SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

In the wee-est of wee hours last Saturday morning, my friends and I were holed up at a table at Blue and Gold, where we’d been celebrating the weekend long before the stroke of midnight.

“No, no, no!” Will shook his head vehemently. “You cannot call yourself a ‘Trekkie’ if you never watched the original series.”
“Whatever!” I cried back. “I watched The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, and Voyager.”
“Who cares?” my friend T cut in, bored. “That guy in it is hot though. The one that’s the main captain guy or whatever. Y’ know, in the new movie.”
“Kirk, you mean?” I asked her, rolling my eyes at her ignorance.
“I dunno. He’s like, blond and–”
“Oh my God,” I cut her off. “It’s him!”
“The Star Trek guy?!”
“No–the guy that gassed me at work. The Farter!”

I had told both T and Will about my “breaking news” from the office–the guy that farted in a meeting and managed to pass it off as though it was me. And now I find him just a few feet away from me in a crowded bar.

Last week I spoke of unwanted run-ins: how often I encounter familiar faces that I’d just rather ignore. In broad daylight, this would be one of those faces that I’d flee from–and I’m pretty sure the feeling would be mutual. Around the office, we’ve avoided eye-contact any time we’re in the same vicinity.

But my standard rule of avoidance goes out the window when I spot someone I know while under the influence. And I had a serious bottled-up rage towards this guy. I had a fire in my eyes. Both Will and T could see it.

“Let’s just avoid that a-hole,” T advised diplomatically.
“Screw that.” Will said. “Payback time. You want me to go plant a bomb next to him? The burrito I had for dinner’s killing me anyway.”
“Ew,” T said. “Is that what I’ve been smelling for the past like, 30 minutes?!”
“What?” he shrugged, indifferent to her disgust. “Do you expect me to hold it in like a woman? Real men let loose.”

At this point, I tuned out their banter. My eyes were fixed on my target, my humiliator, who had just detached himself from his entourage and disappeared into the bathroom. I had no plan, yet I lusted for revenge. I saw him emerge from the bathroom. Beyond the point of rational thinking, I marched right up to The Farter before he had a chance to get back to his friends.

“Hey,” I said. “We work together.”
He recognized me immediately.
“Oh yeah. Hey.” He smiled. “How’s it going?”
“Well, everything was going fine.” I’d gotten myself all worked up. “Til you farted and blamed it on me in that meeting a couple of months ago.”
“Wha–” a look of shock fell across his face. He clearly hadn’t expected a confrontation, but I cut him off before he could protest.
“Seriously, what was that about? I was just an innocent bystander!”
“Uh, what are you talking about?” Oh, he knew. I could see it in his eyes. I think.
“The meeting! The meeting in March! Don’t act like you don’t remember.” There’s no way he doesn’t remember. Is there?

“Um, what’s going on?” I looked down, not too far down, and saw this slight yet feisty little brunette had appeared on the scene, hands on hips. I was beginning to feel unsure of myself.
“Aw, don’t worry about it babe,” he said, putting an arm around her. “See you Monday,” he smiled at me.
“It’s just some girl from work.” I heard him lean down and explain as he steered her and maneuvered past me. “She was like, hitting on me or something.”

What?! I spun around, feeling my rage come to a boil again.
“Hey!” I barked. They both turned. I looked at the girlfriend. “Your boyfriend is a lying sack of…of farts!”
She gave me a look of utter disgust–like she’d just caught wind of a foul smell. Appropriate. “What are you like, seven?”

Yes, in fact. At that point I was probably about seven drinks in. When I’m drunk enough to call someone a “sack of farts,”–seriously, Stunned?–I know it’s time to call it a night.

“Whatever,” I muttered. I stalked past them and flung myself into the booth with T and Will.

“What the hell was that?” asked T.
“Yeah,” echoed Will. “That looked like it went pretty poorly.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, apparently the only explanation I had for the rapid succession of humiliating events. “I gotta get out of here.”

I felt stupid and mortified. I also quickly became exceedingly anxious about having an altercation with a coworker. Jesus. As I was struck by the reality of the situation, I became increasingly sober, doubly horrified. “Seriously, let’s go.”

My friends could see the level of seriousness in the desperate look on my face. They immediately got up and followed me out the door. Naturally, The Farter and Babe were smoking a cigarette together outside of the bar.

As much as I wanted to run down 7th Street, I knew this was my one chance to make things right.

“Hey,” I said, cautiously approaching. “Hey, I’m really sorry about all of that.”
They just kind of looked at me.
“Seriously,” I insisted. “I was out of line.”
“Uh, yah,” Babe said, taking a drag of her cigarette. I was really not feeling her vibe.
“Look,” I said, turning directly to The Farter, just The Farter. “I’m sorry.”

He just stared at me for a couple of seconds–didn’t say anything. I backed away. I looked to my left: Will and T were standing off to the side, Will blatantly staring at the exchange while T texted, or pretended to text, someone. I saw her shoot a furtive glance in my direction.

“Well,” I started, trying to think of the appropriate endnote for all of this. In a fit of inspiration, or perhaps desperation, I held up a hand with my middle and my ring finger separated–a Vulcan salute from Star Trek. “Live long and prosper,” I told them–the blessing that accompanies the hand gesture. Then I turned and power walked down the street. Will and T trailed behind. They didn’t address the situation.

Besides, what needed to be said? We were all thinking the same thing: Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse. We parted ways soon after, and I spent the rest of the weekend trying to forget that the incident ever happened.

Unfortunately, you can’t run from your past. I arrived at the office at 8:30 on Monday morning. As I was pushed into the back corner of an increasingly full elevator, I saw The Farter step aboard.

My first instinct was to slump even lower into the corner, but eye contact occurred before that was possible. I stood there, cornered by a cluster of business casual bodies and frozen with my own internal panic. I waited for him to turn away so we could both lapse into proactively ignoring each other.

Instead, his hand rose, forming the shape of a polite, curt wave, but then, just as the shock of his acknowledgement was washing over me, his fingers diverged, forming the unmistakable Vulcan greeting. And just like that, everything was okay–better than okay. It was…dare I say it? Spocktacular.

Yeah, I went there.

Photo Credits: 4tnz.com, wikipedia.org