Fed up with his job and lacking any vacation or sick days, a desk jockey calls in to work. “The Lie” is everything that happened that day and the fallout (if any) from it.
Blat! Blat! Blat!
6:15 am.
Fuck, I don’t want to go to work. Is it Saturday yet? If so, why is the alarm blaring?
I reach over to backhand that cheap alarm clock that I’ve had since college back into oblivion in a desperate attempt to stave the beginning of a craptastic workday off for fifteen more minutes of precious shut-eye when my wife Nikki nudges me.
“The baby’s crying. It’s your turn to get up.”
Blat! Blat! Blat!
Screw it, I’m up.
Fortunately for me, the baby hasn’t been crying for long. She’s hungry, I reason as I shuffle across shag carpet to her bedroom down the hall with one squinty eye open and the other firmly shut. I pray I picked up all of those toys last night before she lay down, for I would otherwise feel a stabbing sharp pain in my heel if I step on another Lego block. For the actual few feet her crib is from the door, it sure seems like an eternity as I traverse across landmines as if I were in Mosul or Beirut or Damascus. Once I reached over the Graco’s railing to collect my wife’s doppelganger, she stops wailing. I still have to cross all of the toys and stuff that I should’ve picked up last night but was too tired to return to their proper boxes and chest, but that’s another day, another shoulda, coulda, woulda that didn’t happen. Even so, our daughter is in my arms seemingly content that she is being carried to the kitchen for a fresh bottle of mile and the grand opening to a brand new day.
Gah. I don’t wanna go to work.
I’ve already exhausted all of my vacation and sick days for the year, and I really don’t feel like being the company’s punching bag today. Too bad, I tell myself as the baby devours her bottle in what could potentially be record time. Once I hear air coming from her now-depleted bottle, I motion over to burp her when I hear the missus shrieking.
“It’s 7:00! WHY DIDN’T YOU WAKE ME UP?!!”
“Because I just fed the baby. Your alarm has been going on and on for thirty minutes now.”
“You should’ve turned on the light when you got up.”
“Right.”
“You’re tryna get me wrote up, ain’tcha?"
Yeah, a written reprimand at your job is just what we need, I silently think to myself. Especially since I want to tell Steve where to shove this job and how far once we can keep my side business in the black. It’s hard enough working for someone who deems you disposable and more because you intimidate his management team with industry-specific knowledge and education, but add the fact that in the process of making company countless millions of dollars monthly in profit, I hadn’t received a raise in two years. I’d rather peddle books and barbecue sandwiches than put up with corporate bullying one more day.
In this day and age, I’m grateful for the residuals from the other book, and boy, I’m glad I embraced e-books earlier!
“You know what? I’ll drop the baby off at her granny’s on my way in. Get dressed and save the argument for your messy-ass co-workers! I don’t have time to hear it!”
I really didn’t have time for it.
Here I was, standing in the middle of the living room wearing only a scowl and plaid boxers holding a playful nine-month-old girl.
I have to be at work at nine, so I have to put her down and get dressed.
Oxford and blazer? In my past life.
Jeans and t-shirt? It’s too obvious that I no longer give a flying fuck anymore.
I guess this polo and a pair of gray slacks will do for today. I look good without trying too hard and that seems to be the thing in my world. It’s already bad enough that senior management is afraid of me and one in particular enjoys politicizing every misstep made for his gain. I might as well disarm him and his cohorts one more day. I mean, it shouldn’t be like this.
Then again…
I finally get both of us dressed and into my truck on our way to granny’s house across town, passing multiple daycare facilities along the way. At some point, the baby’s going to need to be able to interact with other kids, but she’s too small and I worry too much about what some chain smoking high school dropout/baby mama may do to my angel. I need not only cameras in every room, but also for her to flourish as she embarks on the journey as a lifelong learner.
Traffic is horrendous and my safety seat keeps buzzing. Thanks, GMC. Now let’s work on getting this V8 up to 25 mpg.
