On Rowan’s first day of work at Bishop Electronics, he asks me if I could give him a lift to the county clerk’s office during lunch. “The courthouse?” I say. “It’s nothing serious,” he assures me, setting up in the desk next to mine. We’ve hardly said two words to each other since our introduction this morning. He sticks his benefits packet into his gunmetal drawer and says, “It’s just a formality.” There are plenty of reasons to refuse him (I just met him for starters), but I like Rowan’s idea of forced intimacy better, so I agree. Anything beats eating mushy pasta and doomscrolling in the cafeteria again.
Later, in my car dated by its ashtrays and CD player, I tell him, “You’re my first Rowan.” Rowan doesn’t say much to this, so I lean into it. “I realize that might sound sexual, but I assure you, it’s not.” This approach probably passed muster in the 90s, that fabled era where we all confused freedom with sexual harassment, but now it only makes things socially awkward, and it’s potentially fatal to my existence at Bishop Electronics. “Seriously,” I say in the silence afterwards. “We’ve just had a lot of turnover at your position—we’ve had a Chmesa, a Nneka, and a Tyrone, so you really are my first Rowan.”
To further break the ice, I’m close to blurting out how much I love Rowan Atkinson, but since sex and race have entered the conversation, I holster that one. Mr. Bean is highly polarizing. Everyone knows this. Besides, I don’t do the hiring at Bishop. These were simply the people hired before Rowan—Black people named Chmesa, Nneka, and Tyrone. Tyrone was the coolest of the three. I called him Ty (or Thai, or Tie). In my head. Not to his face. I don’t think Ty liked designing emails for an electronics distributor, or me for that matter. Ty gave his two weeks after six months, told me to reach out via LinkedIn. But he hasn’t accepted my invitation to connect yet.
When Rowan and I arrive at the courthouse, he invites me in like we might be having happy hour drinks. “Come on in and join me,” he says. It would be rude to refuse Rowan anything at this point, even if he asked for my lung, my soul, so I park the car and we walk in together. “Do you want me to act like a lawyer and represent you?” I ask. Rowan says thanks but no, it’s not necessary, and that it’s illegal in this state to falsely claim to be a lawyer. “I’m not dressed for the part anyway,” I say. Bishop is strictly work casual. And anybody who knows anything knows Harry Hamlin never wore khakis to court.
We file into a fine bureaucratic line and wait. I see the number assigned to Rowan’s case file has three consecutive sixes in it, and I whisper to him, “The number of the beast,” and flash him the horns. During another lull, Rowan tells me he’s here to file a request to contest a restraining order filed by his wife, Ambrosia. “Like the marshmallow salad?” I ask. No, Rowan says, and then he mentions something about immortality and ancient Greek mythology and I snooze on him. I’m not good with world history.
The lady at the reception desk wears more rings than fingers and smells like the pet food aisle. She asks Rowan if he has legal representation and he says no, he’s representing himself. I tell him this is a great idea. Skeptical, the receptionist provides the forms to request a hearing. The forms are an orange-yellow color like vitamin piss. Rowan takes the forms, thanks the receptionist, and our day in court is done. “I’ll fill these out later at work,” he says. I tell him this is also a great idea. The first day at Bishop is usually orientation and account setup. No real work. No real pressure. Just boppin’ the Bishop. That’s what I call idle time at Bishop. In my head. Not aloud. Not allowed.
On his second day, Rowan calls in sick, which is disappointing. I worked hard all night on the perfect way to ask him to lunch at a nearby craft brewery. I was going to say, “Do you like craft beer?” Because it’s simple and straightforward and I like to brew my own beer. Lots of porters and English ales lately. Something Ty wasn’t into. I didn’t even bother with Nneka or Chmesa, who need more vowels in their name, not beer. I wanted to go to the brewery because I’m friendly with the owner. We always talk shop when I visit and I wanted Rowan to witness this side of me. To show him I’m not just a corporate stooge stuck in the same position with the same electronics distribution company for twenty years. But maybe I’m projecting? Or projectile vomiting? Or overcompensating? What’s the word?
