It's 8:00, and I've already stayed much longer at work than I had intended, and on my way out, my boss pulls me into his office. Shutting the door behind him, he tells me to sit down, and I do.
He takes the seat opposite me, on the other side of his desk.
"Anybody else out there?" he asks.
"I don't think so," I say. "I'm the last one. Besides you, I mean."
"Listen," he says. "I want your opinion on something, off the record."
"Um, okay," I say.
He starts to unbutton the cuff on his left sleeve. "Do the employees hate me, David?" he asks.
"Er..." I start, taken off guard. "I can't really..."
"Just kidding," he says, now rolling his sleeve up to expose a large blood-spotted bandage on the inner side of his forearm.
"This is really what I wanted your thoughts on," he says.
Pulling off the bandage, he lays his arm, palm up, on the desk, and shoves it toward me. His forearm is covered with what looks like an angry sunburn that might have been previously mauled by a vengeful raccoon.
"So?" he asks. "What do you think?"
"It looks painful," I say. "Is it some kind of rash?"
"Yes," he says, pushing his arm closer. "But what does it look like? Who does it look like?"
"Who?" I say, and despite my better judgement, look at the thing a little closer, trying to think of two bleeding bits near the top as eyes.
"I don't know," I say, tilting my head to one side, and then the other. "Maybe John Rhys-Davies?"
"Who?" he asks.
"An actor," I say, and shrug.
He pulls his arm back and mumbles something.
"What?" I ask.
"I thought it was my father at first," he says, staring at the wound. "That's why I cut the eyes out."
I let out a brief involuntary sputter that I try to turn into a cough.
He looks up at me with a thoughtful expression. "That's a little weird, isn't it?" he says.
I try to look as non-judgmental as possible.
"It isn't my father, though," he says.
"Look," he says, moving his arm in front of me again. "Look closer." He points at a portion of his skin that might have been a mole before it became afflicted. "Under the nose...." he says, obviously trying to lead me somewhere.
"I...um...," I say, trying to make a show of analysis, but I mostly just want to leave.
"..." he whispers.
"I'm sorry?" I ask, not having heard clearly.
"Hitler!" he shouts. "It's the thrice-damned face of Adolph Hitler!"
I stare, and he stalks away, yanking his sleeve down.
Not sure what to say, I try to manufacture some kind of polite conversational noise and come out with something that sounds like an old woman's cough.
He turns back to me. "Didn't you get a degree in history?" he asks. "Shouldn't you know what Hitler looks like?"
"Um," I say, suddenly myself again. "No. No, I was a business major."
"You were?" he asks, arms falling limp to his sides.
"Maybe you're thinking of the Dave in Market Analysis," I say. "He did his Masters prospectus on Civil War economy or something."
"Odd," he says, sitting. "I could've sworn it was you."
I stand up. "Sorry," I say.
"Don't worry about it," he says.
I'm almost out the door when he calls me back.
"Yes?" I ask, standing in the doorway. He's holding his arm up to the florescent lights, looking at the Hitler Rash from the corner of his eye.
"Do you think people might pay to see this?" he asks.
He takes the seat opposite me, on the other side of his desk.
"Anybody else out there?" he asks.
"I don't think so," I say. "I'm the last one. Besides you, I mean."
"Listen," he says. "I want your opinion on something, off the record."
"Um, okay," I say.
He starts to unbutton the cuff on his left sleeve. "Do the employees hate me, David?" he asks.
"Er..." I start, taken off guard. "I can't really..."
"Just kidding," he says, now rolling his sleeve up to expose a large blood-spotted bandage on the inner side of his forearm.
"This is really what I wanted your thoughts on," he says.
Pulling off the bandage, he lays his arm, palm up, on the desk, and shoves it toward me. His forearm is covered with what looks like an angry sunburn that might have been previously mauled by a vengeful raccoon.
"So?" he asks. "What do you think?"
"It looks painful," I say. "Is it some kind of rash?"
"Yes," he says, pushing his arm closer. "But what does it look like? Who does it look like?"
"Who?" I say, and despite my better judgement, look at the thing a little closer, trying to think of two bleeding bits near the top as eyes.
"I don't know," I say, tilting my head to one side, and then the other. "Maybe John Rhys-Davies?"
"Who?" he asks.
"An actor," I say, and shrug.
He pulls his arm back and mumbles something.
"What?" I ask.
"I thought it was my father at first," he says, staring at the wound. "That's why I cut the eyes out."
I let out a brief involuntary sputter that I try to turn into a cough.
He looks up at me with a thoughtful expression. "That's a little weird, isn't it?" he says.
I try to look as non-judgmental as possible.
"It isn't my father, though," he says.
"Look," he says, moving his arm in front of me again. "Look closer." He points at a portion of his skin that might have been a mole before it became afflicted. "Under the nose...." he says, obviously trying to lead me somewhere.
"I...um...," I say, trying to make a show of analysis, but I mostly just want to leave.
"..." he whispers.
"I'm sorry?" I ask, not having heard clearly.
"Hitler!" he shouts. "It's the thrice-damned face of Adolph Hitler!"
I stare, and he stalks away, yanking his sleeve down.
Not sure what to say, I try to manufacture some kind of polite conversational noise and come out with something that sounds like an old woman's cough.
He turns back to me. "Didn't you get a degree in history?" he asks. "Shouldn't you know what Hitler looks like?"
"Um," I say, suddenly myself again. "No. No, I was a business major."
"You were?" he asks, arms falling limp to his sides.
"Maybe you're thinking of the Dave in Market Analysis," I say. "He did his Masters prospectus on Civil War economy or something."
"Odd," he says, sitting. "I could've sworn it was you."
I stand up. "Sorry," I say.
"Don't worry about it," he says.
I'm almost out the door when he calls me back.
"Yes?" I ask, standing in the doorway. He's holding his arm up to the florescent lights, looking at the Hitler Rash from the corner of his eye.
"Do you think people might pay to see this?" he asks.
You're late!
Posted by: Q | September 12, 2007 at 04:03 PM
I laughed. And shuddered. Another dreadcrumbs masterpiece.
Once the eyes scab over, the thing really will look evil, I bet.
Posted by: Ruby Diamond | September 12, 2007 at 08:05 PM
Heil!
Posted by: Enna Isilee | September 13, 2007 at 05:09 PM
LOL! Haha. That was way to funny. Did that REALLY happen though>
Posted by: maribeth_kayla | September 15, 2007 at 08:11 AM
Oh man! This one was a doozie! "Under the NOSE!" I am still in stiches, but this time BETWEEN classes! :)
Posted by: co | September 17, 2007 at 08:40 AM