I speed dial her grandparents to tell them I’m stuck in traffic and we’ll be there soon.
Traffic is still poking along and as the interstate reduces itself to a three-lane parking lot, I glance at Gabby slapping the plush toys hanging from her car seat with that wicked backhand. She’s content, but her daddy is anxious.
8:00 am.
Might as well update Waze – we’re not going anywhere. I reckon I’ll call the office and tell somebody I’ll be late. Nah, it’ll wait. It’s not like I actually want to go to work, but we’re in debt up to our eyebrows. I wonder if HR would really try to dock a day’s pay if I called now, or if Steve would have a heart and let me have the day off without financial penalty.
Whaddya know, traffic is moving! Hallelujah!
At 8:20, we finally get to granny’s house and Gabby is asleep. Quickly, I release the car seat and grab her day bag, hurriedly pacing to the front door to meet Grandpa John. Strangely, there is no normal chit chat this morning; perhaps it was the frazzled look on my face dreading rush hour. Or, maybe the unseasonably cool morning was the real reason for going back inside. I’ll pay him Friday when I leave work even though I think that money is going toward her piggy bank, pizzas, and sodas. I need to give him a raise.
I climb back into the truck and instead of changing the Spotify station to my normal King of the Road mix, I inexplicably speed dial work.
I hope this dumb sumbitch don’t pick up the phone and I get voicemail instead.
Shit.
“Hello?”
“Hey Steve, it’s Tyler. I need to call in today for my sick child.”
“You realize you’re not getting paid if you don’t have any vacation or sick time?”
Duh, asswipe.
“Yeah. Gabby’s really, really sick and I’m on the way to the hospital.”
“OK. Can you make it in later today?”
“I dunno. I mean, she’s really, really sick – puking and pooping from both ends at the same time.”
“Just bring in a note from the doctor so I won’t have to dock your pay. If you’re lying, consider this your termination notice!”
“OK. Thank you sir, I’ll get you the note. Later.”
I hung up and put the truck in reverse.
Got the day off, dawg! The residual checks from
Fall From Grace are steady enough but I have an itch to write something else to hit a second jackpot. Unfortunately, those checks do not stretch as far as they did back in ’03; I’ll renegotiate the next contract to something more favorable. The money has lately gone to Gabby’s savings account – er, I mean college fund – and I know that a check hit at midnight.
Now…what do I do? Where do I go?
More importantly, how do I hide this from my wife?
It’s been years since I played hooky from work. I’m hungry yet I hope I don’t see any of those clowns from work scurrying through one drive-thru to the next for lousy overpriced coffee and rock-hard biscuits that spent too much time on the warmer. Ya know, there is that greasy spoon I used to love back in college; I wonder if it’s still there. Those waffles were so fluffy and their Champions’ meal had a way of tamping down a hangover! It’s just an hour away, I might as well go down there.
With a set playlist and a full tank of gas, I point the truck southwest to the Dairy for a mountain of hash browns, all the bacon I can eat, a stack of pancakes, and the freshest orange juice outside of Florida.
Do I want to risk blowing my cover by catching up with anyone, or is today a much-needed anonymous chill day?
I’m starting to feel bad about using Gabby in a lie, but I hate my freaking job! She’s probably crawling around all over the carpet only stopping to watch Veggie Tales. I appreciate John for showing wholesome channels when he has her for the day. About ten miles due west of town, I get a phone call from Nikki.
“How’s Gabby?”
“Fine. I just dropped her off at your folks’ house and am almost at work now.”
“Strange. Your boss just called me wishing Gabby a full recovery.”
“From what? She was fine when I left.”
Damn. Why does she make me feel defensive about blowing off work one day?
“I had to call. Daddy said she was fine but –“
“That MF got it out for me! He has since the day I started over there. It’s bad enough that he doesn’t like brothers, especially educated brothers! I’d walk today if he’d pay me my money! Fuck dude!”
