He was plowing toward me and I could see the spit lurking out of his mouth onto his red beard and streaming down his chubby chin, like an old wet bulldog. His usual copper cowlick seemed less unkempt, less "cool-kid-that doesn’t-care" and more like an intelligently-designed devils horn.
“All I got was this fucking Razor!” Chad, the segment producer cried as his keys jingled against his pasty, globular leg. He used his right leg to grab momentum and ride straight into my desk out of nowhere, Razor scooter first. He really was crying hard. It was horrifying to watch a grown man scream like a toddler but it was happening and it was happening at full speed into my very first cubicle. He knocked the plaque off the gray portable wall before the cube broke and fell itself. My very first office name plaque had said “Sean Hetherington, associate producer, NBC Studios” and it cracked in half.
If there wasn’t a coke addict on wheels (literally) slobbering toward my pastrami sandwich, I would have been furious. Instead I was petrified, a fat fawn headed for death by way of Mack Truck.
I didn’t know how to react and I had very limited time to decide what Reba would do, so I shoved my pastrami sandwich to the side so that Chad didn’t breathe on it as he crashed into my computer monitor, head on. I’d want to eat that later, to recover from this dangerously awkward moment.
Chad found out a few days before that he had tested positive for Shingles. He had Shingles running up and down his thighs and into his groin and his red-haired legs were covered in deep...
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