morning coffee: Return of the Yalper

I encountered the Yalper again today. I feel dirty.

Everyone pees more these days. Well. Almost everyone. I’ve silently opted out of the new office-wide water quota challenge competition thing. To heck with new years, to heck with resolutions, and to heck with water. A Thermos full of hot, black, morning coffee is enough to satisfy me. Besides, there’s arsenic in the tap. That’s why it tastes like almonds.

But I do have to go sometimes. Whenever I find myself feeling full; whenever I find myself involuntarily thrusting my fists in my groin and thinking of drier latitudes; and especially whenever my profusion gets such an upper hand on me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately unbuttoning my fly, and methodically whizzing all over my desk – then, I account it high time to get to the men’s room as soon as I can.

I left my desk and crossed into the hallway. The bathroom is on the opposite wall, as you know, two doors down from the Office Lunatic. How long had it been since I’d last seen him? Had it been weeks? Months? It was mid-September when I last heard him hammering the walls with a stapler; it had been months since I last caught him flinging shit at the copier. Had he quit? Was he fired? Had I imagined him? God, I hope not.

I was considering the latter when I arrived at the men’s room. I reached for the door–and He suddenly stumbled out, tackling me and pinning me to the floor. He smelled like urine.

“Op, I’m sorry, son!” he said. His pants hung limply around his ankles. He snaked his wet hands down my shoulder and attempted an awkward handshake. “Where you headed?”

“The, erm, the–”

“What?”

I peeled my eyes upward. “I’m headed to the bathroom, sir.”

He stood up and wiped his hands on his shirt tail. Then he picked me up and set me back on my feet.

“Well, don’t let me stop you, kid.” he said. Then his face turned dark. “But be careful. Be real careful in there.” He turned and began to waddle away. His pants dragged behind him like a half-shed skin.

“Um. Sir?” I said.

“Yeah?” he said.

I paused, lost for words.

“What?”

“Uh. Your, uh, your fly is down.”

He looked down. “So it is,” he said; then he turned and left.

I returned to my desk and pissed in the trash.


“Morning coffee” is a serial fiction series. So far, we’ve covered rubberneckers, co-workers, cubicle stains, office plants, desk trophies, conspiracies, secret organizations, pocket dimensions, time loops, black holes, and impending, inevitable doom. And that’s just the beginning.

Where should we go next? Let me know in the comment section below.

Stay weird,

Jake

FYI, irrecolletions is now on Twitter. Follow along for insights, daily snippets, and refills of Morning Coffee.

 

 

 

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