“Tyler!”
“Oh. My bad. Thought you were still talking about Steve. Anyway, I’m taking the interns out for breakfast to talk about next week’s schedule and to drum up overtime volunteers so I don’t have to work Saturday.”
“Today?”
“Yep. Got a lot to do and you know how they look at me every time I take off.”
“All right. Have a good day and I’ll keep checking on Gabby through the day.”
“As you do.”
“You too. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”
Click.
I sho’ dodged a bullet there! I could feel the sweat under my armpits dripping through my new white undershirt as I wiped my brow. Off to the Dairy, I immediately crank up Twista, open the sunroof, and put the hammer down on the interstate to a much slower place in my past – and the source of epic hangover breakfasts.
10:30 am. Lunch time – I missed breakfast, but oh well. The journey matters more than the destination today, so that’s what they say.
I arrive in the Dairy parking lot to the discovery that the Holstein cow atop the building has been repainted black and orange instead of the once-familiar black-and-while herbivore. It seems like the joint has new management; if not, it certainly has new ownership. I scanned the room to notice the formerly college-aged crowd yielded to jaded workers in their mid-thirties, a couple of kids who look like they recently finished high school and are wandering aimlessly through life, and the same elderly regulars I recall by face not name from the late ‘90s and my four-banger boom box.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. I just hope the chili cheeseburger is still on the menu.
A waitress saunters to my section of the bar to take my order. She’s early fifties (I think), but she wears a half wig and dyed grayish-red hairs to mask a lifetime of setbacks and broken ambitions.
“Hi’ ya doin’,” she asks in a decidedly deeply syrupy accent I have not heard in years.
“All right so far.”
“What can I get ‘cha?”
“Do you still have the chili cheeseburger? I didn’t see it on the menu, but it’s been YEARS since I’ve had one! I drove an hour to get that one.”
“Is that right?”
“Sure is, ma’am.”
“Guess what? Today’s your lucky day: we still make ‘em extra sloppy. You want fries with that?”
“No, ma’am, I’ll take onion rings instead and a Dr. Pepper.”
With those words, I realized that I found myself in a time warp. Oh gosh, 2000 is calling and not only does it need its Gateway computer back but it is also asking for my cast-iron belly. I began to scan the room a second time, and as I did, my face went blank because of who I saw.
My ex.
Better make this order before she recognizes me. Unfortunately, my truck seems to be the lone white one on the lot – and since it has my Ducks Unlimited tags, people can decipher who drives it even with the dealership’s bracket embossing the state-issued plate.
Just what I need: the bitch that broke my heart claiming she’s sorry, she misses me, and there’s a child in the mix.
Well, no kid. That’s worth a fist pump for the trouble I’d be in and the back child support I potentially would have to pay or go to jail – and that’s not a spot I need to be on my “off day.” She looks like life whooped her ass in a way I wanted to the night I caught her blowing that other guy on our couch. Yet I felt a little bit of pity but I’m not gonna entertain the idea of talking to her. After all these years, she still brings a pain I thought was long gone, turned over to God and forgotten about. I guess you can forgive, but forgetting is something you can never truly do even if you do your damndest to block the memory.
As that sullen waitress returned with my greasy lunch, I requested that she put it in a brown bag since I had to leave.
“I’ve gotta go. Thanks for everything,” I hurriedly reply as I provide her a $20 tip upon my exit and return to the truck.
If this is what playing hooky is going to be like, then I should’ve kept my ass at work.
It’s 10:45.
All of this happened in fifteen minutes.
Wow.
Well, I think there’s a park down here I used to visit when I was with ole girl. OnStar may be able to refresh my memory and take me there. I shouldn’t do that, yet I do need to call John to check in on Gabby. I mean, how else can I blow a day away from work without being too brazen toward not showing up? All I have are this piping hot lunch, my phone, and a USB drive – and Nikki knows I don’t eat in the truck.
