Venting Again

I smoke. That bothers a lot of people, so for the remainder of this post I'll refer to smoking as eating celery.

So, I eat celery. At work, I go outside every hour and a half or so to eat a piece of celery, and I try to think when I do. Sometimes I think about work issues - why do I gotta malloc this turkey every time, isn't there a better way? Sometimes I assemble highly tentative to-do lists for when I get home - after I shovel some gravel, I'll bring peace to the Middle East. Other times I just take vacations and compare and contrast the organization and employment of legions in the Roman Republic and the Roman Empire.

The point is that when I go outside to eat celery, I don't go out to exchange small talk with random celery-eaters that I don't know. I'm not good at small talk. I find it tedious and the effort of engaging in pointless chit-chat usually drains me. And it never fails that while I'm trying to enjoy my four minutes of celery-eating peace and quiet, someone decides that I have to be spoken to.

There are several types. There is the Manhandler. He doesn't beat around the bush. He sees me and he steers straight toward me like a Mark-48 torpedo homing in on a supertanker. Then he starts talking. The one good thing about the Manhandler is that he never shuts up and never expects a reply, so I can restrict my involvement to saying things like "Huh" or "I didn't know that." One of the bad things about the Manhandler is that he is constantly adjusting the lie of his reproductive organ in his trousers (hence his nickname). Another bad thing is that every few minutes he sticks his tongue out, very far out, Gene Simmons out, and waggles it all around his face. It's like a particularly large and agile snail doing a mating dance. Maybe some people find men who won't shut up and who waggle their tongues and adjust their penises attractive, but I'm not one of them. And one piece of celery isn't enough. He wants to eat five or six of them, and the whole time I stand there and long for death. If I try to withdraw, he follows me to my cubicle. He's also the guy who ate my peanuts one day, entirely without permission, and left the shells all over the floor.

While I'm at it, what is it with people and my peanuts? Why does everyone assume that I don't want my peanuts? "You gonna eat those?" they ask, pointing at my bag of peanuts. Did I miss a memo about peanuts or something? I guess they think I bring peanuts to work every day because I hate peanuts. Peanuts are relatively inexpensive and widely available, so it's not like I'm bringing macadamia nuts to work or anything, but it never fails. I've taken to hiding my peanuts until I'm ready to eat them because I'm afraid I'll scream the next time someone tries to hijack my peanuts.

Then there's Mr. Smooth. He comes out. He sees me. He pauses nearby. He kicks a pebble. He saunters around to the other side. He looks at his watch. He comes a little closer. And the whole time I know exactly what he's going to say: "What do you think of this weather." And presently there he is, invading my personal space without being invited, and he says "What do you think about this weather?" The worst part isn't the conversation; it is the inevitable nature of the Smooth Ritual that drives me nuts. Here's pretty much a verbatim conversation repeated about fifty million times:

"What do you think about this weather?"
"It's hot."
"Yeah, and I'm getting too old for this."

It's not that I'm a dyed-in-the-wool misanthrope. It's not that I think my thoughts are so important they can't be interrupted. I just want a few minutes of peace and quiet when I go outside, and I almost never get it. After a while you develop a feel for who will let you eat your celery in peace and who won't, and if the celery-eating area isn't clear, I go back to my desk.

It's kind of like urinal conversationalists. I don't intend to spend much time discussing urinals save to point out that some guys think the fact that you're all in more or less the same spot doing more or less the same thing gives them license to talk to anyone. You're there taking care of matters, and you suddenly hear a voice: "I bought four thousand rounds of Chinese 7.62mm ammo the other day." So you look around to see who might be the recipient of this bit of news, and with a sinking feeling, you realize that you are the recipient, and there's some guy you don't know from Adam telling you about how he has ten thousand rounds of ammunition in his basement.

That's it. I need a piece of celery.