The Tourist
member
The day was dank and clammy. One of those south-central Wisconsin summer days that simply breeds insurrection and cow-tipping. You could almost smell the sizzle of graft wafting in like the 3:10 From Yuma.
I was at my desk nursing one of the most fearsome "morning after" headaches I had ever had. It had been "Taco Tuesday" at our local Chi-Chi's and I had hit the guacamole pretty hard. It was the only way I could blunt the terror of the trauma I knew fomented on the horizon.
My intercom crackled. It was the company president. An honest man. Driven. Funny. Capable. But he had one blind spot that would be his undoing. He didn't know the vile mean streets as I did.
"Hey, Chico, you busy?" he intoned in an innocent lilt. He could have just ordered me into his office. He was a tad soft to wear all of that brass.
"Yeah, I'll be right in," I snapped. Passive-aggressive behavior. I liked to keep the powers at arm's length and waiting. I also felt I might hurl into the wastebasket.
The CEO's office was overtly too large, a bit dim and crammed with numerous crushed leather chairs. It was a sad place of comfort, not readiness, at the helm of the corporations inner workings. It was going to be a future hub of sadness. I took a seat in an awkward angle to his gargantuan mahogany desk awaiting some meaningless assignment.
"I got a report from the techie guys that we had an alarm message on our system last night," the owner began, "It's probably nothing, but I don't like surprises at zero-dark-thirty."
My molars always ground when he used military lingo. He had beaten the army draft in his own time for 'flat feet.'
"Anyway, I want to avoid another serious breach like the last time," he spit with great invective, "Those raccoons had trash all over the parking lot."
I nodded, and that brought the headache back in all of its chromium delight.
"You packin' heat?" he asked bluntly.
"I have a Colt Officers ACP out in the Escort," I responded. When you work distressed credit you have to keep your options open. We had that little company car washed and waxed for immediate action.
"Well, effective immediately," he thumped with his class ring, "I'm making you the head of internal security, which permits you to be armed on company grounds. I want you here tonight for a very dangerous 'sting' operation."
I silently snickered. Yeah, this time there might be two raccoons.
The ebony cloak of the evening crept onto the city, my city, as I downed another handful of aspirin with a stiff drink. Those purple slurpees were all I could keep down. The Bianchi kidney holster was gouging into the lats of my back and I couldn't find a spot in any folding chair that the quieted agony of readiness. I could only wait. And 2:00AM was the backdrop for a lonely vigil.
Without notice the alarm lights flashed! The clarion sounded its omnious warning! I prepared like all warriors! I simply set down the slurpee and folded the newspaper.
My adversary was huge. Much bigger in person than I had imagined. Yeah, it was my job, I knew that when I signed on. I was the thin blue line. (Yes, blue. We got to wear jeans when off the normal company hours.)
There my nemesis sat, over seven tons of serious rolling metal.
It turns out that the evening garbage service used the rear loading dock to retrieve their dumpsters. Their trucks were just heavy enough to jiggle the alarm sensors when they bumped the leading edge of the cement platform.
I exhaled in that knowing manner that every spent boxer knows when standing in spotlight of victory. I had risked it all. My sleep. My lunch. Most of a bottle of aspirin, and a four dollar slurpee for which I was never comped.
But I was a mall ninja. And I had served the cause of freedom and easy safe egress.
I was at my desk nursing one of the most fearsome "morning after" headaches I had ever had. It had been "Taco Tuesday" at our local Chi-Chi's and I had hit the guacamole pretty hard. It was the only way I could blunt the terror of the trauma I knew fomented on the horizon.
My intercom crackled. It was the company president. An honest man. Driven. Funny. Capable. But he had one blind spot that would be his undoing. He didn't know the vile mean streets as I did.
"Hey, Chico, you busy?" he intoned in an innocent lilt. He could have just ordered me into his office. He was a tad soft to wear all of that brass.
"Yeah, I'll be right in," I snapped. Passive-aggressive behavior. I liked to keep the powers at arm's length and waiting. I also felt I might hurl into the wastebasket.
The CEO's office was overtly too large, a bit dim and crammed with numerous crushed leather chairs. It was a sad place of comfort, not readiness, at the helm of the corporations inner workings. It was going to be a future hub of sadness. I took a seat in an awkward angle to his gargantuan mahogany desk awaiting some meaningless assignment.
"I got a report from the techie guys that we had an alarm message on our system last night," the owner began, "It's probably nothing, but I don't like surprises at zero-dark-thirty."
My molars always ground when he used military lingo. He had beaten the army draft in his own time for 'flat feet.'
"Anyway, I want to avoid another serious breach like the last time," he spit with great invective, "Those raccoons had trash all over the parking lot."
I nodded, and that brought the headache back in all of its chromium delight.
"You packin' heat?" he asked bluntly.
"I have a Colt Officers ACP out in the Escort," I responded. When you work distressed credit you have to keep your options open. We had that little company car washed and waxed for immediate action.
"Well, effective immediately," he thumped with his class ring, "I'm making you the head of internal security, which permits you to be armed on company grounds. I want you here tonight for a very dangerous 'sting' operation."
I silently snickered. Yeah, this time there might be two raccoons.
The ebony cloak of the evening crept onto the city, my city, as I downed another handful of aspirin with a stiff drink. Those purple slurpees were all I could keep down. The Bianchi kidney holster was gouging into the lats of my back and I couldn't find a spot in any folding chair that the quieted agony of readiness. I could only wait. And 2:00AM was the backdrop for a lonely vigil.
Without notice the alarm lights flashed! The clarion sounded its omnious warning! I prepared like all warriors! I simply set down the slurpee and folded the newspaper.
My adversary was huge. Much bigger in person than I had imagined. Yeah, it was my job, I knew that when I signed on. I was the thin blue line. (Yes, blue. We got to wear jeans when off the normal company hours.)
There my nemesis sat, over seven tons of serious rolling metal.
It turns out that the evening garbage service used the rear loading dock to retrieve their dumpsters. Their trucks were just heavy enough to jiggle the alarm sensors when they bumped the leading edge of the cement platform.
I exhaled in that knowing manner that every spent boxer knows when standing in spotlight of victory. I had risked it all. My sleep. My lunch. Most of a bottle of aspirin, and a four dollar slurpee for which I was never comped.
But I was a mall ninja. And I had served the cause of freedom and easy safe egress.
