Boobie Tassels For Buddha

Normally I have been blogging about experiences in college. No tonight I have a list of demands and other lists that are sure to cause hilarity. Mainly in dealing with movies

I work at a book store in a pretty small town. I've been working there for about a year and a half and I've been greeted thousands of times by all sorts of different people in many different ways. I've also heard thousands of different farewells. For example, it rains a lot here, so I might say something like "stay dry out there" as the customer is leaving the check out counter. Or, "drive safe" to tourists, etc. They may, sometimes say something similar in return. But recently I heard what I think is the most bizarre "so long" ever. This guy was only middle aged (late 30s maybe early 40s). He looked pretty damn normal. Everything was just fine until he said what he said to me. I rang up his books, put them in the bag, gave his change and said "Have a great day."

I really enjoy the days when I'm on a specific assignment at work and I don't have to share a desk with people on other shifts. The desk I'm working at is in a separate part of the office, so I'm pretty much alone for the entire day unless I go on walkabout. No one else uses the desk on other shifts, because there are plenty of desks in the main part of the office and fewer people working. The supervisors also don't want people "hiding" at the back desk and slacking off. Slacking off at work is a privilege, not a right. And I have seniority.

I don't just enjoy it because of the solitude. I enjoy interacting with my co-workers...whether they enjoy it or not varies. Telling my one co-worker she's wasting her time taking the civil service exam and that she most likely won't even pass it would be one of those not enjoying my interaction times. People don't react to blunt honesty very well. It's her own fault...she told me to stop lying to her. That killed most of my daily fun. The last thing I was able to do was convince her that cyber sex was something robots did in Karaoke bars in Japan. It's not my fault she believes everything I say.

I'm wandering off point here. Where was I? Oh yeah, my desk.

It is nice knowing the solitude is there if I need it, and it makes writing blogs and wasting time on the internet a much less clandestine operation. Why I really enjoy it though is that I've discovered I am a rather anal neat freak. And my co-workers are filthy animals and need to be put down.

I like having things organized. It makes my brain happy and allows me to work more efficiently. I also like things clean. I'm not a germaphobe, far from it, but most people have their limits. I'll stick my tongue right in a girls asshole, but some unidentifiable yellowish grunge on my desk and I have to clean everything.

The funny thing is I KNOW most of my fellow employees keep a clean house or apartment. They are not unregenerate slobs. Yet they treat their desk at work the way a 2 year old would treat...well...most surfaces in your home. Something about being at work and any sense of manners or cleanliness just leaves their brains.

We have a lunch table, but most just eat at their desks. This is not so bad if you can eat like a human being, wipe your desk off and MAYBE wash your hands before working again. Instead you have crumbs everywhere and giant coffee stain circles staring at you. You have greasy fingerprints on the keyboard and (oh this is my favorite) on the monitor, because even though you have a pointer ON THE SCREEN it's easier for people to see what you are pointing at by actually placing your sausage fingers right on it.

I don't think I'm asking for much for people to treat their workspace the way they would if it was a space in their home. I shouldn't have to clean up after adults, should I?

Or maybe I'm the one that's a little too anal. I like things in order, I can't help it. I want to know where things are in case I need them. I feel comfort when things are alphabatized and numbered and put in their proper place. I like things clean and smelling fresh and not leaving excess residue on my person. It's not something that dominates my personality. I don't freak out and rage when things are a little messy. I just feel much better when they aren't.

Someone's eating potato chips. I can hear it.

*sigh*

I hope I can stay back here for at least a couple of months.

"Come here, I have to talk to you!"

"Alright..."

"Ok, listen...this has to remain confidential. I mean no one can know. Not even God."

"Of course," I say warily. Pharmacy customers can tell you some really disgusting tidbits, but I move to the side of the counter away from everyone else anyway. I figure this has to be more interesting than entering insurance reconciliation payments.

"You know I'm a nurse, an R.N., right?"

"uh-huh." And I do. She's mentioned it before now.

"Anything I tell you is confidential, right? I know it is. You're like my psychiatrist. That's why I like you. I can tell you anything."

