M
onday morning when I (per usual) survived the 48th floor nosebleed elevator ride, arrived at work, earlier than I usually do, the middle-aged Peruvian custodial worker (Carlos Sitjes) was just finishing his rounds before the end of his day. I chirped, "Buenos mañana, Carlos." Carlos looked up from his drink scarred nose emptying a recycling trash bin with a weary smile, "Buenos noche, Señor Chase." Carlos slammed the blue plastic trash bin into his rolling Rubbermaid© dumpster spilling half the Xerox© paper and Diet Pepsi© cans onto the grey corporate fluorescent lit carpet, "Yo, what the fuck happenned to Ricky and that ugly chick of his? They get hitched or fired?" Carlos coughed an emphesema hack and spat some green phlem into the recycling bin, "They get married or what? Whas' up wit that shit, man?".
I wiped my nose and took off my overcoat, hung it over the edge of the nondescript fraying grey flannel & paint chipped corporate cubicle wall, stoopering coffeeless over some of the left over stray memos I left for myself before the weekend, "I'm not sure, y' know, Ricky kind of disappeared almost over a week ago - but I think I caught half a rumor that the two of them were involved in some kind of a drug bust or some shit like that..."
Carlos made a few casual but loud hard sinus snorts and spat more phlem into the other recycling bin he was emptying only hitting a third of the lid (missing my one of my coleagues' chair), "Y'know, he was a hard workin' motherfucker - doin' good 'ntil he fell into that fashion hootie tootie crowd...y'know what I'm sayin' " (I'm always challenged by what people are always entrusting to me deviated by how I'm "supposed" to "know what they're sayin'" [semantics vs Amerikan trust])
"Well, I kinda knew (altering my Corporatespeak to my original Working class mother toungue) Ricky was like into heroin, or at least shooting some shit up into his system - he was like an addict and shit like that... D'ynow he was on disability for that shit?" The blue plastic bin with the white silkscreened recycling logo flexed & slammed twice over again from another visit emptying my other cubical neighbors' divorce e-mails and Coors© cans.
As I was booting up my computer, I changed the subject and nonchalantly inquired in a friendly yet sincere voice, "So Carlos, when ya headin' back down to the family, eh'? - what has it been, like three years & shit?"
"No no no, man - I talk to them like every other week on the phone & shit. It's like I visit with them. The phone is like my vacation and shit man..."
I interrupted Carlos while I punched in my multiple computer passwords
jokingly inquiring, " So you must eigther like phone sex,
or you must have a rather high phone bill..."
Carlos put down the blue plastic can and slowly informed me that his job pays not only for the phone calls he makes to his family, but also to (I stand corrected) the "sex counselor" he "consoles" every night at 8pm before he goes to work (and before his wife comes home).
"Buenos noche!" Carlos blurts sideway as his scruffy work boots slide over the corporate fluorescent lit grey carpet pushing his Rubbermaid© bin into another unknown "start-up" department within another department emptying trash of people I don't know, have never met, need to consult, confirm, advise, manage, ogle, muster whimsy to, apply brown lipstick for...
"Aaight muchacho....!" I yelled into the corporate fluorescent lit grey carpeted trail with no answer as he disapeared into his own life.
I saw Carlos the next morning with a similar exchange.... The fiction of reality went on for months....