The Road Warriors: Listen to this Shit

Not these guys....but, I do have a certain affection for Animal (right) and Hawk (left), aka The Road Warriors aka The Legion of Doom. Don't know'em? Umm...they're only the baddest guys on planet Earth when you're some age between 7 and 11. Professional wrestlers, spiked shoulderpads, facepaint, championship belts adorning their soon-to-be pot bellies, and the icing on this cake is the fact they their entrance music was Black Sabbath's Iron Man. Are you kidding me? What!

But no, the real Road Warriors are me and my carpooler. Pulling out of town at 6:40 every day sucks, especially when I'm driving, and the only good thing I can say about it, is that the road isn't very crowded.

But within our cars, there's a battle brewing. And it's not the battle over what music we force upon each other. I'm forever punished by Steve FM and she's punished by a cornocopia of off the wall goodies, that I keep at just the right volume. Just loud enough to hear, but not loud enough for either of us to enjoy, and probably extra annoying when you're unfamiliar with the material. Nor is it a battle of wits. She sleeps when I drive, I zone out when she drives. Convo is pretty minimal in the morning. And it's not even a battle between her nose and my sometimes stinky bar/life/unshowered aroma that I hope she thinks is some sort of Axe type spray. "Hmm...he must be wearing "Pitchers o' Pavlovs." Or is that "Eau d'Whig."

The real battle of this Road Warrior is between me and my bowels. Every. Stinking. Day. Zing!

I get up every morning and pee. And thankfully, I've been fortunate enough to have a nice steaming cup of coffee on the way to work pretty much every day for the past couple of months.

My breakfasts are small. Egg sandwich. Scrambled Eggs. Perhaps some cereal. Or maybe just a banana. Nothing extravagant. But usually my nights are a little more more on the wild side.

Who's aren't? 6 tacos loaded with cayenne pepper sauce? Check. 5 brewskis? Sometimes. Sriracha? My new best friend. El Buritto? Si, senor. 5 días una semana. And while I eat a measly spinach salad, pretty much every day at work, I even found myself dipping a piece of broccoli into a jar of pesto as I made my lunch a few nights ago.

So needless to say, I gotta go by the time I get to school. And by "by the time I get to school," I mean "about 20 minutes from school." And heaven forbid I eat Pizza Man. Turn that 20 into "as soon as I leave the house."

We all have our schedules. And I can't force the body to do things it doesn't like. I wish I could, but I'm only human.

So, every day, when she's at the helm, I get that twinge that makes me wanna scream, "FOR GOD'S SAKE GO AROUND THAT CAR!!! PLEASE!!!!!!! UGH!!!!!!!"

Or when I'm driving, I put both of our lives on the line, for the sake of her nose, my pants, and my dignity, and whip in and out of traffic like it's a race. Eat dust, y'all.

So, you can imagine my relief when we pull off at our exit. From there it's a 1.4 mile straight shot. No lights, no traffic, no nothing. Just sweet relief from the goose bumps and cold sweats that I've been living with for half the ride. So, as we pull into the parking lot, you think I'd be home free. Oh no.

Usually we're the first one's there. 7:25ish. The rule is to be there at 7:30. And I must follow the rules. Clock in on time, clock out on time.

For some reason, pehaps my work ethic or lack of interest, I don't have a key the front. But she does. So after she unloads her 6 bags of papers/binders/nolife, we start the journey across the lot. I'm solid during this part. It's when we get inside and the office is locked, I go into super panic mode.

I know that someone will be by to open up the office door and grant me access to the nice bathroom, sooner or later, so I just have to bide my time for a few more minutes. Stay busy. I slowly waddle down the hall and come into my room. Put my lunch in the fridge. Start my computer. Do a little dance to hold back the flood as I wait for that Novell screen to appear. An eternity passes. Finally. As my computer logs itself on, I scramble down the hall, and 9 times out of 10, someone's opened unlocked the office.

I fling open the door, and like a bull I charge to the bathroom. I've never once had to wait on anyone actually in there.

But sometimes, like today, there is no one in there. A dark office stares back and says, "I know. Your body has already put into motion what may not be able to be stopped. But I'm of no help. I can't open myself." At this point you'd think I'd go to the kids bathroom, right? Well, some people probably also think that it would be fun to try and eat a bowling ball.

So, on these rare occasions I walk back into my room, 30 yards away. Pace around a minute or two, and go back. Sweet, unlocked ecstasy.

Today, though. Wow. Maybe because it's April 1st. Maybe I wronged someone. I don't know. But as we came through the front door, I saw the dark, empty office. Breathe deep, grasshoppa'. Do the room ritual and head back down the hall. Not too fast, not too slow. Round the corner and see the lights on. Success! Gather all my muscle might and lurch towards the heavy glass door with both hands. "Outta my way, you pane in the ass!" I mumble as my hands make contact. But something's wrong. The door doesn't budge! My forwad momentum causes me to crash into the door, chest and face first, and lemme tell you, it's quite the feat to A) not fall down and B) not destroy my chinos.

I feel like I'm in a movie. This close from escaping a killer. Now I'm pressed up against the wall as he stabs me with a knife. Or like those people must've felt when Moses closed up the doors of the Ark. Helpless. Broken. My cold sweats have been replaced by proverbial streaming tears.

What to do what to do! What's that? In the distance, towards the back of the office something moves. There's a black man in there. Oh yes! Donald, our new janitor! Our old one died. He must've wandered into the hopper after moi. But yes, Donald, please walk faster. Come on homey, you're my height, you've got a bigger stride than that! I don't care why you're in there or why the door's locked, just get out of my way. "Yes, good morning, salam alaikum, my brotha," but move, dude.

Three minutes later, a new man leaves the office, ready to face the day. After this battle, the Road Warrior is ready to demolish anything that stands in his path. Boring co-workers, an apathetic audience, and even conversations about Rascall Flatts.

Until 7:02 tomorrow morning.