The Annoying Co-Worker

"Dude. It's ketchup. Not catsup. #weirdpetpeeves" via @rachaelnicole

The above quote sums it up nicely, doesn't it?  It's like, why have two vastly different spellings for one thing that doesn't need to have two spellings?  That's one of those great things about the English language: we have many different facets to annoy people.

I haven't worked in about a year (August) and I'm pretty certain none of my old co-workers read my blog, mostly because I've been under their radar ever since I left, so I think I'm in the clear to tell you about Joshua.

Despite his appearance, Joshua was like, 22 years old (looked 32).  He was from So-Cal (Southern California, for those of you who aren't cool).  How did I know he was from So-Cal?  He drove a giagantic 1990 Ford F250 with a huge graphic over the back window that said SOCAL in like, that Mexican gangster font.

Are you starting to get an idea about what kind of dick this guy is?

So he's from So-Cal, and he's a surfer.  That makes sense, honestly.  That's like saying you're from Beverly Hills and drive a Porsche.  What doesn't make sense about this guy, at least to my knowledge of Southern California, is he dressed like a fucking cowboy.

To compound things, he completed his look with prescription Wayfarer sunglasses, that he'd wear 24/7.  Yes, even at night, outdoors, in all sorts of weather.  They were complimented by a bushy mustache.  Not an ironic mustache, but like, a serious one.

So, outwardly, you can tell this dude is awkward, right?  Well, he was awkward AND a dick.  A total dick, at that.  This guy could be a straight dick even on his birthday.  What made matters worse was that he was also my supervisor.

It was a weird turn of events at my last job: I transitioned from whatever I was doing before, to this new gig, and I while I was older, more experienced, I had to take orders from Joshua.  And he loved that shit, probably because he himself was bullied by chicanos while growing up in So-Cal.  This would also explain the need to overcompensate with a gigantic, out-dated truck even when gas was hovering around $3/gal (2010).

I think Joshua was from the "carrot or the stick" school of learning, because that was his approach to supervision.  Largely I kept to myself and did what was asked of me, but he liked to needle; he'd find a way to go out of HIS way to fuck with me.  Even if it was these little jabs to get under my skin.

This is where the "catsup" and "ketchup" thing comes in.

I was eating lunch in our little break room and he comes in, his boots clunking across the linoleum. 

"What's for lunch?" he asks, addressing me by my last name only, which I fucking hate.  I glance up at him, and in an effort to be polite (because I was raised in a loving household, and not by wolves) I answer the question.  I don't remember what exactly I was eating, probably a sandwich, but it doesn't matter.  It wasn't anything that required ketchup.

"Well, how about some catsup?" He asks, like, completely randomly.  He sits down across from me, staring at me thru those black sunglasses, indoors mind you.

"'Catsup?'  Do you mean, 'ketchup?'" I ask him between bites.

"Ketchup!" he starts in, "huh, you MUST be a yankee, it's called 'catsup,'" and my skin starts to crawl.  Like, how he was saying the word "catsup" felt like he was molesting my ears.

And NO SHIT I'm a yankee.  He knew I was born and raised in Maine.  And since when do people from the west coast call US YANKEES?!

I think at that point I blew him off with a "whatever" and went back to my lunch and phone, but it didn't stop there.  For the rest of the day he'd find some way to amuse himself by uttering the word "catsup" in my presence, like working it into conversation where it didn't really fit.  Total over-extension, in my opinion.

"Yeah, you could say my truck is CATSUP red...." I'd overhear him say to someone else while I was a solid 20 feet away.

I typed into google "the one black guy" and got Lando. #win

Granted, for the two and a half years I worked at this place the dude seemed to go way out of his way to fuck with people, not just me.  That is, unless you were standing around with the one black guy that worked with us.  Rog was like Joshua's kryptonite.

What was great about Rog was he did not give a fuck about anything.  I don't know if that's a "black" thing or not, but he would always call it like he saw it, especially to Joshua.

Example:  Joshua was talking some bullshit before our semi-weekly morning meeting, and Rog walked in the room.  Rog is from Miami, short, but built like a pittbull.  Nice guy tho, unless you fucked with him.

Upon entering the room and hearing the flow of bullshit coming from Joshua, Rog stops by the door, leans in, and barks.  Not the DMX bark, but his voice has this jarring, sharp pattern to it.

"YO JOSHUA, SHUT THE FUCK UP." He doesn't shout it, but his voice just carries.  Everyone around the Horseshoe Table (that's what we called it, because it was horseshoe shaped) goes dead-quiet, the tension filling the room like helium fills a balloon.  After a long ten seconds of Rog staring into Joshua's black sunglasses (indoors on a rainy Monday morning no less) Joshua stands up and walks out of the opposite door.

He didn't make it back for the meeting.