Cha Cha Cha Changes . . .

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It’s Saturday. That means I’ve been in the office since 7:00 a.m. and I’m bored. I’m tired of my old blog image/moniker and thought it was time for a new one. This blog doesn’t let you get a good look at it so I thought I’d post it in case you want to take a look. Yes. I stripped off all of my clothes and stood on my desk wearing only my underwear and took this picture. It was a deliciously insane moment. I assure you there’ll be more.

Speaking of insane and apropos of nothing, I have an associate who’s worked for me for about 10 years. He’s a super nice guy and more loyal than a dog rescued from the SPCA. I think he’s actually incapable of lying as well. I think he’s autistic or something and is like one of those Rainman idiot savants but very high functioning. I just keep him in the office and let him work on stuff. He doesn’t try cases or meet with clients and rarely goes out, unless it’s just to keep his mouth shut and take notes. I think his biggest problem is that he’s socially retarded. I believe he functions emotionally somewhere between a ten and twelve year old. Don’t get me wrong, I love this guy and would take a bullet for him. He can’t say an unkind word about anyone and is very loveable.

But he drives me fucking crazy. It’s hard to work day in and day out with someone who’s retarded and more immature than me. Here’s what I have to deal with to one extent or another on nearly a daily basis. He’ll come to work and will have only shaved half his face. The other half is bleeding from dozens of nicks. I don’t think he brushes his teeth. He had green stuff visibly growing on them at one point and I forced him to go to the dentist. He regularly forgets to use deodorant. His shirt always comes out of his pants and he often forgets to wear a belt. His fly is usually undone first thing in the morning and now I have developed the horrible habit of checking his crotch first thing every morning. This is an actual conversation that took place:

DENNIS: Tom, your fly’s down man. What did I tell you about that?

TOM: [Says nothing while his expression deteriorates into a mass of uncontrolled tics and grimaces].

DENNIS: Tom. Where’s your belt? No belt today?

TOM: [More grimacing and tics] Um . . . Well, I had to take the bus today.

DENNIS: [Says nothing but wonders if a belt is acceptable bus fare these days].

He laughs like a mental patient (picture Herman Munster laughing) and always to loudly and at things that aren’t even funny. He lived with his mommy until he was around 35. Then I finally forced him to get an apartment because his mom was interfering too much in his life (i.e. work). He won’t drive a car because his mommy wouldn’t let him get a license because she was afraid he’d get hurt. He also can’t throw a ball of any kind and will always drop whatever you try to throw to him regardless of how gently you throw it. He can’t ride a bike and walks with a fucked up gait. His shoes are always untied and he’s bald on top. I don’t care about the bald on top part, but he grows his hair long on one side to sort of do a comb-over, but he doesn’t know how to do it. So he just has this long hair on one side that has a mind of its own and does weird shit.

He has fucked up rules about everything and will come in my office every morning at the same time just to say “Good Morning” even if he’s already greeted me at the coffee machine and exchanged pleasantries. I’ll say, “Tom. Why did you come in and sit down just to say good morning, when we already said good morning at the coffee machine?” Then he’ll give me a really strange look and then say, “But I come in here every morning and sit down and say good morning. I hadn’t done that yet.” So he sort of has to stick with his routine or he’s fucked. (I said he’s brilliant and loyal that’s why I keep him – and he works for next to nothing.) I have to force him to wash his coffee cup. There’s always shit growing in it. I’ve been after him for 10 years to carry a hankie or some tissues. He wipes his nose in traditional five-year-old-style. If you tell him he has something on his face, he immediately will lick his hand and start wiping wildly – without even knowing where the offending schmutz is. Here’s a typical conversation. This happens almost every day:

DENNIS: . . .and don’t forget to check whether service of process was properly effectuated by plaintiff’s counsel with respect to . . .

TOM: [Deep sniffing sounds followed by his sleeve rising up to his face.]

DENNIS: NO! STOP! NooooooOOOOOH!!!

TOM: [Pausing with his arm three inches from his nose and staring at me like a dog about to steal a chicken leg off the kitchen counter.]

DENNIS: Tom! I’ve told you fifty million times! Get a hanky. And stop wiping your fucking nose on your sleeve god-damn it! You’re not five!

He owns hundreds of DVDS and videos and watches several every night and all weekend long. He’s never had a girlfriend or a date or anything like that. He has no social life and I was over his apartment once and can understand why he has no life. It’s gross. The other day he stopped in to tell me he was up to “S”.

TOM: I’m up to “S.”

DENNIS: Huh? What the hell are you talking about?

TOM: “S.” I started “S” last night.

DENNIS: What do you mean?

TOM: I finished Running with Scissors – that was my last “R” movie. Now I’m watching the “S” movies.

DENNIS: “S?”

TOM: Yes. Santa Clause Is Coming To Town. That’s my first “S” movie.

DENNIS: Yeah but Tom, that’s a cart . . .[pause]

TOM: [Blink Blink]

DENNIS: [Blink Blink] I need some coffee.

Anyway, this is every day. Day in day out – every day for the last 10 years. I’ll let you know why I don’t eat lunch with him anymore – but that’s a separate blog. He actually stopped in my office while I was typing this. He works Saturdays too. We were chatting about a case not 5 minutes ago when all of a sudden I smelled something really rank. Far worse than anything I’ve ever previously caught a whiff of associated with my associate. My first thought was, “That’s fart! He just farted in here!” It was so bad I had to keep my mouth closed to avoid tasting it. And I knew he could smell it because he started sniffing the air like a dog that just shit on the floor. And I don’t think I’m too far off here, because after he left I noticed the air was still ruined. It hadn’t recovered like air is prone to do even after the worst farts – which could only mean one thing . . .Tom shit his pants and leaked a little onto my guest chair. I’m afraid to go over and check. And now I don’t know what to do, god damn it! More to follow. I promise.

Yes - those are Reindeer on his tie.

Shirt tucked out again . . .