From here, I can cross state lines either further south or west in a near-identical forty-five minute time slot even if I obey the speed limits through these one-cop towns built on the revenue of fast drivers like me. Think, think, think.
I’m a creature of habit but sloughing off is a strange habit quite unlike me.
How am I supposed to keep up the lie? It’s already getting tough. Two hours into a mental day off and I’m ready to say fuck it and go back to work where I could get my pink slip if I don’t come up with a doctor’s note upon returning on-site. I’m so used to filling every waking moment of the day yet this one requires some serious thought. As much as I’ve joked about playing golf and drinking cheap draft beer all day, the reality is I didn’t tell anyone of my plans and babies do not respect hangovers.
I really hate dragging Gabby into my lie. I should’ve just gone in there, cleaned my cubicle, and gone home none the wiser, but that didn’t happen. I might as well make the best of my final free day for a while because it could be my last free day for a long, long time.
I think I can call someone up for lunch. Question is, who can I call that won’t tell what I did today?
O? Nope. He spends more time at work than I do.
Kels? Not until I check Facebook. He’s always on the road and his wife remembers the dirt we did when we were younger.
Beth? Yeah – if I want a divorce. All that freak’s done is send naughty text messages and send me naked pictures ever since she heard I married Nikki several years ago. That body is so tight you wouldn’t think she had two kids! To this day, I don’t know how she eats with that nasty mouth and the lady has no gag reflex whatsoever. I had to let her go because of all that crazy stuff she kept herself in – the party life, the using, and those fighting relatives that ended up disowning her. I know my life hasn’t been perfect, but I still have my family with me.
I called John.
“How’s Gabby?”
“She played, watched Nickelodeon, and ate her bottle. That baby’s so pretty, me and her grandma gon’ have to make us another one.”
Sure. I know he’s joking now that they have the house to themselves after all those years of rug rats running in and out of those doors.
As long as she’s doing fine and he’s oblivious to the lie, I can carry on with the day. But there’s the matter of that burger getting my floor mats greasy – I really do need to eat and clean up the mess. It’s just a matter of where at this point.
I check my fuel gauge – I’ve used maybe an eighth of gas – in this rig, I think that is a really good thing. I can move around incognito and possibly have half a tank when I pick up Gabby around six or so, or…someone gets a phone call. In these small towns, Wal-Mart was (and still) is the center of life, even more than downtown was in my grandparents’ heyday; I’ll go over there, drop the tailgate and eat this burger in peace. People watching is as much of a thing as it was when I worked there in college but I’ll be tasteful and not make memes to submit to peopleofwalmart.com of the sartorially-challenged customer base. I’m no pretty boy Floyd, but damn, there are some fugly sons of guns up in there!
Let me get out of here: I feel like a chocolate rhinestone cowboy in this town. Last thing I need is the police on my butt just because they don’t recognize this guy in a new white GMC on 20s and they try to make me out to be some drug dealer as a result of not fitting their stereotypical character. Too flashy, they say; I’m not supposed to have that type of truck. I bet one of them would trump up a fake charge or something on me only to generate quick revenue or worse, take the truck.
As the hour nears noon, I depart this time warp for modern civilization and remember to call for Gabby’s doctor note. I know she’s fine and doctor knows she is all right, but I do need to keep my job. Besides, how do you get fired on your day off?
In the hour it took me to drive to the Dairy it seemed like once I made it to the interstate, time stood still while I carved up more miles than Big Daddy in front of Thanksgiving dinner just before the Cowboys play on national TV. I could surprise Nikki for lunch assuming she hasn’t already gotten her customary salad and tea, but she’d get onto me for riding around stunting like this is my first vehicle ever. Surely she saw the value of a full-size crew cab pickup although filling it up requires nearly thirty gallons of regular and the payments are what keep me stressing at night almost as much as the house and Gabby.
