So I make it to the training office in my early fashion and take out my copy of the daily Metro to wander through until I hit the crossword. I am stopped at page four thanking god that I did not put down the deposit for that trip to next years Carnival yet. The article title stabbed me in the heart, “Public Urination Now Banned at Carnival.” Seriously? What, am I supposed use one of those filthy Brazilian toilets? No way el capitan. I think of how that kind of banter would kill at the quarry but in the river of political correctness of public service I would have to keep the stakes and matches out of the room as I commenced said banter.
Soon enough the corner “oreo cookie” is formed. No, this isn’t as a veiled reference to some kind of race bending three way. It is a mildly racist description of the seating arrangement at the corner of the table. It is I, white as the driven snow, who sits between Ahab and Lucky, both sons of Africa. They are both the nicest guys you’d ever meet. Both are men of faith and strict moral fiber. My own soul sitting between them mirrors the crotchety old man who beats your first puppy to death with a rusty shovel while humming the riffs from AC/DC’s “Whole-lot of Rosie”. I suspect they still talk to me knowing that they will not have to see me for any kind of eternity because in my afterlife I will be traveling south to a place far more tropical in temperature. Yes, its pity.
The members of the cookie start in with the small talk. It seems that when Lucky and I get out in the field on the night shift the woman who will manage us is kind of a ball buster. We start to mock Florence Crabtree, our soon to be manager’s, by the book attitude. The mocking escalates to Ahab referring to Florence as Hitler. Now this is a field I can play on. It was impossible that my father’s extensive knowledge of the Third Reich couldn’t have trickled down at least a little bit to me as did his knowledge of the filthy humor of Red Foxx. I played hard on this field. I flailed trying to grab anybody I could to circle the bowl with me with my exclamations of Achtung. I even referred to Lucky and I’s plight as unser kampf, our struggle. It was a good time and I finally belonged. It was like I was back at the quarry again.
Sometimes some genies need to stay in the bottle as some people need to stay in the bible. Later in the day in a moment of humorous fervor Lucky reveals to old man Patterson that we were referring to Florence as our “gestapo dictator”. Lucky did this over my multiple low growls of the word “nein”. After being dressed down by Patterson Lucky turns to me and asks, “What is nine?” I reply that it is two things. It is the German word for “no” and it is the number of fingers Great Uncle Horace Cornwallis was left with because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut either. I hope lucky can hold his bladder because I’m sure public urination isn’t allow for us in hell either.