My boss?

A dirty old man?

A wealth of information?

Quick wit?

A kind heart?

Bossman is the guy I work for (obviously)…and of an advanced age.  This past Friday he had outpatient surgery.  Apparently the weekend (and this morning) was rough so he took a substantial amount of pain killers.

Ah, what a peaceful Monday morning.  No tutorials in the mysteries of the new confounding world of technology.  No patient retrievals of objects misplaced.  No long reminders of information and tactful corrections.  Bliss, pure bliss.

Then the pain killers wore off.  The haze faded…and the mouth regained motion.

B: “Do you have more shit on your face?”

V:  “More what?  Oh, yes, I’m wearing more eyeshadow than usual.”

B:  “I guess I could have phrased it better.”

V:  “What, than shit?  What could be more complimentary than that?”

B:  “So what’s with the new look?  Hot date tonight?” (Bossman is always prodding for details of my social life.)

V: “Nope.  Just seemed like a morning for makeup” (i.e., I wasn’t running late.  But I don’t see that bit of information being useful here.)

B: “Is that new hair too?  Highlights?”

V: “Yeeesss…”(I look at him as if he’s grown another head)

B:  “Shocked you didn’t I?  I notice everything.  Drives my wife nuts. ” (I’ve met her.  She’s a saint.)

I nod my head.  My fingers clicking over the keys.  Bossman successfully pulls the file and heads back to his office.

B: “Hey, here’s your song!” (Bossman and I share a mutual love of jazz)

I perk up my ears, waiting for soothing strains.  Instead I hear the nasal, twangy strains as a country singer warbles “we should get drunk and screw”.  I sigh.  Sitting mutely at my desk, resisting the urge to take the bait, I wonder how long I’d do in the slammer if they ever found I switched his powdered creamer for ground up vocodin.