I still have to somehow keep the lie up. We do need the money right now, even if I give zero fucks about the company and the people working there.
I reached over to call Gabby’s pediatrician to explain why I need a doctor’s note for a day she didn’t see her. Fortunately for me, she did it without asking a second question and even offered to scan it to my personal and work email accounts just to cover my behind. After all my family went through during labor and that week in NICU, I’m glad to have a friend for life in that arena. I just wish the all-stars I worked with were half as accommodating as she is to our questions and requests. All I need to do now is forward the note to Steve and I can parlay that into a chill afternoon. Who knows, I may even go home and cook dinner before picking up Gabby. My baby is fine, my wife doesn’t know I blew off work, I still have a job, and everyone is happier for it.
Gee, mental days are hard to enjoy when they are last-minute but more difficult when they seem planned out.
At one o’clock I pulled into my driveway to fix myself a sandwich and take some meat out of the freezer to thaw out for dinner. As much as I’d like to pull the covers off my smoker, someone would start talking out the side of his neck and broadcasting my business about getting ready for some barbecue tournament or a festival we are working this weekend. It looks like this is the reason why I seldom come home during lunch; imagine me coming back to the office with the meat trailer hitched to the truck. I like to eat, but competition cooking is just a hobby and those pulled pork sandwiches I usually sell at festivals make me some serious side cash! Besides, the last time I brought the trailer to work, I spent the better part of a Friday afternoon missing meetings as I fed the entire company pork sandwiches, ribs, baked beans, and corn on the cob. If nothing else, I do have a contract to serve lunch once a month; there isn’t a decent eating establishment within five miles of the joint.
Instead of grabbing a turkey sandwich and heading back out the door, I cracked open a can of Miller Lite and sat down in front of ESPN.
Out of all the things I could do, I am sitting around drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon alone. I’m not going back to work today. The least I could do is move around like I’ve been there all day – or go to the library like I used to do when I was writing that other book for some quiet time and perhaps something to inspire me to keep moving. I remember stressing out over manuscripts to the point where I wouldn’t eat and after editing day in and day out, my fingertips were wearing down to the last layer of skin covering bone. Clearly, the dedication came to fruition and while it wasn’t a New York Times best-seller to make me rich,
Fall From Grace cleared a nice payday and the residual income has provided enough of a cushion to push other ventures that have succeeded (the barbecue truck) as well as those that have failed, like the website design firm when the world began trending toward smartphone apps versus the traditional website alone.
As I began to nod off, my phone started to vibrate in my pocket. It was Nikki.
“How’s Gabby doing now?” she anxiously asked me.
“Better all the time. She’s been asleep for a while and I’m sitting here reading.”
“You sound like you’re half-asleep.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Just looking at some dry material from the EPA and wondering why I still work for these people.”
“Because of the check and health insurance?”
“Yeah. Having the autonomy to work independently is almost worth its weight in gold, but I do need some more money and an opportunity to do better by us.”
“I didn’t want to say that, but thank you for saying it.”
I know money isn’t everything, but at some point you have to put family first and be a better provider – damn everyone who disagrees with that statement. Gabby is getting to the age where she remembers the actual experiences of doing stuff as opposed to how much money we spend on her. That being said, the ways of giving my resignation began to churn in my head and as the wheels kept turning, I realized that I truly didn’t need to find myself asking permission to anyone anymore, lest of all Steve. The financial impact hadn’t hit me yet – how do I make the truck payment and mortgage from just slinging pork sandwiches just had not crossed my mind – but we had planned for a day like today a long time ago and stayed within our budget when we started
Where Pigs Fly BBQ a few years ago. While I’m not ready for a storefront, the truck alone should stay profitable as I look for a better job; then again, I could write another book. We can make it for another year, so I do have the option of being selective about my next move in or out of the industry.
