The Bunchy Underwear Incident

Cal had one job

Joni Mitchell sang that one day she just disappeared into two grey rooms. I like Joni Mitchell; I get Joni Mitchell.
The Bunchy Underwear Incident

My name’s Cal, by the way. Let me brief you on my history. You’ve probably never seen my work on CNN (we pride ourselves on being inconspicuous), but my business is “coverage.” I was sent from the Company HQ to cover this guy, recently, with the understanding it was to be an exciting job. This guy’s like a rocket scientist, or something--a rock star of academia! Yeah. Right. HQ packaged that one ass-backwards, lemme tell ya. Damon Jennings, despite having a pretty cool name, is not a rock star. He’s a math instructor for freshmen at the local Bussington Community College. And not a very good instructor, at that.

So, Damon. Yeah. See, my job is to follow his butt around all day, no matter what. Hey--the Company makes the rules and assigns the jobs, not me. I know some companies, their employees get all fruity, and call the shots themselves. Whatever. Not the case here. So me and Damon are like yin and yang from the day he picks me up. I think I knew at that point something was amiss. I know I said his job’s not exciting, but that’s not really the problem. It’s not his job that’s boring. Damon is boring! He’s as plain as bleach, and he just doesn’t put any ass into his work. That really gets to me. I mean--it’s like he doesn’t have any ass to put into his work--so how am I supposed get his ass really into my work?!

Did you ever go for a test-drive in a used car with your folks when you were young, and you got to sit in the back seat? I never did, but I’ve heard people talk about it. Okay--fine, I heard a muffled version of a Bruce Springsteen song about it and that’s all, but the point is that from that back seat, a kid can see a lot more than the grown-ups in the front seat think he can--or even than they can see themselves. I’m a backseater in class with Mr. Jennings.

I get to see the sixty-three students trudge into his classroom like they’re about to have root canal. One kid--I don’t think he’s ever even said his name--sits down and goes right to sleep every day, like he’s narcoleptic or something. Most of the rest just screw around. Damon doesn’t mind; he knows he’s not a real teacher, and the students do, too. But when he writes something on the board, I get my best view of the hungry wolves he calls students. That’s when they glare at him, and leer at him, flip him off, all kinds of nasty stuff. Like it’s high school part two.

Tell ya, I hate college kids. They’re jerk-offs and they know it and they’re proud of it. But I just can’t get that mad at Jennings’ class. The two-and-a-half hour period with this guy are like a fart that never ends. If I could, I might just open my own fly and give him what for. That’ll never really happen, but… He’s just such a stereotype of a bad, geeky math teacher!

But that part I can deal with, at least. What I cannot deal with--will never be able to--is Damon’s personal hygiene. You can see it as soon as you meet him: his hair looks like plastic, like he’s a giant Lego guy. I know the kids can see it, especially when he writes on the board and the big old sweat-stain under his left arm shows. Come on, Damon, get some Degree, man!! (No pun intended...but it was pretty funny.) I guess showering every coupla-few days is perfectly alright for some. Someone needs to tell Jennings it is NOT alright for him. The guy is killing me!

Now, this is something I guess I should have mentioned earlier, but according to the Company, I was actually only supposed to do this cover story thing once a week, max. Turns out the customer's always right, though, and this customer-- good ol’ boring, sweaty, squeaky Damon Jennings--wants me at least four times a week. That’s a lot of time to spend with a guy. You get to know him better than you might want to: before, behind and in-between, as I’ve heard it said (and not in a Bruce Springsteen song this time, thank you very much).

Tell ya this, too: it’s enough time to get know how gross a guy can be. Damon could help himself by showering more frequently, but his GI tract is just plain rancid, and I don’t think the guy can do anything about that. We’re talking halitosis on a criminal level; and when he eats burritos--just has to love Mexican food!--he’s a walking nuclear reactor, and me right behind him, like I’m a second skin on the man. Boss says: “It’ll make a man of ya, make ya a crusty ol’ bastard!” The boss was right; but he forgot to mention it also makes ya sick enough to come unstitched.

So what, we all have to work with people we don’t exactly idolize, right? Well, here’s what. It all came to a head last Friday when Jennings’ car broke down. Guess what: he’s not a mechanic, either! That meant a 7-block walk to the campus. That meant a seven block walk to the campus in the last week of August! Turn on the sweat machine! After three blocks, Damon looked like a drowned rat and smelled like a locker. I wasn’t doing much better, since I couldn’t feel whatever volcanic summer breeze might be blowing. Well, about two blocks from the school is a house with a big old dog that spends his life barking at the world through the living room window. As luck would have it--my luck, at least--on Friday the boxer was in the front yard, where his owner was planting scrubby little flowers. And said owner apparently thought he was Cesar Milan, because he was confident enough in his dog to leave the damn gate open!

Yeah. You guessed it. Dog sees Damon; Damon sees dog; dog decides, on the spot to eat Damon, and vocalizes this intention loudly and aggressively; Damon pees a little (no kidding) and starts running; dog gives chase. And where am I? Stuck right between these two, just plain pissed, wondering if I’m gonna lose my ass to those less-than-sanitary-looking canines in the all-too-powerful-looking jaws of Bow-Wow the Berserk Boxer, or if I can get in front of this train wreck somehow.

I never got that chance though, because just as we reached the street where Boxer’s block ends, the dog’s owner called off the chase. Damon decided to look back and see if the dog listened (which he did, much good it did us), and if Damon was safe--and he pulled this maneuver while still running at full speed! Inevitably, he tripped on the curb, banged thigh-first into the car that was waiting to turn, spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees, and came down--where? You guessed it.

Right on top of me.

I was wedged underneath him just an inch or so from the car myself. It was enough, though. I’d had it. I did finish out the day. All rucked up and out of shape, I was anything but smooth that day, myself. And Damon noticed. And the kids noticed. That day they started making fun of me, not just Jennings. Things got so bad, even Damon was picking at me, which just tickled the bejeesus out of his class of clowns. It was too much. I put up with all that shit out of Damon Jennings, quietly doing my job, covering his ass--hell, all but wiping his ass!--and now he’s blaming me for a bad day?! TOO! MUCH!

So I quit. I don’t wanna cover for him anymore. Hell with him; let him hit the skids.

Except--I can’t quit! That’s the thing with the Company: you’re assigned pretty much for life. So...I took a page from Joni

Mitchell's songbook and disappeared. The room may not be grey, but I have sure as hell gone grey. No, I didn’t take separate rooms; I’m hiding down here in Damon’s basement. I spend my days just to the left of the dryer, under the utility sink. I entertain myself by talking to lost and lonely sock puppets and watching after my pet dust bunnies.

Damon hasn’t found me so far, and I pray that continues. But I dread the day some guest happens down into the basement, points, and say: “Hey! There’s Calvin Klein under there!”

I can just see the excited look on Jennings’ face: “Under where?!”