Coming into the office on a day like today really bums me out. Right now in San Francisco the rain is coming down so hard the streets are beginning to cry foul. Trees have decided today is the day to get back at all those cars who have smashed into their brothers and sisters along side freeways around America. The cross walk lights have decided to get a little extra time in the don’t walk position. My bus driver just laughed at me while I waited on the corner, soaked from head to toe, while he proceeded to play that game of, “door is opening, nope the door is closed.” I hate that game. Its like when you were a kid and your brother was old enough to drive and they would say, “go ahead, get in the car” and then move it just as you reach for the door handle. Fucking asshole.
Working on the 31st floor of a building that is made to withstand a large earthquake is both comforting and terrifying. This building creeks…A Lot. Stand next to the windows and you get the full effect of a building that is “supposed” to sway. Look outside at the not yet finished building across the way and you start to think life is beginning to treat you like a character in a Final Destination movie. A strap breaks, a cart moves towards the edge of the building and you think there is no way this will be good, but at least I am safe on the 31st floor of this marvel of engineering. And then the large crane along side the building shifts more than it normally does, definitely more than it has been since you’ve been keeping an eye on it. The crane is at least 10 floors higher than you are and it no longer looks too sturdy. So I’m sitting there troubleshooting an issue on a user’s machine, while watching the crane move around like a wibble wobbling but not falling down. I’m safe as I leave the office, except then the window washing gear was not fully secured atop the building and as I’m getting my morning bagel in the break room, sipping on a hot cup of joe, the contraption slides off the roof and crashes into the windows. I dive to save a lady from certain death, because that’s just me and I can react that fast to dangerous situations. She’s safe and everyone is running out of the room with their food, cause who really passes up free bagels and Peet’s coffee on Friday? I’m the last out and I’m thinking I’m gonna be alright, escaping death, but then a gust of wind blows the equipment back into the window, and a short bit of rope wraps around my ankle, as if possessed by the soul of the snake my brother, cousins, and I tormented with rocks 15 years ago. I get pulled out the window and dangled from 31 floors up before the un-natural wrap that seemed so tight on my ankle now loosens up and I fall to a very sad demise, most likely hitting metal beam after metal beam on the way down.
That would really suck and its unlikely to happen, but at least I wouldn’t have to suffer through a full day of wet sock like I am now. Wet sock is what I truly hate about rainy days. Its bad enough when it happens at home while doing the dishes, but when you’ve got to suffer through it for a whole day, its like the gods have decided its fuck with ME day. Its like each of them takes turns coming up with new ways to make a shitty day turn into a one of those ones you will remember for like at least 30 or 31 years. You tell your grandkids “Back when I was 32 and working in this huge steel marvel of a building, it rained so hard downtown San Francisco was under 3 feet of water, and I got wet sock trying to get to work. Wet sock was followed by wet pants and then wet boxers, until I was just soaked like a drippy dog thrown into a swimming pool.” And then the grandchild will look at his mother and say something like “Grandpa smells like old people and Scotch mommy.” So what’s really worse in that scenario, your 5 year old grandchild knowing what Scotch smells like, or knowing you have finally hit the stage where you are infected with that old person smell you use to hate when you were a kid? Well neither feeling is worse than your thick sopping sock clinging around your foot like a condom re-enforced with glue and a rubber band at the top.
Whatever happened to rainy day schedule? On the west coast its the closest we ever got to snow days. Recesses were cut, and lunch was shorter, but at least we got to go home early and change out of our little pants and shirts and, thank any of the gods to the high heavens, our disgusting socks. Why is it that as you get older all the good rules that seemed to make sense when you are kid suddenly have no meaning in your adult years? Its colder and wetter than an Orca in the Arctic and guess what you’ve got to work today. Your kids get out early and have to somehow get home in winds that blow harder than, well something that blows really hard with no sexual connotation whatsoever. But, you my friend are stuck in the office, building shaking, with a broken umbrella, two soaked feet wrapped in a thin layer of cotton or wool, trying to figure out “what the fuck am I going to get for lunch, and should I swim or wait for a canoe”, awaiting the 5 o’clock hour so you can start your longer than average commute in the ever so safe dark, cold, wet and windy night. I love work, don’t you?
Yes, today has become a day of sadness and regret. I’m sad because my socks are wet and even if they do dry, I’m going to have to at some point stick my feet back into shoes that have absorbed so much water, I could add soap and wash dishes with them. I’m also full of regret because a few years ago when living with my old roommate I thought it would be funny to spray the carpet outside his door with water and then call him out to the living room in the morning just so he’d get wet sock first thing after he’d gotten showered and dressed and ready for work. Dude, I’m sorry, that was a fucked up thing to do. Worse than when I’d put the song Barbie Girl on so loud you could hear it when you got out of the shower and I’d already left with my computer locked and the song playing on repeat. The gods have finally received your tributes and have taken their revenge seven fold. Please tell them to stop.
