Well it turns out, Michael did want to hear why I had left unexpectedly that night. Sometimes I wish I could watch myself lie to see if I'm really that convincing. As soon as I start saying something that is opposite of the truth I can feel my cheeks heating up, I would imagine that the person looking at me might start noticing a faint blush. Or maybe it's not a blush at all, more like a "Holy Shit, did that girl just suddenly get Rosacea all over her face?" or maybe their internal dialogue is saying something like, "I'm pretty sure she just blew her nose with poison oak and just doesn't know it yet."
Whatever Michael was thinking, I was almost sure he knew I was lying. But there was nothing he could do about it. As soon as he walked away I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and wrote, "Emergency call from sister" on it. I stashed the piece of paper in my pen drawer and kept it there for the next time I would need to conjure up an excuse. Why would I do that? Perhaps it was the instinct inside of me similar to the one that tells a squirrel to store nuts for the winter when the weather is still warm outside. Mimicking my squirrel cousins I folded the piece of paper until it could not be folded anymore and saved it for later.
Now almost three years later I have added several things to that ratty piece of paper, all of them are excuses I've used to escape punishment at work. I write them down in hopes that 1.) No one in my office snoops around and finds the list thereby revealing all of my terrible, terrible secrets but mostly because 2.) A good work excuse, no matter how good, can never be used twice. So, when I have some quiet time (I have a lot of it) I review my list, I keep it fresh in my mind so that I remember never to use that excuse again. I've also evolved into separating my list into categories, I won't share the entire list but you can see what's in the "Why I was late for work" category:
- Flat Tire (I'm sure they saw right through this one)
- Ran out of gas on the way to work, had to walk to the gas station, a kind stranger gave me a ride back to my car which explains why I'm only 5 minutes late instead of 30 minutes, which is probably how long it would really take someone to recover from running out of gas on their way to work. ( A well crafted work excuse always includes details like "a kind stranger helped me out." No one would expect you to actually weave a lie that complicated...right?)
- My dog threw up.
- My cat threw up. (Don't ever make the excuse about YOU throwing up, save that for a "I'm not coming in today," excuse or if you show up, they'll all assume you're hung over and lose all respect for you)
- Had an appointment that I told you about, you just forgot.
- Spilled coffee on myself just as I was getting into the car and had to change clothes. (One of my favorites)
- Spilled my pre-packed lunch all over my car just as I was getting out, so I was actually here on time for work I just had to rub the ranch out of my upholstery before it stained. (Anyone looking at the inside of my car would automatically know I was full of shit on this one.)
- Helped an old woman pick up all of the items she had clumsily spilled out of her purse so she could make it to the bus on time. (Ahhh, helping others always a smooth way to get excused for tardiness, especially when they're old.)
There are more on the list but I feel as if I put too many on here I might start giving myself away as a "not so ethical employee" and that's not the point of this chapter.
Actually the point of this chapter is to introduce you to another character in my office saga who is frighteningly similar to "The Office's" character, Creed Bratton. Creed, of "The Office" suffers from memory issues and this is something you notice right away as he announces that his birthday was in 1925 which would make him 85 years old to date. Creed is obviously not 85 but probably just had his 65th birthday give or take a few years. My Creed is the same age.
My Creed used to be a roadie for the Grateful Dead, which he boasts proudly. My Creed, much like "The Office" Creed, was not born Creed at all but instead gave himself that name. But my Creed isn't really called Creed at all, his name is Duke (not his given name, remember), which I feel is just as good as Creed so it will remain Creed, or "My Creed" for the rest of the story. My Creed also has quite the musical background, he plays in a band at a local dive here known as "the biker bar" in town.
Creed is very forceful about his music and every Thursday he would ask me if I would like to come see his show. I would always come up with some excuse, remembering not to use the same excuses I had used under my "why I was late to work" category, though I did consider spilling coffee on myself once to avoid having to tell Creed that I would not, in fact, be coming to see his band play. Everyone knows a guy like Creed. If you're not sure who the "Creed" is in your life, think of the person you would use the word "permafried" for and that is your Creed. My Creed is definitely permafried, but would never admit to doing any sort of illegal drugs due to his suspicion that he's being watched by the government.
One day though, Creed got me and he got me good. What I mean by that is he got me and then later he got me again but better. Let me explain. Creed soon figured out that I was giving him fake excuses as to why I couldn't come see his band play, so hoping that I wouldn't take note of the day, Creed asked, "So, what's going on in the crazy world of Amanda tonight? You're always so busy, what's it gonna be tonight?"
Probably being tired and a little hung over from the night before, (yes I would come to work hung over on Thursdays as there was an open mic night I would go to on Wednesdays that always led to too much drinking) I wasn't paying attention to the fact that Creed was asking me this question on a Thursday.
"Nothing tonight Creed." I smiled, feeling somewhat good about myself. Here Creed thought I was some party girl who always had something to do every night of the week and I felt proud telling him that I indeed was not that person and that I had no plans. He knew that I would want to impress him with my lack of goals for the evening.
"Well then you can come see my show tonight." This is where he got me. I was caught in the spider's web and squirming would just bring more attention to the fact that I didn't want to be there at all. I agreed to go; Oscar would also be there that night, along with a personal friend of mine who I brought along as moral support.
Nine o' clock came swiftly that evening and soon myself, my wing-woman, and Oscar were all at the table drinking. Drinking for we all had that feeling that says, "This night miiiiiight be fun, but you'll need a few beers to really decide." I bought the first pitcher, Oscar the second. Then Creed walked in and you could see two things written clearly across his face. One was "I'm drunk" and the second was "I'm going to get them as drunk as I am." So Creed bought us the third pitcher. Fortunately we were sharing this amount of beer with quite a few people so we weren't as inebriated as Creed had hoped.
Creed started playing, and the band was alright, we were in a biker bar for crying out loud, there's a cap on how good a band playing at a biker bar can be. Unless you're a biker, you'll totally understand what I'm talking about too. This cap, a ceiling if you will, states that a band can only be so good if playing at a biker bar, and Creed's band was within its limits. What I'm trying to say is, they were good, . . .for a biker bar band.
Creed could see the classic signs of my wingman and I getting ready to "get an emergency call from my sister" a.k.a. "try to slip out unnoticed." Immediately Creed stopped what he was doing and stumbled to the front microphone.
"And, I'd like everyone to know that tonight is Amanda's birthday, so buy her a drink!!!" And this is where Creed got me good.
I could feel my cheeks doing that instant red thing again. WHAT had he just DONE??? Did he really just tell everyone it was my birthday in June when my birthday is really in September? Didn't Creed know how much I hated public attention? Suddenly, a loose woman dressed in pants too tight for her started to demand that everyone dance in celebration of the just announced birthday. This was getting to be too much. I could see the bartender pouring a shot of Jager for the birthday girl and I could feel things spiraling out of control.
Wingman and I decided to get out and get out quick. As soon as Creed was distracted we exited the bar, but not before wingman could grab the eleven ball off of an unsuspecting pool table as a souvenir. We later questioned what was going through wingman's mind when wingman grabbed the eleven ball, but when you've been drinking in a biker bar no one can really question your actions.
Update: Later the eleven ball was returned out of pure guilt for actually taking such an integral part of a game that so many bikers had grown to love. A dark cloud wearing leather and spikes followed that eleven ball and we would not be able to rest until it was returned to its rightful
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