On Wednesday, Rowan’s third day, officially his second, he shows up to work (and everywhere else) with a black eye behind his Ray-Bans. He smells like weed and misses our morning stand-up. After the meeting, I grab two donuts from the break room—the last two in the box. Jelly and chocolate sprinkles. I leave the empty box for The Maid to throw away. I then place the chocolate donut on Rowan’s desk on top of a napkin while he’s talking to our creative supervisor in his office. I eat my jelly in four large bites, the last two un-jellied, dry. When Rowan returns to his desk, he’s flush, fuming. He sees the donut, he picks up the donut and he dumps the donut into his garbage can with a dull thud. “You don’t like donuts?” I ask. “I’m allergic to chocolate sprinkles,” he says, and I take note of his dietary restriction.
Rowan spends the rest of the work day in the bathroom stall on the third floor. I matched his shoes when I went in there three times myself, once for a warmup and twice for the real thing. Each time I made, I made sure to leave a stall between us. It’s important to follow proper bathroom protocol. While doing my biz, I heard Rowan snoring. Sometimes we all need a toilet nap. At exactly five o’clock, Rowan returns to his desk, unplugs his computer and packs it into his backpack. “I’ll work from home tomorrow,” he says to me on the way out. I don’t tell him Bishop has recently walked back their open WFH policy. When Rowan’s gone, I walk over to his desk and stare at the donut in his garbage can. I almost killed a man with a chocolate sprinkled donut. It’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to killing a man, and I couldn’t have accomplished that while working from home.
That evening, I concoct a special beer recipe for Rowan in my recipe book. It’s a Kolsch-style beer. Crisp, easy to drink. Perfect for celebrating the dismissal of his wife’s restraining order. I even sketch out a label design with him and his wife embracing. It’s a heartfelt stick figure rendering because I believe Rowan still loves his wife. I believe they’re meant to be together, to die together, like Sid and Nancy. Why did she have to file a restraining order like that? Doesn’t spousal love outweigh all? Does she not want him to be her sanctuary? Tomorrow after work, I’ll hit the brewing store and get the supplies—German hops, Hallertau, Saaz, my malts. I check my kettle and strainers to make sure they’re clean. I turn in early and dream about delivering the most beautiful beer anyone has ever drank after a successful day in court. I can taste it now: Grassy hops on the intake with a sweet bready malt character on the back end for balance. I’ll call it Rowan’s Renaissance.
Rowan’s a no-call-no-show at work on Thursday. His Teams profile is dormant all day. People in our department are starting to gossip. They say he’s a slacker. They say he’s imbalanced. They say he’s crazier than a shithouse rat. Who misses two days during the first week at a new job? Who shows up smelling like weed and a black eye? Our creative supervisor, Kenny G (Gautier), visits everyone in our department to ask if they’ve seen or heard from Rowan. No one has, but they don’t know Rowan like I do. When Kenny G gets to my desk, I place my right hand on my beer recipe book like a bible. “Personal stuff,” I tell him. “Marital woes. We should give him some space. He’s under tremendous pressure to work it out with his wife.” When I sleep that night, I dream about Rowan’s shiner, his hours hiding in the bathroom, the cold toilet water bubbling below his bottom, plotting his case to overturn that restraining order.
On Friday morning, Rowan is back at his desk before anyone else in Marketing can even fire up their computer. He’s smiling. He’s jovial. He’s brought pastries from a Polish bakery. I grab a full raspberry cheese, ignoring the absurdly accepted protocol of cutting pastries in half to share with the arrogant dicknoses from Finance. I place the pastry on a napkin on top of my desk and deprive myself of eating it for fifteen minutes. The pastry is like a fucking show pony! Rowan clicks his mouse repeatedly, and excitedly he tells me he’s been here since 6am! He says he might have a crush on the Mexican cleaning lady that cleans our offices (The Maid—I agree, it’s a terrible way to refer to her, but that’s what she wanted to be called). He says Friday is the best day of the week and he greets everyone with a “Happy Friday!” He also takes medication (big ass pills) out in the open, washing them down with hot coffee.
