Tacos with Fatties

In preparation for telecommuting in November, I took a bold step. My biggest client asked that I spent 2-3 days a week in their Denver office, and I said yes. The corporate cube life would certainly run amok of my typical routine of working from home. At home, I end up sleeping until I wake up (no alarm clocks allowed) and then hammering away on my laptop in a robe, sipping coffee until about 11. Civilized. Downtown, I'm wearing a tie and using a magnetic ID badge to pass through locked floors. At least, that is, until I fly the coop.

I've had a tough time adjusting. I find myself listening to my iPod, snickering at the Sports Guy's podcast or rapping along to Common and Kanye. This ain't the living room, though, and my colleagues' nervous glances make me feel like I'm breaking some sort of law. The shoes I wear to their office are great for going down to Obourn's (my boss who works from his home), but knackered Sperry topsiders look a little shabby in a hulking, soulless office tower. Hence the tie. I'm trying to fool them.

Rolling in at an hour I can only describe as ungodly, I'm shocked at how many people are already here. I mean, seriously. No one should try to permit a pipeline or make plans for oil and gas wells before 10AM, right? I've tried to "be a team player", as they're fond of saying around these parts, but I think tennis is more my game. Think of me as the lone wolf with a tennis racket. And a sweat band. And certainly some bad-ass kicks.

After I've put in a solid morning of work, I've taken to cruising around the 16th street mall, a big pedestrian strip running through town. There's an odd collection of business executives mingling with homeless vagrants, so far as I can tell. The people watching is really a nice diversion from four spartan, white walls and the occasional disembodied voice on the intercom asking that "Linda Hughes, please call the front desk." Oh yeah, and the pipeline permits. Maybe this is why I just took the GRE's in hopes that I'll go back to grad school and get a cooler job. Of course, I'll probably end up right back here, only in an office with a window. The test went well, by the way, so I'm thinking I'll get a big window. Sweet.

On my lunch break today, I headed down to Chipotle with hopes of rejuvenation. The day was moving along pretty slowly except for the news that a close family member had to check into the hospital, and instead of sulking in the office waiting for an update, I decided to head out for tacos. When you're helpless against fate trying to impose Sartre's Stranger on your life, you might as well get a snack.

The line was long, but October weather here is beautiful. Spending a few minutes outside waiting to be rushed through a line gave me time to think about the symmetry of the whole thing. The pigs, cows and chickens, so tastily marinated, grilled and chopped behind the counter, went through a similar sensation of waiting in line before being whisked through the rendering plant. I ordered veggie tacos.

My money taken by Chipotle (presumably on its merry, commercial way to buy more ingredients to feed to more people) I turned to find a seat. The choices were slim. A group of guys my age had an extra chair, but they were talking about football. I couldn't go back to that kind of conversation, not yet. There was a couple who could fit me in, the woman adorable with short, dark hair and nice skin. Playing third wheel would make for a heaping helping of awkward. Then I saw my destiny.

Three middle management types had commandeered a large table in the middle of the dining room. Three open seats stuck out, and just across the aisle from this inviting location were two cute girls chatting over burrito bowls. Ha! I could innocuously sit down, and perhaps strike up a conversation with these fine young lassies. As I strode over, my hopes were dashed. A horrible monster, unleashed by Poseidon to wreak doom upon my burgeoning sex life, waddled in front of me and stole my desired seat. The nerve!

Swamp thing was shaped like an egg, a pointy head nefariously attached to an oblong body without any regard for the need for a neck. Her hair was an odd mess of perm and dreadlocks, and her Kendle announced that she not only found herself infatuated by Lord of the Rings, but that she also starred as one of the ogres haunting Frodo.

"Humpty Dumpty," I thought, returning to my egg idea. "Humpty Dumpy." Yes, that'll do. Humpty Dumpy. So I turned to my third option, a table meant for four, though occupied only by a pleasant woman of about 50. She and I exchanged a few words, but spent lunch in relative silence. I didn't get to meet the cute girls, but I wasn't eaten alive, either.