This must be good.

"Well, I'm taking care of this older guy who's on chemo, chemotherapy, you know? He met this woman at church a few weeks ago. This morning he asks me if it would be okay...now listen to this...to take half a viagra. Can you believe that?"

We laugh for a minute like schoolgirls after the health teacher says "penis."

"This woman is like 75 and he's got to be 150, I swear." She wrinkles her nose up and glances at one of my coworkers. "I've got to watch what I'm saying around here. They might think I'm a (she lowers her voice to a whisper) prostitute!!"

I laugh because she's right. She's not far off at least. The entire time she's been here Eagle Eye, one of the Bitch Twins, has been watching every move she makes to ensure she isn't shoplifting on the $1 aisle. "They probably would," I say and roll my eyes a bit. A few, most, of my coworkers are pretty uptight and a little snobbish. Their sense of humor is close to nonexistent. "Is the churchlady interested?"

She scoffs. "In his money!! He's a millionare. He won't touch me though. I'd kill him if he did. Half a Viagra...I told him he needed to talk to his doctor. His chemo doctor. I don't know. He's got to be like 150."

"Well, at least he's still got, you know, the desire and all that."

"I better watch him closely. He better not touch me ever. He wouldn't do that. I'm sure he wouldn't. After he told me about it, I had to lock myself in the bathroom. I almost laughed right in his face. God. How old is she?" That last question is whispered as she nods her head toward a coworker of mine who is close to her age.

"53 or 54 maybe..." I whisper back.

"I thought she was like 62! Shit. She's only 2 years older than I am? I'm going to have to go to church after that," she giggles. "Do you think I should get highlights in my hair or would that be silly?"

"I think you should. I mean, look at my hair." I untuck my bangs from behind my ear. "It's like 3 different colors."

She looks over my labcoat at all my shiny flair. "I'm going to get some buttons like yours and a white jacket with my name and R.N. on it. I'll get a button that says, Jenniy's sister."

"You should," I say as the movie poster for Single White Female flashes through my head.

We laugh and her phone rings just as I'm asking if she's gotten a chance to read a book I let her borrow. The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga.

"Hello? Hey. Hey, no. I'm talking to my girlfriend. Can I call you back? Yeah, I'll call you back." She hangs up the phone. "Do what now, sugar?" she says to me...

"Have you gotten to read that book yet?"

"God yes. I'm almost done then I'm gonna read it again. You know how you pick things up the second time around that you've missed?"

"Yeah, I'm guilty of skimming through some parts when I'm reading."

"Me, too!! I think all good readers do. I love to read. I get up, go to work, and go home to read. I'm going to let my boyfriend read it. He is so fucking fine. And it's the best sex I've ever had. I can't let any of these other people hear me. God. They're nosy but you know all about that...I don't have to tell you a thing."

"Yes, yes I do."

She lowers her voice to barely above a whisper. "We should get together for coffee soon. Call me. You've got my number still, right?"

"Right here in my labcoat pocket, yeah. And we do. It'll be fun."

"I need someone I can talk to about things."

"Yeah, I get that. Most people around here probably don't get your sense of humor."

"Shit. No. I swear I'm going to quit saying those words tomorrow." She tosses that statement towards my coworkers in a louder voice. "But you do. That's why I had to come tell you about the old man. I figured you'd get a laugh. 150 and asking for half a viagra. On chemo. I think it's all in his head. Or at least I would hope. I've got to get out of here before I get you in trouble not that you'd get fired or anything. You're needed up here."

She turns to walk off and looks back over her shoulder. "See you in church, girl!!"

"Jesus, I really enjoy your company these days. You're really helping me get through my toughest days."

She has her eyes closed while she lays supine, head propped on a makeshift pillow. She carries Jesus in her heart and although she speaks to the empty room, she closes her eyes to focus the conversation inward. Some days she feels guilty for only opening up and allowing him in during her darkest hours. It should have been this way all along, she says on those days. Mostly she's just thankful for the support, love, and company.

