The waft of afternoon boredom was intoxicating the very fabric of my inner sanity, numbing the importance of drafting discovery pleadings and ripping apart the sinews of what awareness I had left on a post-meridian Friday.
For the last two hours I have been waging a war against the ever-beckoning quiescence with the fact that I won’t be home till Helios himself whips his horses to their stables.
Alas; another four hours of brazen agony.
“Holy crap,” I thought to myself. “If I have to stare at another piece of legal literature, even so much as a caption, I’m going to think of something drastically morbid to do to myself.”
I switch my eyes nearly 90 degrees (I’m bad at math, so somebody help me out here) and see a pile of backers, the end of which seems to go down deeper than Mariana.
“Well, I really don’t want to waste my life over this; God expects more. So nothing drastically morbid today.”
I rotate my eyes slightly again and see a little orange-green globe on my desk. Thank goodness for my co-worker’s appreciation for vegetables: on my Kleenex box (which I rarely ever use; I don’t believe in germs—it’s all superstitious) rests a Mandarin orange that she gifted me two weeks after she started.
She started in February. Today’s May 29.
For a while I felt bad for not eating it right away and made an effort to some day pry open the rinds of that sweet li’l clementine and taste the succulent nectars within. But when it started to turn green, I thought maybe eating it wasn’t so much of a good idea anymore.
So one day I grabbed a Sharpie and drew little eyes and a mouth on it, and decided to name it Gourdo, after my father. (Okay, not really after my father.)
One of the eyebrows is slanted, echoing an expression made titular by a certain Hawaiian pro-wrestler. The mouth is half closed, half bared, fully grinning; you know, like in the Ninja Turtle comics?
Then I delved deeper into my inner creativity and mused for some imaginary situations Gourdo could stumble into.
You see, the office life isn’t the most thrilling in terms of things physical, so I thought maybe my little fruit could go on some adventures for me. Thusly, during the night, when all is quiet and asleep, Gourdo secretly comes to life, speaks in a very self-reflective way, and explores the very canyons of a downtown Chicago suite.
The very first of these adventures has him come upon a most monstrous element, the very Leviathan of offices: the copy machine. And do not presume that our copy machine is any standard one. Heck no: ours is the latest and greatest, housing all the special features an office could ask for: a fax machine, an email scanner, COLOR COPIES, and 1001 trays.
And yet, it still has problems. (Don’t they all?)
But to Gourdo, it’s a symbol of treachery; Mr. Xerox (as I’ve come to call it) also comes to life, and pitilessly taunts Gourdo with his booming James Earl Jones voice (but boomier than in Star Wars).
“*Gasp!* Egad! The very bane of my existence!” exclaims Gourdo (or something cliche to that effect). And, in his attempts to show Mr. Xerox who’s boss, causes certain features to malfunction so that, the next day, when Selene goes to her sleeping chambers and the office is brimming with human life once again, one of the legal assistants gets blamed for breaking the copy machine.
I need to think of more interesting stories for Gourdo…
But back to work!