laugh, “I forgot about those. We did get them in. Follow me to Central Supply and you can get your nut huggers.”
“Yay, nut huggers!” They both chanted this for a single progression, and the Operator looked up from her phone call to see me shrug towards her and walk off. I’m sure she had no idea what was going on.
Upon our travel to Central Supply, I was mulling over how I could convince Sarah – the Med/Surg manager that turned me away from the prestigious faculty restroom – that I should be allowed to absolve my internal conflicts in privacy.
Legend has it that the man I had replaced was a pig of a man. Absolutely horrible worker, though they were never rid of him because he was family. Now, this man would use the faculty washroom and, so it’s said, he wasn’t much of a marksman. Having put up with a pool area for so long, they refused to go through it any longer. Hence the ‘permaban’.
The grunt of the double-doors brought me to my senses and killed the auto-pilot. I fetched the scrotal supports whilst Mona and Catherine discussed daily matters with my co-worker. Upon handing them to Mona, however…
“Scrotals! Thank you, so much.” She displayed them for Catherine as they made to leave. “Tell my boyfriend ‘thank you’, and it was a pleasure to handle his scrotals.”
The ‘boyfriend’ is my boss-man – it’s an ongoing, inside joke that I find funny because everyone laughs. Ha-hah! Though…handling his scrotals.
Ahem.
I rid my head of the giggles and proceeded to take up my work again. Monotony at its finest, people. This is what led to further perusal into Project Wonder Throne. I discussed it with myself.
“How can I get them to allow me to use the bathroom in the faculty lounge?”
“That’s random…”
“Really? Random? I think you idea of random and my idea of random may be a bit different.”
“Nah, random is random.”
“Ever had sexual fantasies about your mother?”
“Dude… Why the hell would you ask yourself that?”
“Oh, that’s right…”
A package of lube had fallen and forced the topic away momentarily, though it did bring thoughts of motherly love…
“Ahem. Anyway! Before I was so crudely interrupted by your Oedipus Complex-“
“-Our Oedipus Complex.”
“Whatever. How can we do this…?”
“Maybe you need a witness to your urinational fortitude?”
“Wai-wai-wait. That’s actually not a bad idea. To Pablo!”
“Pablo?”
“Mouth-breathing janitor with a mop, complimented me on my uri- you know what? We don’t talk about it.”
§==========§==========§
“Pablo! Pablo!”
“Señor! Señor!”
“Hey, bro, I need you to do me a favor.”
And so, I divulged the entire situation. The c**k-block, the aforementioned shower-head (previous worker), and the weird questions I ask myself about life, liberty, and just what would I do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk?
“So, Pablo. Are you in?”
Pablo. He gave me the most serious expression. Serious, yet blank at the same time. How –do- Mexicans do it?
He gave a deep breath and nodded. “Sí.”
Such passion.
[Cue Primo Soundtrack here:
Bad by Michael Jackson]
We both marched, in synchronous fashion, towards Med/Surg. Music blaring in our ears. I sighed. I had told Pablo not to bring the boom box, AKA Boom-Boom, but he insisted that it would set the mood.
We stood before Sarah and her henchwomen. They knew why we were there. The music played on as we looked from one woman to another. Colorful, flowery, but dangerous. They held weaponry, defenses. Enemas, catheters and syringes; it was clear… These women were in for a fight.
Pablo finally hit Stop on the cassette player, and all of our eyes met.
“I demand you to allow me to use the faculty restroom.” I said it hard, smooth, proud.
“I don’t think so.” Sarah crossed her arms over her chest, as did the rest of her militia.
“Señora, this man…” He pointed towards me with a wobbly index finger. “He…is a pleasure to pee with.”
I nodded in agreement while wearing a content grin on my lips. “See? I have someone to vouch for me.”
“Is that so?” Sarah asked.
“Jes, it is.” The Janitor was steadfast in his resolve. Like a luchador, daring to defy the laws of gravity with his flying lariat.
“His aim…” he continued, “impeccable.” Hand motions were everywhere, emphasizing his point, coalescing with facial expressions. “His p***s…is aesthetically pleasing. And he held my balls so tenderly…” eyes closed in remembrance, inhaling for dramatic effect, “such finesse!”