All of a sudden I wanted to come clean with the lie. Before I could fix my lips to blurt out the truth about my day of playing hooky from work, Nikki had hung up and gone back to work.
Whew – for now.
It’s suddenly three o’clock and the school buses are passing by our neighborhood and beginning to clog up the town’s major thoroughfares for the after-school rush that Gabby will find herself a part of one day too soon either by bus or one of us dropping her off each morning or afternoon.
I reckon I’ll get up and go pick up Gabby early from John’s house. Those three hours will likely constitute of two men and a baby playing and talking about football – in his retirement, the brother does seem a bit shut-out from the world as he only watches her and the SEC Network on a daily basis. How he doesn’t have the phone number for the Finebaum Show surprises me as much as he boasts and brags about the league from top to bottom, especially after Alabama wins yet another West Division crown. Some days around John, I’m almost certain Nick Saban is the saint standing next to Peter in heaven from the way he is so highly revered by that guy as well as countless Alabamans not supporting Auburn or any of the smaller schools in the Yellowhammer State.
3:15 pm.
Maybe I can get some shots in or a quick game of 21 before I have to go pick up the baby. But first, I do need to check email to make sure I forwarded the message to Steve for two reasons: 1) I‘ve got to get paid; and 2) if I don’t get him the note, I don’t have a job tomorrow. If this sucker wants me to physically bring it in, then that’s another trip in the opposite direction of where I am trying to go.
Whew! He got the scan and I’m safe for one more day.
It also means I can work the paint for a few shots just like the old days. I may not have the vertical leaping ability I had as a younger man, but hopefully the footwork stayed with me. Otherwise, all I have is reach and wily ways to shake the younger men off their games.
On second thought, I do have a baby who needs her daddy. Driveway hoops can wait for some other time.
Besides, I just saw kids getting off the school bus in front of our subdivision’s entrance. I know this is not a gated community nor are we required to pay HOAs, but it would be nice if we all would chip some funds in for a covered canopy for them to wait for us to pick them up. Then again, I only remember that because of the one structure from my own childhood; come to think of it, the shed resembled more of an old-fashioned coffin standing on its side. Never mind that idea.
I walked back inside, changed into gym shorts and a cutoff t-shirt, grabbed my wallet from the gray slacks I had worn most of the day along with the keys from the front right pocket, and on my way back to the truck, I realized that it was still a bit early to pick up Gabby. If she’s napping, I best get an hour’s worth of shuteye before she really dials up her volume to eleven when we get home. It’s got to be tough being an only child since there isn’t another kid to pester around and the girls down the street are significantly older than she is, but she is it for health reasons. Plus, I cannot imagine myself loving another child as much as I love this baby girl.
I guess nap time is calling me. I’ll set my alarm for 4:30 and then go pick up Gabby.
I overslept. Fuck!
It’s damn near five o’clock – the normal time for most people to leave the office and enter that parking lot better known as rush hour traffic. I usually stick around that last hour only to catch up on whatever work I didn’t do and to avoid the highway crush as much as possible, but I’m still at home and on the couch. Why am I not running around here like a chicken with its bloody head cut off on the way through the slaughterhouse is beyond me, but for some inexplicable reason, I’m in chill mode.
It also looks like the lie is about to come crashing down. Should I compound it, or just ‘fess up?
It’s not like I really have anything to lose. I got some rest, the wife is none the wiser for not knowing that I played hooky from work today, and I still have a job to go to tomorrow. Everyone wins…
Except for when there is a loser.
At 5:05, I felt like that loser. I still had to pick up Gabby and because cooking was not going to happen in the timespan I needed, I had to go sit in someone’s drive-thru for a quick burger and swifter heart attack. Perhaps picking up take-out from one of the new places in town that builds family dinners for the harried like me would’ve done the trick, but it’s too late now that I am sitting in the Burger King line inching toward the window to pay a pimply faced teenage boy for my early demise. I’m sure that will be the price I pay one day for carousing around from one fast food joint to the next trying to feed the three of us. As I sat there waiting, I texted Nikki to tell her that I would be picking Gabby up from her grandparents’ house and simultaneously thinking maybe I should have gotten a milkshake instead of a Sprite. Oh well, maybe next time.
