I read the next name from the list.
Oh shit.
"Rage" owns the gym upstairs. He and his fellow muscle-bound types pump iron over our heads all day long. They specialize in personal sculpting and often times you can see Rage strutting his stuff on the balcony, showing off the product. When not throwing hundreds of pounds of metal into the air, he likes to complain about the smokers down below and his cell phone service. Sometimes we like to escalate his issues straight to management to watch him turn from white to glowing hot red while talking to Cock Bombay.
I see Rage coming toward me and can tell he is already angry. I wonder if he is upset because it's been years since he has been able to put his arms down? To be held hostage by one's own biceps must be upsetting. Alas, that's not it. He holds his phone up to my eye level and slams his other hand on the counter.
“This phone sucks.”
“I’m sorry, what’s going on with it?”
“It sucks!”
“Okay, how does it suck, exactly?”
“I mean it really sucks.”
“Okay, and what can I do to help you today?”
“You can fix it, Glamour Boy!” And with that, he throws the phone at me.
It hits me in the chest and, making no attempt to catch it, I let it fall to the floor before I take my leave.
“Excuse me.” I walk straight to the back.
I pound the access code into the keypad and burst into the hallway that is our break room. No one else is there and I'm relieved. My face is hot, first with anger and then embarrassment for allowing it.
I pace (as much as the small hallway allows) for 30 seconds, shaking out my hands. I look at the empty cardboard boxes discarded throughout the hall and decide kicking them would be too unfulfilling. Breathe. In a decade, I've never been the target of an airborne mobile device. Add to that the fact that this incident follows a day of frustrating ineffectiveness, of problems I could not solve, and it feels like the final straw. I might as well be the one with steroids raging through my veins. For hours, my defenses have been worn down by dropped calls, busted screens and expensive replacements. Then this asshole adds insult to injured integrity. Breathe, you idiot.
The realization that my absence will soon result in a coworker having to deal with Rage prompts my return. Better I deal with this than chance a more incendiary replacement. Shouting matches between my coworkers and customers happen almost daily and this one could end in violence.
My face cools as I reach for the door, step onto the sales floor and head straight for him. As I approach, it hits me:
“Wait...Glamour Boy?" I ask. "Really?”
Now we're both confused. I am confused as to why he chose my new nickname and he is confused, perhaps, as to why it didn't make perfect sense to me. To be sure, he is confused as to why I would challenge him on it.
My confusion leads to paralysis as, normally quick with a comeback, I am now dumbfounded. Lacking capacity for thought, I repeat,
"Really???"
He shrugs and I shake my head. I pick up his phone from the mat on the floor and hand it back to him. Not sure how to ask him to leave, I ask him if he needs his parking validated. He shakes his head like a stunned animal and quietly replies "no" as he turns to leave. Then he spins around on his way out.
“Wait, what?!? I own the gym upstairs. I’m here all the time! I park in the lot.”
I let his words fall as I pretend to try to recognize him. I squint my eyes, purse my lips and slowly shake my head in feigned ignorance. He knows he can't stay.
It takes a lot to slam a door on hydraulic valves. He does his best. Walking outside, he asks my smoking coworkers to cross the parking lot, away from his air upstairs. Acquiescing to the demands of a man who needs a small victory, they oblige and he retreats to the gym. I don't envy the dumbbells he finds up there.
