Chapter 1 - Hungover
I woke up with a heavy hangover and raked over the sheets for my phone. I felt on my face the thick warm sunlight that crept through the curtains. It was 30 minutes past eight. The hum of motorcycles and the clamor of chismosas outside said that the rest of the world were unraveling the day while I was still lying dead flat in my bed.
I struggled to get up. I felt like a piece of rag dangling from a clothesline, only smelling like a pack of Marlboro's and a case of Red Horse. Then I staggered to the bathroom carrying a towel that I didn't know when I last changed.
While I took a dump, I pictured the shit I'll go through for the rest of the day.
One of them is the email notifying the department that I will be coming to work late. "[OOO] Late - <my name here>", it would say. If my job and output won't be enough for my bosses to notice me, I bet this email would.
Next is the look on my teammates faces once they see me approach my workstation. I'd walk in with blood-shot eyes and an outfit that looked like something I pulled out of the wardrobe of a hobo. In my head I can imagine them praise me on how I manage to look like roadkill all the time.
Another is my boss's homily on my chronic lates versus my being probee. The sermon would drag on for the next few weeks but hopefully she'll just get tired and let me be. I may be always late coming to work but I always get the job done. I won't be terminated (but being regularized is totally a different question), I think.
My phone set off another alarm. I was being reminded again that I was late. I slipped in to my hobo clothes, put a chunk of wax on my hair, gave it a quick fix then grabbed my keys to the house. Off to work - the roadkill boy.
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