After paying for a sandwich that seemed to be significantly smaller than the picture on the drive-thru speaker, I finally exit right toward the interstate to pick up the baby. I’m pretty sure I could’ve just stayed on the frontage road – it was keeping pace with interstate traffic – but again, I am a creature of habit. The distance between the two exits is only three miles, but the gulf between me and the rest of the world seems to expand exponentially, particularly since I am finally discovering that my day off from work didn’t exactly turn out the way I expected.
Traffic sucks. I see why I don’t pick up Gabby in the evenings now. As much as I am looking forward to seeing her, I cannot believe that I wasted a day to be completely selfish and have absolutely nothing to show for it. At least when I was writing, I could look at the bottom left corner of Word to monitor my word and page count and find a stopping point. I had the support then of my family once my first draft cleared the submission process and that first check hit the mailbox, so I do know this is what I am really supposed to be doing with my life. Yet, the only thing stopping from writing full-time is the inconsistent income and the pressure to publish a bunch of crap for dollars over allowing my mind and ideas to marinate through the pages for a successful novel. Have I turned down easy money over the years? Yes! I don’t want to be perceived as a hack who works for the checks and not the quality of the craft. Those hacks have books wasting space in every bookstore across the country, from BAM to Wal-Mart to the dollar stores.
5:30 pm.
Normally I would have half an hour before I would leave work for the house, but I’m back at John’s house. One thing that probably tipped him off on the day that I blew off work was I was still wearing gym shorts: I used to go running during lunch and would change from the business casual attire I usually sport, but that had been a couple of years and several pounds ago. He makes a good-natured crack about my weight gain, which is nothing new; once I got to sit down and make decisions at work, I also picked up forty pounds as a result of the sedentary lifestyle. In truth, I cannot imagine going back to manual labor although I spend hours on my feet in the barbecue truck without complaint – especially how my back has acted up off and on for the past five or six years. There may be a difference: I seem to be happier slinging pulled pork sandwiches and stuffing smoked bratwursts into hot dog buns than I ever could be reading through outdated documents and condensing them into bite-size instructions everyone can understand the first time around without using that chintzy Clip-Art and annoying paper clip from the old Word Perfect days.
“How was Gabby today?”
“She was the perfect baby. She slept, played, took her bottles, and even laughed at me when she slapped the glasses from my face.”
“Yeah, that’s what she does. Always the fighter – I should know.”
“Sure is. Ty, something about you was just a little off. You OK?”
Dammit, he must know. I don’t know how he could’ve found out, but he didn’t come out with it.
“Yeah, I’m cool. Everything is running together at work.”
“No, I’m not talking about there.”
“Look here, man, I’m not going crazy.” I chuckled at the insinuation that I am at wit’s end despite what I truly feel every day when I head off to work. “There are a lot of crazy things going on, but going off the deep end just ain’t one of them. Don’t worry about my sanity.”
“I know you’re not going crazy, but it seems like you could use some time off.”
I did call in to work today. Still, how could he know? Our relationship was one not of a traditional father-in-law and son bond rather two men sitting around bullshitting with the best of them and being a masculine ally in this female-dominated family.
So I asked him to keep it to himself.
I don’t need another shitstorm at home just because I’m so fed up with a decent-paying dead-end job that I have planned my exit strategy and am now implementing it without telling my wife. Of all people, she should be the one to find out major stuff before anyone else, and the kicker is I haven’t said one mumbling word to another soul.
Yet John knows I took off today. Whether or not he told Nikki is less certain – and for my sake, I hope he said nothing.
