Dad-gone Joe

It was time for another six month employee review. I had no idea.

Big Mike, the supe I'll be calling Irving from now on, motioned for me come down off the main feed. I removed my earplugs and then he thumb-signaled over his shoulder, "Joe's back there--he's got your appraisal."

I walked to the office, where the slim venician blinds, neat and gray, were drawn tight.

For some reason I wanted to bust in there like an angry man, then sit down and be full of silence. But that's hard when you have to pull the door open.

I stepped in, didn't nod, didn't say hello. I took a seat. He didn't say anything either.

Joe is a shortish, plump, bald with red freckling on his forearms. He's gruff, 60 years old, appeallingly ornery. He likes an audience, he likes to talk. Lately though he seems abashed and guilty about something, and it's been long enough I can't help starting to dislike him.

I know he misses certain people who used to work here. There were better days for him, when everyone knew him well.

He hasn't supervised me for a year, but this was the second time he was giving me my review. Last time he refused me a raise, citing absenteeism. The Boxx corrected that, explaining there was a glitch in some paperwork somewhere.

Now there were three pages. I didn't read them as I should have, but just made sure that all the boxes were checked that I "meet standards". No matter what, I was prepared to argue even though I am a slacker and any criticism would probably have been true.

There was one hand-written comment, written in a cursive script that may have been learned in a one-room country schoolhouse. "Stays out of trouble," it read. (To me this signaled some leeway but I couldn't think for what.)

I signed the paper where there was yellow highlighting and an "X". Then I slid it back across the table to him, without comment. Quiet was my weapon but I couldn't say why I was being cruel.

Joe holding the front page at arms length and looking over the top of his eye glasses. Arched brows, checking for news-worthiness.

"You got a raise..." he said, mistakenly, as if in answer to a complaint.

I felt like a mean peasent, almost surly. My resentment wasn't about his denying my raise last November. It was something I could only note to myself.

I always wanted for this man to notice that I liked him, that I hung on to every word when he spoke. I enjoyed his stories about fork-lift mishaps, Dui's, tornados, ex-wives and their low down lawyers.

But what did I expect in return?

I used to expect men this age to notice something about me and make sport of me, a spectacle even; I wanted to be pushed , I wanted to be impeached so I could argue and defend myself, laughing. Everyone laughing.

But old men are getting to be nearly my age.

That's what I hate. This is why I miss my dad's friends. No one plays this role anymore.

Dad-gone, dadgone. Somedays, it's really poor me, and I get mad, like crazy, like angry.