After work, during our weekly happy hour at DeVille’s, Rowan captivates our coworkers with tales of skiing in Aspen, mastering its black diamonds. He says the black diamonds remind him of his black eye (or did he say black guy?), which he got from sparring his master in taekwondo class. I picture Master Oogway from Kung Fu Panda, a fantastic film. Rowan says he has a black belt. And that this is not his first black guy (or did he say black eye?). Rowan says Kenny G (who’s not at the bar with us) threatened to fire him for absenteeism. It happens, people say. Tough titties, other people say. But what if you love tough titties? Life ain’t so bad then, is it? Rowan agrees and remarks he’s happy. He says it feels good to fit in with everyone at Bishop. This is endearing to us all, even the sopping wet vaginas from Finance.
I remove myself from Rowan’s stories and repair to the men’s room where I pee on the ice in the urinal. What’s this warm yellow rain? the Eskimos on the ice pile say. It’s melting our igloos, they say. On the way back, I stop by the bar. DeVille’s always has an impressive German beer selection, so I buy a round of Munich lagers for Rowan and myself. When I place the pint in front of him, he says thanks, but he doesn’t drink beer. “Too filling,” he says. “Artisan cocktails are the way go, am I right?” Everyone agrees, even The Maid, who Rowan invited personally. She’s saddled to his side, drinking a paloma. I don’t get much facetime with Rowan, so I can’t tell him about the beer recipe. I think he’d still be flattered even if beer isn’t his go-to. Eventually, he and The Maid are the last two to leave the bar. Except me hiding in the corner drinking my Munich lagers. I follow them outside where they wait for an Uber together. Before the car pulls up, she reaches out and touches the fading purple around his eye. Soon, his mouth is clinging to The Maid’s neck like a lamprey on a shark.
Undeterred, I brew the Kolsch over the weekend. It’ll be the most glorious beer outside of Cologne. The process uses top-fermenting yeast like an ale but is cold-conditioned like a lager. The Germans do two things really well. One of them is brewing beer. The process is meticulous. I’m lost for hours. I strain the mash and pray Rowan accepts my gift with grace. I boil the wort and hope he hasn’t slept with The Maid. I do a quick chill in an ice bath and pitch the yeast. In the bucket, I see Rowan’s face, I see freedom. I heal in his presence. Then I dump the contents into my carboy. Set the hydrometer. And let the yeast/sugar do their thing. Chase it, mother fucker! I say to the yeast. Chase that sugar!
On Monday, we log in to our accounts and see the email Rowan sent out internally over the weekend. It’s a threatening missive to everyone in the Marketing department, especially Kenny G. He says Kenny G has unfairly threatened him. He says we don’t understand him. He says he still has access to our publishing tools and email lists. He says he’ll continue working, but if anyone starts any shit, if Kenny G makes a fucking stink, he’ll send out an email with pictures of dead dogs to our customers. The rest of the day, we’re on tenterhooks. The afternoon moves slower than a slug dashed with salt. I dream of Sheryl Crow that night. She’s sad and sings about puppy mills while the beer bubbles in my brew room.
On Tuesday morning, Kenny G tells us that security stopped Rowan from entering the building this morning. The police have been notified. Kenny G reports that Rowan has stolen company equipment and has threatened his life with a carpenter’s hatchet. Kenny G says it’s such a specific threat that it has to be grounds for dismissal. Maybe more. For the next hour, security detains Rowan in the security office until the police arrive. I’m conflicted. He obviously needs help. But what to do?
I head to the men’s room. Second floor this time. Where it’s quiet. After my morning movement—no dangling feet, no snoozy snores—I’m clear-minded. I detour by the security office. In the lobby, behind the protective glass, Rowan sits in a chair, forlorn. In my periphery, I see the red and blue lights out on the main street. I knock on the glass and imagine a prison visit where physical contact is not permitted. Rowan notices me, perks right up, as if I’m there to rescue him. But I’m not that guy. I’m not a superhero who sometimes wears a cape. I’m just a guy who likes capes and looks for purpose in all the wrong places. I tap the glass and mouth the words to Rowan, “I’m sorry about the chocolate sprinkles.” We stare at each other for an eternity (like ten seconds), and I want to tell him I never really liked Mr. Bean and his long hilarious bending body. I want to tell him Sheryl Crow would be never perform if she knew he was in the audience. I want to tell him he should switch to beer because cocktails are higher in sugar and calories and you get to pee on Eskimo igloos more often.
Instead, I tell Rowan I’ll reach out to him via LinkedIn.
