There’s this dude at work—let’s call him Daryl—who loves to talk. Nice enough guy, but if you don’t time your interactions with him carefully, you’re liable to end up stuck in a one-sided conversation for the next 15 or so minutes.
Daryl sits on the other side of the TobacCo building, where the developers and designers and other techy folk amass, so I rarely see him. (Well, I rarely see anybody, being as I only go into the office two days a week. But I digress.)
The point is, our paths hardly ever cross, except for a one-hour window from 11:30 to 12:30 on Mondays and Wednesdays, when I’m at my desk and he sets up shop in the break room to eat his lunch (but mostly to strike up conversations with unsuspecting coworkers who wander into his trap and end up caught like a fly in a spiderweb).
I’ve been that fly before. More than once. Nowadays, I am very strategic about venturing into the break room during those 60 minutes. Which is kind of a pain in the ass, as they happen to fall smack dab in the middle of lunch hour. That requires a trip to the fridge and/or microwave, both immediately adjacent to where Daryl sits. This gives me three choices:
- Eat early
- Eat late
- Wait for a diversion
I usually select option 3, since I’m apparently conditioned to be hungry at noon on the dot, even when I’ve eaten a late breakfast. It’s like waking up automatically at 5 a.m. on a weekend morning after staying up late the night before and not having to get out of bed. Annoying.
As magic hour approaches, I pause Spotify, remove my noise-cancelling headphones, and keep an ear out. Inevitably, some poor fly coworker will walk into the lunchroom and be accosted by Daryl. Suddenly he’s discussing trouble in the Sudan or Biden’s re-election prospects or the inroads AI is making in corporate America or the Aaron Rodgers trade to the Jets. You name it, I’ve heard it all. Abortion rights. Recreational marijuana. Why a movie like Top Gun: Maverick should win Best Picture but never will.
That’s when I pounce.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, I stride into the break room with purpose. I keep my head down, maybe flash a quick smile in Daryl’s general direction, but make a beeline for the refrigerator, never pausing. I grab my lunch and return to my desk, studiously avoiding any sort of eye contact because Daryl interprets that as interest in the conversation and will quickly reel you in.
Again, I’ve been that fly.
On the rare occasion when I bring in something that needs to be microwaved, I limit my selection to meals that can be heated in three minutes or less and wait until the coast is clear. Any longer and I tense up, because Daryl might walk in to throw something in the trash or pour himself a cup of coffee or grab Post-It Notes from the supply closet, which is inexplicably located in the break room. I’d rather not take that chance.
I realize this all makes me sound like some kind of social recluse, and while that may be true to a certain extent, I’m more than happy to exchange pleasantries with any other employee at TobacCo. Because they’re just that: pleasantries. Did you do anything fun this weekend, how’s the house coming along, crazy weather we’re having, huh. Polite comments that require little thought and effort. I can be in and out in 60 seconds tops, whereas Daryl will ask you who has committed worse human rights violations, Putin or Xi Jinping, and then proceed to launch into his own answer before you have even opened your mouth, forcing you to nod along and hoping your eyes don’t noticeably glaze over while you wait for the merciful relief an earthquake or swarm of killer bees or swift and sudden aortic dissection would bring.
Look, I like Daryl. He’s a nice guy. But we are an agency that tracks time down to the second and we have goals to meet. I’d rather spend my precious minutes on something productive like actual client work rather than shooting the shit about how climate change is disrupting the usual balance of nature, and while melting glaciers get all the press, unforeseen consequences like pollen allergies in adults who were previously immune have a much bigger impact on John Q. Public.
In other news, we had been planning a weekend getaway to Prairie du Chien to celebrate my birthday. “We” being me and Tara, not me and Daryl. Lord have mercy.
Tara booked us a nice room in a hotel on the Mississippi River, took a PTO day on Friday, and we’d planned to head up there in the afternoon. We were looking forward to a fun and relaxing two nights’ stay, exploring/hiking by day and eating/drinking by night. My only request was that we stay in a waterfront hotel.
Be careful what you wish for, folks.
Prairie du Chien, it turns out, is underwater. The town is experiencing its worst flooding since 1965, with the Mississippi River expected to crest at its second-highest level ever this weekend: 24 feet on Saturday. How’s that for timing?
With visions of sandbags and road closures replacing forested hikes and bar-hopping, we reluctantly decided to cancel our reservations. We’ll go another time, when there’s less danger of being swept away by a swiftly flowing current.
I came up with what I consider a decent Plan(s) B: we’ll drive up to Lake Delton Friday afternoon for a visit to Ishnala, Wisconsin’s top-rated supper club. It’s been on our bucket list since before even moving here. Then on Saturday, we’re heading into Milwaukee.
If nothing else, we’re good at pivoting.
Have you ever been the fly? Do you have an annoying coworker (or friend/neighbor/family member)? How do you deal with that person? Who “won” the Aaron Rodgers trade? (I’m only asking in case I end up being the fly to Daryl’s spider again).
Mark My Words 
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