When the merger was confirmed first through murmurs, then the whole nine yards of press conferences and morning news, the first thought that came to many minds was a chair at the dentist. To be presentable with pearly white teeth when new management arrived. To squeeze out that last bit of benefits—just in case new management came bearing bad news. Who knew whose dental insurance might be on the chopping block next week. Cleaning, fillings, whitening—Heck! Even crowns, bridges, and implants! One last good fuck at corporate with a three-thousand-dollar copay and a two-week sick leave.
I wouldn’t understand any of this passive aggression.
I just stumbled into the Facilities Director at the dentist’s waiting room.
He was supposed to be my boss, though his position in the food chain did not permit regular eye contact with me. I knew his name from an org chart where my name was “Parking Attendant #1.” Because our names did not matter, let’s call him Steven.
This Saturday morning, Steven was looking as sharp and obnoxious as ever, with his side-parted hair, striped navy suit, and a fuchsia tie. His eyes were glued to the phone, left-hand scrolling and right-hand gripping on his kid. One hell of a vehement kid, kicking and screaming his little lungs out. Too bad, kiddo. Steven had to make sure every cavity in his dependent’s mouth—your mouth—was filled before staff meeting on Monday.
It unfolded before my eyes. The desperate kid bit Steven—hard, before grabbing his toy dinosaur and dashing toward the door.
“Grab him!” yelled Steven.
I stood up, panicked, blocking the fugitive and dropping my breakfast in the process.
The kid flung his head into my crotch like a blind bat, snot and all.
“Would you stop it, please?” Steven’s eyes rolled back. His son choked with sob. The daring escape ended with two smiling assistants holding the kid by his armpit to the treatment chair. Steven staggered after them. He tripped over my three-dollar sausage biscuit and gave out one last FUCK!
No thank you. Still, no names, no eye contact.
No matter how many times I had greeted him from my little plastic booth in the garage. “Have a nice day, sir,” I’d say. He only glared at me for another shitty day at work. To think, a few times during these four years, we even sat in the same hapless waiting room at the dentist.
I held onto the toy dinosaur his son left behind, not knowing what to do. Should I throw it together in the trash with my smashed biscuit? Or should I return it? Is there even an ounce of empathy left in me for Steven, who might soon be replaced by a state-of-the-art printer with double function as an air fryer?
Shit, I was neither pissed nor hasty.
Parking attendants, unlike Stevens, at least we are unionized.
