Blubbery men. I cannot abide blubbery men.
Men who cry in public.
Not that I'm opposed to a little male emotion. A dude getting a bit teary-eyed now and again is normal.
But those guys who lose it during a public discourse... brother, please. We're trying to have a meeting here!
Recently there was a politician who broke down in tears during a televised speech. His wife went up to the lecturn to comfort him. Drag that guy out to the back alley and leave him alone to dry out!
Look, guys... getting a little choked up is understandable at times, but save your blubbering for private.
Please.
~o~
Her co-worker in the adjacent cubicle seemed to be blowing his nose a lot.
"Are you getting sick?" Stephanie asked.
"No," replied Michael, "probably just allergies."
A lie.
~o~
Earlier the other day Stephanie and her supervisor Roberta were talking about Steph's daughter and how she had lost her Guinea Pig the day before.
It was a light-hearted conversation. What to do? Put the body in the dumpster or dig a hole? The daughter wanted a proper burial, but Mom hadn't had the time to do it yet.
"You don't wanna know where he is right now," said Stephanie to her boss.
"In the freezer?" proffered Roberta.
Michael stood up into view and motioned toward the break room, implying perhaps he was in the freezer here at work.
Then he recalled a YouTube clip from an old Saturday Night Live featuring the "Yard-a-pult". Yard clippings, raked leaves, dead pets... just load them in the Yard-a-pult and pull the trigger. Shalllinggggg... over the fence and away they sail!" He shared that basic concept with them, and at least Roberta laughed.
That was yesterday.
~o~
This morning Michael overheard Steph and Roberta catching up, again talking about the dead guinea pig. Was it buried yet? No. Daughter still upset? Yes...
Michael slowed down... remembering the freezer... and an old memory flew through the window to haunt him once again.
He had once euthanized a beloved pet of his own.
This memory, very vivid, involving an especially traumatic scene, occupied his mind for a few moments, then expanded and pushed its way down into his heart.
The sunny and warm weather inside him turned grey and rainy. Drops began to leak through the windows and down his face. The storm, quietly gentle but shivering cold and growing darker, continued on for a couple of hours.
He had to go find privacy a few times...
~o~
"What is with you?" he asked.
"This happens every few years--" began Michael.
"Can I do you a favor," he interrupted, "and help you to change past history?"
"Is that possible?"
"Here's my idea: write a story about what happened, but change the outcome. Rewrite history. Machine-gun that ghost right out of the sky. Stop the haunting."
"I'm too... I can't... it may..." stammered Michael.
"I'll write it for you".
"Well, if you do, I'll read it when you're finished," said Michael.
"Then it's a deal," he said, offering his hand to seal the arrangement.
Michael's fingers nearly touched the mirror before he reached up and instead wiped his eyes.