"You are my savior in more ways than one, you know. You complete me and give me something to wake up for each morning. Our talks are so wonderful and inspiring for me, Jesus.

Yes, I know you're here for all of us and love us all unconditionally. That must take tremendous strength. Does it bother you that I never allowed you in until I was so hurt?

That's good, then. I'm glad you can understand.

Well, honestly, I don't think I've ever known unconditional love before now."

She smiles sweetly and drifts off, snoring lightly. It's been this way for weeks now. Her relationship with Jesus started as simple prayers for help. She lost her job, her home...she was repeatedly assaulted on the streets. She's had quite a time over the last several months and is very thankful to have this anchor to keep her steady. Her lowest came when she was picked up by the police just 3 weeks ago. She had turned to prostitution on occasion when she had no other means to feed herself. She hated every minute of it, but sometimes life just works that way, she has stated....you have to do things you'd never thought yourself capable of just to be able to survive.

She doesn't really understand what happened that evening. An older man picked her up downtown. He was nice enough and treated her gently. He even offered to give her extra money. She doesn't know why she attacked him with the box cutter she had in her jacket pocket, but she did. She injured him badly and likely permanently disfigured his face. When the policemen found her in an alley close to the man's vehicle, she was covered in blood and curled into a tiny ball screaming about wolves in sheep's clothing.

That was the night Jesus came to her.

The night of her salvation...

The days go by and her talks with the Lord Jesus Christ become more frequent and lengthy. She no longer lays with her eyes closed during these talks either. She sits in a chair in the room. She's alert and animated talking at length about any number of topics. At this point, she talks more than not pausing only to listen to Jesus' responses. The inappropriate direction these talks have taken has been surprising to say the least.

She gets flustered and flirty. Her face flushes and she rubs her hands over her thighs, up her sides, and occasionally over her nipples which always harden early on in the talks. And she's begun to rub herself through the crotch of her pajamas...

"I know it isn't right, I know. I need you...in my mouth, in my cunt, even in my ass, Jesus. Everywhere. I need that closeness with you just like all the preachers and ministers do.

Yes, I'm sure. How could I not want you? Your body is exquisite. Your cock is perfectly large, and on top of it all, you've been here for me when I needed you most. I need to show you how much that means to me.

Say what you want but I think you disrupted my whole life this way just so I could fuck you the way you need to be fucked. I'm here now, so take me."

She bites her bottom lip and sighs audibly when she calls Jesus a naughty boy for stroking his cock in the chair across from hers but never takes her eyes off that empty seat.

It's been quite a buildup and on this day, the number of observers in that little room behind the mirror has tripled since she first came here. Hospital gossip spreads like wildfire and it seems everyone wants a peek at the hot little number that fucks Jesus in observation room c. Someone has even brought popcorn. Off color jokes circle around the room mostly involving the woman's mental health...how much medicine would you have to feed her to keep her from biting your dick off but keep her coherent enough to give a great blowjob...things like that. Her primary diagnosis is schizophrenia and although with this illness, a stabilization of medication is necessary to decent functioning, doctors have withheld the meds needed to treat it. Apparently, her budding relationship with Jesus is much too entertaining to let medications ruin it for everyone. Instead, they opt for one medication to control her aggressiveness.

A round of applause roars through the gathering as she pushes her hand in her panties and starts finger fucking herself while screaming OH GOD Fuck me harder Jesus.

He sat alone. It was better that way. Behind him, on the other side of the room, an electric fan swayed back and forth. He could hear it working, but he couldn't feel the air moving around him. It was heavy. He could hear water dripping from the tap. It was late. Later than he thought it would be. He thought he would have gotten more done. He was wrong. His cigarette, lit, sitting atop the edge of a tomato soup can ashtray crackled the almost silent crackling of slow burning paper. He didn't listen for it now, he knew its song. He had once though,by accident, stuck in a similar spot. Not knowing what to do, lost in thought or rather lost in an absence of thought, he had scratched his ear, holding that cigarette between his fingers. Once he noticed it, just by his ear, it yelled at him, like logs rolling over top of a parking lot of light bulbs. Just put it down.