Gabby doesn’t care where I’ve been, she’s just happy to see her daddy. I reached down to the walker to pick her up and as usual, she’s grinning from ear-to-ear and flailing her arms like this is the greatest moment of her short life. This child indeed lives in the moment and there is no way I intend on spoiling that! However, if she starts crying on the ride back home…
After being briefed of her day and notified of any changes or requests, I strap Gabby into her car seat and began walking to the truck when the phone rings.
Great, if it isn’t one thing, then it’s another.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby. Did you pick up Gabby?”
“Yes. I have her in my left hand now trying to talk to you and lift her into the truck. What’s happening?”
“Not much. I just got home and wondered if you’d pick us up something to eat.”
“Whaddya want? Do you want chicken, burgers, tacos, Chinese, or something else?”
“Fish.”
“Fish sounds good. Am I frying it or coming to get you and heading out?”
“Come and get me. How’s my baby?”
“Asleep now that she’s in the car seat. She had a really good day and that morning nap kind of went into the afternoon.”
“That’s better than I expected. She is growing, so sleep is a part of that.”
“Yeah, it is. We’ll see you in a bit depending on traffic. Love you.”
“I love you too. Bye-bye.”
I think she figured out I took the day off from work, so I might as well get ready to tell the truth when we get home. The fact this lie has lasted nine hours is long enough, and as much as I need to keep it going, I may feel better for spilling the reasons why I didn’t go to work today. I just hope Nikki understands the need for a mental day and doesn’t dismiss it as a chance to go play golf and drink all day – or worse, hook up with some random chick. I may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one: twenty minutes of pleasure would cost me everything.
One can only hope the missus doesn’t realize what I did.
We finally return home and Nikki hops into the truck. At five foot two, I’m eternally glad I paid for those running boards that she has to use every single time she gets in and out of it, and the vehicle is large enough for her to sit in the front seat instead of the finagling with seat positioning like we have to do with her car. For the first time today, I am happy to see my family.
Three miles later, we ended up at the catfish restaurant ready for an epic throw down at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Even Gabby got into the act of gorging herself with her bottle and pureed sweet potatoes! The three of us ate so much fish, crab legs, fries, fixins’, and drank so much Coke we could barely see straight much less walk comfortably out of the place an hour after the last bite of warm apple pie and cold vanilla ice cream entered my mouth. In other words, we were stuffed.
“How was work?”
“It was the same as always. I cannot wait for the day I can work in the food truck all day!”
“Are you ready for that?”
“I guess. The book still makes money after all these years, and I think there’s enough in savings and retirement to cushion the blow. I thought I had always wanted to be a desk jockey, but as long as I have time for you two and can make a decent living, I’m all right. The commitment now is to work Saturdays once we get a storefront, but let’s not get that far ahead of ourselves.”
“You know I’ve got your back.”
I reached across the table to kiss her – having someone who values my dreams is worth more than its weight in gold. I learned a long time ago that someone who was only in it for the pesos really isn’t into you, and to keep living if I wanted proof of that statement.
The topic of my absent day from work never came up, and if she thought about it, Nikki never led on.
I’m not saying that lying is encouraged, but this one was worth it. I’ve lied to myself for far too long about a job I hate just because the money was good and insurance was a lifesaver for us. It turns out that my mental day was just the boost I needed to keep pushing through the monotony of life and rediscover passion for the things I do exceptionally well. Over the years, I had become a jack of all trades and consequently, a master of none beyond thought leadership - which only goes as far as the people who are willing to come on board.
I still don’t feel good about using my daughter in a lie just because I lacked the desire to show up at work. If telecommuting were a viable option, then maybe I would have chosen that route; unfortunately, I have a boss who wants to see your body in the building every day even if your minds and hearts are far away from the tasks at hand.
Come back later for what happens to the desk jockey: Does he follow his dreams? Is he resigned to a fate that saps the spirit out of him, leaving him in a zombie-like state? Will the truth ever come out?
