dripping desperation

R, the news clerk was mad at me all week. I knew she was, but I didn't bring it up because I didn't want to put myself in a submissive position, a weak position where I'd be mumbling or pleading, "I'm sorry. It was my fault, I'm sorry." Which is how I handle a lot of problems. Absorb the blame and bury it away.

I know R was pissed, because my boss called me into his office and showed me the obituary proofs, which I had typed in over the weekend and which were full of errors. Nothing pisses a person off in that most personal way like an error in a newspaper obituary. My editor shared with me the story of how the local newspaper f'd up his own father's obituary by printing he was survived by four girls and three boys instead of three girls and four boys. Worse, they listed my editor as one of the girls. His point being that a obituary full of errors adds insult to a very personal kind of pain.

I apologized. I fumbled and made excuses: I'm the only one there on the weekend, so many things had been going on, the fire in the middle of town, entertaining the new job candidate, blah, blah, blah. They were excuses and I couldn't shut up even though that voice, the one that screams SHUT UP was telling me to just stop it.

I went home for lunch and cried, because maybe I'm a baby, but crying over things helps. I took a nap, woke up and felt better.

But I couldn't stop being bothered, distracted, all week by the fact that R was holding this unspoken grudge against me. I don't even know why, where it comes from, this desire to be liked by everybody. R is nice enough, and funny, but has quite a mean streak at times, and can be loud, rude and obnoxious. And proud of it too.

So why do I care so much?

I triple checked the obituaries today to avoid the unspoken wrath. I want her to like me. To be back to that place where we can joke around easily and I feel like I fit in at the office again.

Ryan, the Pennsylvania reporter, has gone and put in a payment for a Triumph motorcycle similar but newer and better than the one our photog recently bought. Left to his own devices I doubt Ryan would have had any interest in the Triumph. But since that is the photog's dream-- a crappy but romantic British bike -- that's become Ryan's dream too. Coolness by association, by assimilation.

We people, we're weird.