The HR Nightmare

Originally Published: April 20, 2004 @ 20:02 EST

I’m called into a meeting with HR because apparently, I’ve violated the dresscode [again]. Since the complaints have been pouring in today above any other, I’m given a chance to explain myself. And here goes:

“Well, you see sir. There was a mix-up at the laundromat. All of my fine work-clothes were taken by a dishevelled mother whose car had just been thoroughly trounced by an H2 Hummer in the parking lot. It would appear that the driver of said H2 was attempting a rare and dangerous feat of automobile acumen. She was backing blind into a parking space whilst conversing on her cellphone and applying several heavy layers of a very gaudy eye makeup. As it happens the eye makeup was a success—that is if she was trying to look like a Las Vegas racoon. The cellphone conversation tunred ugly, and—well you can probably infer what happened to the friendly Oldsmobile of that kindly clothes-laundering lady. It would’ve only been a direct hit, had the rear bumper of the hummer not been so high. It passed smartyly over the hood of the smaller vehicle leaving room for those powerful twenty seven inch rimmed tires to grab hold and propel the behemoth to its final resting place atop the very roof of that erstwhile Cutlass Ciera.

“In what closely bordered on being an act of erudition, or one of sheer idiocy, H2 somehow phoned her husband, who promply arrived—long before any sign of law enforcement mind you. The husband, or as I call him Brute Galoot, looked as though he worked as a circus freak specializing in eating jars full of nails and asbestos and other undelectables unfit for human consumption.

“Needless to say, because of the insurance pay-offs on asbestos-related bodily injuries, the guy made a fortune; hence the H2. Despite the Rolex and the Armani suit made to fit a gorilla, he still looked like a circus man. His face was slightly askew, as if his mother had clenched at the wrong moment during birth; heaved when she should’ve hoed—so to speak. And every gesture was that of a showman. Twenty minutes of watching him speak and I thought he was trying to sell that H2 to the poor woman with the wrecked car. He was in fact trying ot persuade her to accept a large sum of money in lieu of reporting this business to the police.

“Anyway, the laundering lady wouldn’t accept, citing that she’d probably be able to get a new car out of this; owing to her impeccable driving record and her damn-fine insurance. Mr. Galoot was angry and unnerved and may have moved toward threats and violence, had the police not arrived just then.

‘My God?!’ cried officer one, upon seeing the sitch.
‘Di immortales!’ said officer too [sic]. (He actually said ‘Dios mio!’ but I speak Latin not spanish you ass).

“The officers then began a series of tests and questions following a stringent path of logic and reasoning, leading soundly, to the truth. This all led to the final and infallible question, directed at the Laundering Lady:

‘Why’d you park your car under that Hummer m’am?’

A pregnant pause…

“And then, an explosion of shouting, arms flailing and forced-civilian submission. In the end, despite her best attempts, the laundering lady was unable to actually land a blow on anyone. Brute stiff-armed her, keeping her reach just a foot shy of its usefulness.
‘You can’t do this! I want other officers dispatched! It’s obvious that you’re in league with this man!’ she cawed at them like a crow. But all to no avail.

“Eventually, she called a cab and snatched up what she thought to be all of her laundry, but actually included half of mine! She was long gone before I realized, and I’m left with a dryerful of thongs that say things like “Lucky You” and “Princess” on them, as well as a horde of uncannily large brassieres.

“So this is why I sit before you wearing what essentially amounts to T-shirt, jeans and a “Someone’s Happy to See Me!” thong.

• • •

After a long silence, the Veep of Human Resources looks up at me and says,
“I understand all—well most of that, and all these thigns are forgivable and even reasonable, though I’m certain I could have done without hearing about that thong.”

“Yeah sorry about that, but it’s kinda chaffing me, so you know, it was on my mi——”

“KEVIN!”

“Sorry.”

“My point is, that’s all well-and-good. But why in God’s name are you wearing that ‘Fuck You’ hat?”

“Oh, this little old thing? I bought it in the City not too long ago. Don’t you think it’s a scream?”