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The email plinked into officicles across the floor on a bitterly cold Denver December morning: “Free Christmas Geese.” “Bagged my quota again,” Rick bragged, “so, I’m happy to offer a Christmas goose for your holiday table if you’re interested.”What a braggart. I don’t need his testosterone-tainted gifts to feed my family. I’ve been a successful gatherer for years, gathering coupons and battling for superior position in the most combative assortment of holiday checkout queues – bringing to the table an impressive assortment of beasts for dollars off the pound, humbling lesser price shoppers for miles around. Rick probably couldn’t even arrange a smart and balanced floral centerpiece for his Christmas dinner.
Rick and I both worked at Rocky Mountain Arsenal, an Army base-turned Superfund cleanup site, slated for reintroduction into Colorado as a U.S. Fish and Wildlife protection area for the observation of bald and golden eagles every October as they migrated down from Alaska. The eagles would majestically swoop in, perch on a barren branch and rest for a moment. Then, as if to say, “What a dump,” they’d whoosh quickly on their way. I was an editor for a contracted recordkeeping company, convincing myself that the millions of pages of documents that crossed my desk should be free of typos and grammatical errors. Rick operated as Director of Health and Safety for U.S. Fish and Wildlife. I’m not sure if he found anything redeeming in that.
He had something mysterious about him that attracted all the women at the Arsenal. Perhaps it was his high-ranking position, or maybe the all-American Midwestern boy look, square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and a full head of hair that tousled itself to blond points that directed the eye to every one of the best of his perfectly chiseled features. He held a higher degree than I, a better position, drove a new truck every year, and smiled humbly though toothily at the ladies in such a fashion that they would lose their sensibilities and talk about him incessantly after he passed, blushing and playfully twisting their hair. I had no choice but to look up to him.
He stood a good three inches taller than I.
The last thing I wanted was to have Rick provide for my family. But with the financial embarrassment of an editor’s wages, the allure of a traditional Christmas goose became strong, even though I was unsure of whose tradition it was. Perhaps I could glean a little masculine glory by simply bringing such a kill to the table. I shot an email back quickly, typing with a dexterity and rapidity that surely couldn’t be replicated by Rick’s clunky, hunter hands, “Rick: The offer of holiday fowl is quite magnanimous of you,” I wrote, quietly hoping he’d have to walk to his bookshelf to search for a dusty dictionary, slip on the way, fall backwards and strike his perfectly shaped skull on the corner of his big Director’s wood desk – not in such a fashion as to kill him: I’m not petty or cruel. But perhaps just hard enough to leave him with a speech impediment and a propensity to drool slightly when he parted his lips to flash that bright smile.
With a slight grin I sent off the email. I stood up, grabbed my coffee cup, and turned to leave my officicle, when an email plinked into my inbox. Rick, RE: RE: Christmas Geese. “Brian, I am overjoyed at your timely response and reciprocally kind assistance with my dilemma. If it’s not an inconvenience, please be so kind as to meet me outside at 10:30 a.m. in the lower parking lot by the new, white, Ford F350, where you may choose from the assortment of my cache of fowl – excepting the three largest, which I will be delivering this evening to a home for orphaned and troubled children where I volunteer nights and weekends. I apologize for that shameless plug above, regarding the orphanage, but we are always looking for volunteers, as the home is seriously understaffed and in dire need of the kindness of whatever generous souls are willing to open their hearts to these beautiful children in need. I shall see you at 10:30. Thank you, Rick.”
Wow. What a total run-on sentence.
