A big fan, someday.

Saturday, the first day of a three day weekend, it has a special magic. There is a cool breeze, and birds are singing, life is good. It would be a nice weekend without the extra day at the end. It is the weekend of the Indianapolis 500, if you like car races, I am not a fan, but they make a big deal about it. Auto races are very popular.

Once, when our son was younger, he played basketball on a spring travel team. We were going to a tournament in Louisville, and got stuck in the most awful traffic outside Sparta Kentucky. Cars and vans, campers, pickups, motorcycles all lined up for miles, inching along, doors open, people walking from car to car selling t-shirts, and hats. Beers were handed back and forth, laughing, hollering and general goofiness. It was a festive, wild party atmosphere. I hated being stuck in traffic, but it was an otherworldly spectacle. This was on the interstate highway, imagine what it was like inside. I decided right then that one day I was going to attend a big race.

For a brief time I worked in the office of third party warehouse. It was a huge place, ran by a huge company. One of my coworkers in the office was an ingratiating little man (the inventory control specialist (ICS)) who wanted desperately to be everybody's friend. He was willing to try almost anything to get people to like him, anything except being human. He told one of the warehouse workers he had a friend who get tickets to a big auto race in Michigan. Working for a huge corporation has some benefits and some drawbacks. Rules are not made to be broken, there is always some Human Resource nazi who makes sure that the ts are crossed and is are dotted, if you get my drift.

Vacation rules are a virtual battleground pitting the common man against the giant company. And since the company has all the cards (money) and makes all the rules they normally win.

Anyway, my office coworker, the weaselly little ICS told the warehouse worker (a burly, bearded, tattooed guy (and this was before tattoos were cool)) that he could get the tickets "no problem." So the warehouse worker took two days vacation. In a shocking turn of events the weasel could not get the tickets, and the human resource warlord would not let the angry warehouse worker rescind his vacation request, rules are rules, you know. 

Man, was he mad. Yelling and screaming, I got a fresh cup of coffee and settled in to watch the show. However, the warehouse manager and the office manager came over and deep sixed the opening act. 

Then, they turned on me. "Why didn't you do something?"

"I'm not security."

"Oh, it says in chapter 7 of the employee handbook that everybody is responsible for security, and you signed form 175.7A (that may not have been the number, it was something like that) that you read and understood the rules." They had me wriggling in the crushing grip of reason.

"Yes, I did sign that, but I didn't read it." Confession is good for the soul. It is not so good for performance evaluations, though.

As you can see racing is entwined through my life. So, I just have to figure out which race to attend and who I want to win.

A Trip to Human Resources, send food.

Yesterday Becky, from Human Resources, called us in to her office. A small, square, bland, cream colored box with a few posters on the wall, dealing with equal rights, equal pay, a few things about discrimination and one of a cat hanging on a tree with the saying "hang in there" across the top. Her desk was wood toned but did not really look anything like wood. Pictures of a life outside the building were scattered across her desk. Husband, children, pets, vacations, it was almost a biography of her last ten years, chronologically laid out across the sides of her work station. It was a perfect place for an ambush.

Becky looked pleasant. Bright, blond hair, a flowered, flowing knee length dress. She was tall, athletic looking and smiled politely as we sat down. Somehow the effect was awful, and hellish.

"We have had some complaints about your language in the cafeteria. Swearing, and loud threatening behavior. Many people find it intimidating, and offensive." She would look at a computer screen, glance at us, and then make a few small marks on a papers, in manila folders, and then starting the circuit over again. It was ritualistic, almost sinister. 

"Loud, abusive language is not tolerated. It is a violation of several policies. As department lead persons you should both know the rules." She said, her voice steady, monotone, and terrifying. She seemed to grow and a foul light swelled around her. 

The room grew colder and smoke curled around our feet, as she turned from the monitor and glared unblinking at us with an intensity, anger and animosity that was terrible, awesome and unbelievable. 

"It wasn't us." Joe said. "It was the girls from marketing. They curse, get loud, and laugh like hyenas."

"Oh," she said, typing furiously on her keyboard, as the lights and temperatures slowly climbed in the room. "It wasn't you two."

"No, we would never talk that way. We try blend in, not be noticed, being from the research department opens us up to all sorts of ridicule. We don't even want to draw attention, the less people see us, the better." I said, relieved, we were going to walk away without any problems. I was starting to breath again.

Becky smiled, kindly, generously, a Mother's smile. We were home free. "I'm sorry we troubled you with this, we will talk to these associates and get things straightened out."

"Yeah," Joe said, "we only sit by them because they are hot." 

Oh no.

A lock clicked behind us, and a small lightning bolt crackled to my right. It was going to be a long meeting.