Gene-o the Dreamboat

I am delighted to report that I have an admirer at Terminus Busius (the bus station). His name is Gene, like the DNA strand and he makes my heart go pitter-patter—mostly just because I’m never confident of the location where he prowls. Whilst he once refused to make eye contact with me as I said ‘Good Morning’ and would promptly lock gaze with the ground as I meandered past, he now makes hourly trips into the copy room—where I’ve been stationed for the past week because Twitchy got his own hearing impaired intern (the only human willing to work for that psycho was a deaf chick) and she invaded my desk space so I was exiled to the mail room. Apparently having a slight handicap grants automatic grounds for someone else’s designated workspace. I’m slightly autistic and no one bestowed an office to my underdeveloped social skills and me. Okay I’m not actually autistic, but I do have a carnie hands, which makes typing quite the chore. I attempted to spin it as a learning disability when applying to college, but apparently “tiny pinkies” does not constitute admittance to Harvard. Fine you keep your geniuses with their normal sized hands… don’t come crawling to me when you can’t rescue the pin butterfingers Yao Ming dropped in the micro-scale fuel cell structure because you denied applicants with below average phalanges.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Back to my new love interest. Gene’s day job is bus depot gatekeeper aka he has graduated from bus driving to front desk operation. Therefore, I am forced to pass through his province each morning so he can “buzz” me into the ultra-secure offices where sly looters could potentially pilfer staplers and copy paper. Gene-o bridge troll that determines whether I will be granted the right of passage into this hell-hole. As I mentioned previously, I was under the impression that Gene shared the same aversion to me as my other black coworkers. Then he began the weekly inquiry about my relationship status. The first time he asked I informed him I was in a deeply passionate and committed relationship with a man whose name I cannot for the life of me remember. The next time he asked, I told him the same thing, providing the name of a different lover. We’re up to about five different boyfriends currently, so he either thinks I’m a floozy or that I’m lying to avoid his dinner proposition, which would likely consist of us going splitsies on a Red Lobster entrée. 

The heart wants what it wants.

 However, this is indeed not my first rodeo in the quandary of Dateline worthy coworker affairs. At my summer internship in Cali, a lovely Hispanic man by the name of Joel took a liking to yours truly, which he expressed in charming emails depicting illustrations kittens and flowers. I shrugged the first few emails off and just thought he had a soft spot for disturbing clip art. Nevertheless, to this very day, I do not know where he unearthed my email address. My little Peruvian tree frog also discovered the whereabouts of my office and became a doorway fixture each morning in his bowling shirts and Jynco Jeans. Then he began cornering me in the cafeteria until I was forced to enlighten my boss of my stalking situation. He seemed harmless enough, until she informed be that he had engaged in “ this sort of behavior before.” But instead of being alarmed that this sexual predator continually lurks in the shadowy corners behind the communal refrigerator waiting for the next female intern, I felt a smidgen betrayed that I wasn’t Joely Poo’s first choice of prey. Eventually, Joel had to cope with my imminent departure and he seized the occasion to tell me that I will forever remain in his heart as a member of his “family.” I’m not sure what incestual practice Joel engages in during his off time, but I’m not convinced I’m completely opposed. At any rate, that ship has sailed and I’ve set my sights on a new Steamboat… Geneboat the Dreamboat.

I haven’t been asked on a proper date in quite some time and I am beginning to think that by shirking Gene’s proposals, I am allowing something promising to slip between my miniature fingers simply because I am shallow to the notions that he looks like Bernie Mac, has probably fathered 15 illegitimate children, operates buses as his profession and our date will probably conclude with me tuck-and-rolling my way out of a moving getaway vehicle on the interstate. But beggars can’t be choosers and I’m hoping at least the initial portion of our sizzling rendezvous will consist of an underground reggae club supplying special brownies, an abundance of beaded dreadlocks and a footwear-optional dance floor delivering a continuous array of scenes from You Got Served meets 8 Mile. So this afternoon, I’m going to try and remember the name of this week’s boyfriend and kill him off in a tragic airboat tour accident, rendering myself completely and utterly available for a preliminary Popeye’s engagement where we can discuss the possibility of something further over a cardboard box of Louisiana’s “best” fried chicken and biscuits. Aunt Jemima in the commercials had better not be blowing steam up my ass.