2/17

There's a man looking at me.  Peering at me from just beyond the glass doors.  The locked glass doors.  He stands with his hand over his brow, pressed against the glass.  To block the reflection, I imagine.  To keep a steady gaze on me.

And it's early.  The sun is just barely making its presence known, and the delivery order of baked goods necessary to open the cafe is right by his feet.  Right by his dirty workman's boots.  Of course.

As I approach, rather slowly, he turns and spits into the bushes, though a considerable amount winds up streaking across the window.  He then drags his forearm over his stubble and resumes his gaze.

I take a moment to fully appreciate how painful the next few moments of my life are going to be, then I open the door.

And he gets right into it.  Rattling off names and missed communications and jobs that aren't done that need doing and locations that need attention that don't have any and, "hey, I was told by Mr So-and-So that you were the guy to let me in, and I just need to get right in here, right past that door there, and I'll be back outta here in no time; now Mr So-and-So said you were the one to talk to, so that's what I'm doing."

I don't realize I've raised my hands above my shoulders in surrender.  That my head is shaking from left to right to left as if broken.  As if in disrepair.  Then, in a panic, I reach for the bag of baked goods.  And we lock eyes for a brief moment, as I get a firm grip, before I turn and sprint down the hall.  Letting the door fall back into frame.

It is fairly embarrassing though, when I have to stand there, within plain view, and wait for the elevator to arrive.  As someone lets the man in, and he passes behind me with a flurry of curses.

Wonderful morning.