I sat down at the bargaining table and had a list of things I noticed about my back, laid out nicely on white stock with one-inch margins, in Times New Roman font, 12 point, justified for neat borders and legibility, lines spaced at 1.5 for added white space. I laid them neatly before me, and rested my palms on the table. Then my back banged its way into the room.
A baseball cap, turned backward, loose-fitting T-shirt and baggy jeans, dirty sneakers and a dirty look. I sat up, adjusted my tie, and folded my hands neatly in front of me. I tried to keep my expression blank.
“Well, Back, we seem to be having some … issues with one another. Are there any grievances you’d like to—”
“Yeah, I got grievances. I got a load of ‘em.”
“All right, why don’t we begin by hav—”
“First, you got lousy posture. You hurt me by walking like a jackass. You don’t sit right in your chairs. You drive with your wallet in your back pocket, like somehow your ass is gonna swallow that thing and be nice ‘n’ level.”
“Uh – all right, well, I—”
“Next, you’re too damned fat. Way too fat, you got that? Jeezuz, lookit you – you look like you swallowed a third grader. You think it’s easy to lug that crap around? Huh?”
“W-well I know I’ve—”
“What? ‘Put on a few pounds?’ No, Fatso, you’ve gained a person. No kiddin’, dipshit, I could cut you into two people of average weight. You think your bones are meant to carry that much excess blubber, Tubby? Gimme a break.”
“Hey, wait a minute, I—”
“No, you wait. You say you’re a manatee? You’re not a frickin’ manatee, ass-wipe, you’re a person. Supposed to be, anyway. Strap a kid of fifty, sixty pounds to your brain an’ see how well it works then. You think the brain’d put up with that crap? Huh?”
“Well, I-I don’t know ab—”
“Yeah, well I do know, and the brain ain’t about that crap. And you know what else? You don’t exercise neither. You sit around on your fat ass all day long staring at a screen – TV or computer, don’t matter. You don’t move. You think workin’ out is carryin’ the trash to the damned Dumpster and waddlin’ back?! It ain’t! You think that’s gonna help you with my issues? Huh?!”
“I-I know, I know, but ther—”
“And another thing – smokin’. You really think that’s smart? You’re out o’ work, for one, and you ain’t helpin’ your health sitchyation none by suckin’ on cancer sticks. You prob’ly can’t work out even if you want to. No wonder you’re so fat. Look, lard-ass, you’re doin’ nothing to help me help you out. I’m the one carrying all this crap around, literally. I’m the one with the third-grader weight hangin’ off me, and I’m the one expected to carry in the groceries, carry the kids to bed, carry out the trash, give you some nice peaceful sleep, and never complain, right? I’m never supposed to complain, izzat it? You unhappy ‘cause I hurt now an’ again, ‘cause you got a little sciatica? Here’s a piece o’ news, jackass: Get used to it. This is the crap you brought on yourself.”
I sat there, stunned into silence. I couldn’t make eye contact. I cleared my throat and adjusted my tie again, felt sweat bead and trickle in my hair and down my cheek.
“You got anything else?” he barked. I shook my head.
“Good. Later, Fatso.” He slammed his way out of the echoing room, and left me with my thoughts. They weren’t good.
All original content © 2009 DarcKnyt
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