My eyes went wide – I don’t think it needed to be said, but just to confirm my reaction. I looked at my compadre, my newfound amigo. My expression said “W-t-f!?”
I grabbed the bandito by the arm and pulled him aside, whispering in dragged out tones.
“Dude, that's private!” I rolled my eyes and turned to Sarah. “Ahem. I, uh… I have very soft hands.” Holding them up for all to see, I followed the motion with a shrug.
“Incredibly soft, señora.”
Sarah was planted like a tree, expression cold, indifferent. It was a long moment of awkward silence as she debated with herself inwardly, until she mobilized and took her band of the middle-aged aside to discuss the motion further.
I danced in place as I waited, and Pablo did the same. I turned to him, he turned to me. He took my hand, and I took his. I would have dipped his salsa, but the moment was shattered by a loud “And, break!” from the oddly unprofessional huddle.
“Ok. You can use the washroom, but…” she held up a finger to silence my victory call, “if we find…a single drop.” Oh, my. The evil eye. “You will be shitting in a colostomy bag for the rest of your life.”
With that, she stalked away.
I couldn’t believe it. I won. I had defeated the wicked witch of Med/Surg! I turned to Pablo and I shook his hand with vigor, pulled him close and gave him a hug that would make a grizzly bear jealous.
I looked deep into his eyes. “Pablo…”
He looked deep into mine. “Sí, señor. I know what to do.”
And with creased eyelids and a chiseled jaw, I let him go and began to march down the hall. Pablo hit Play on the secondary cassette.
[Cue Primo soundtrack here:
Bad to the Bone by ZZ Top]
I appeared from behind the corner, walking in a strut to the music. The world slowed to a crawl. The wind picked up and blew against my scrubs. Applause raged from the patient rooms. Women threw their panties in my direction.
At least, that’s what seemed to happen, at any rate. Ya know… Brain’s all fuzzy – ahem – anyway!
I arrived at the miraculous restroom. My eyes watered. Pablo stood behind me and patted my shoulder, giving a light squeeze.
[Cue Primo Soundtrack here:
Can’t Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon]
And it happened. I successfully blessed the holdings of the throne. I am now, formally, on…The List. No more insecure Operator moments! No more long walks! No more – [flush]. Oh, dear God. It sounds so beautiful… I think I may tear up – one moment, please.
§==========§==========§
The dim lighting of the Central Supply room was a definite downgrade from the superiority of the victorious washroom moment. Though, I suppose that’s a bit of a stretch on account of a biased opinion.
I was so overjoyed that I couldn’t wait to get back to work. This was the highlight of my career at this hospital, with many more to come. It would mark this Inventory as the epitome of what my life will become.
A series of moments, moments of august proportions, that would lead me well on my way to World Ruler. Dare I say it? Life was good.
I picked up the clipboard that held the thick packet of count sheets. Several columns lined the page with black bordering, though the only ones of importance were the Locations and Item Number. Arriving at toothbrushes and tampons, I eagerly awaited the victory over Inventory.
“Kevin?”
I looked up to see my boss, Daniel.
“Yes?”
“You’re still not done with those sheets?”
“Oh, no. I got caught up with other things, but I’m close.”
“You do realize it’s five o’clock, right?”
“It’s what?” I quickly looked at my watch and gasped. Where had the time gone?
“Yeah. Look, we really needed those done by today.” He looked at me with a penetrating gaze.
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll have them done first thing in the morning, I promise.”
“That’s alright. I know you’ll keep that promise, because there’s no way you can break it. I’ve heard what you’ve been up to all day.”
“I’ve been balls deep in working, dude.”
“You’ve been walking around with Pablo, playing loud music while dodging your duties.”
“Well – that was part of it, but that’s not really my fau-“
“You’re fired, Kevin.”
I stood there, mouth agape, and he gave a single, sympathetic nod. He walked away while I wallowed in my failure.
“I-I’m…fired?”
“Holy balls, dude. You just got pwned.”
“But, but –“
“All so you could pee in a good toilet. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“A magnificent toilet, ya douche.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey – Psych is on tonight!”
“Oh, snap!”
And so, children, that ends my journalistic tendencies. Take it as fact, or fiction, but whatever you do, remember this: keep your hands soft. Soft hands are an asset, and mouth-breathing Mexicans are the envious labor.
Sovereign Machedna Community Member 
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