Creamer Man

With the new job has come a new set of employees to get to know. And while generally these are smart, capable, friendly people, I work in the software industry. Which means there are some shockingly weird people. And I'm not talking butterflies on their titties* weird like you get if you're a barista. I'm talking live alone with their cats and pose a real risk of creating need for what Alex describes as the one useful HR skill: the ability to fire people without inciting a shooting spree.

*Actually, there is one woman with a tattoo, possibly a butterfly (it's completely obscured except when she wears lower-cut shirts, and even then only partly visible), in that general region. And she is way cool. Like how-did-you-end-up-in-Utah-County kind of cool.

Anyway, I've been suppressing the urge to blog about one weird person in particular for some time, until, as Tim Minchin describes in the superb beat poem linked to above, my diplomacy dike burst for a reason I will get to shortly.

We'll call this person "Creamer Man," so named because of what I've observed when he's in the break room making "coffee." Coffee is in quotes because as you can guess from the moniker, there is more creamer than coffee involved. Seriously, he may be Coffee Mate's best customer. The concoction involves a fascinating blend of liquid and dry creamer, with various ingredients heated in the microwave before being added to his mug in a prescribed order. I'm not a non-dairy creamer fan myself and don't dig sweet at all, so I can only imagine how bad it would taste to me. But you can't account for taste.

Really, though, I have no quarrel with the "coffee" making. Not something I'd ever want to drink, but unlike so many others, he cleans up after himself and doesn't leave kernels of slightly-parched-by-the-microwave corn on the counter after he's left the room.

Being somewhat environmentally conscious, I reuse the same water cup over and over day after day. As is my wont, I left said cup* on the table in the break room while I walked into the restroom across the hall. When I returned to the break room to fill my cup, there was Creamer Man, treating an open wound by applying antibiotic ointment and a knuckle bandage, with the wounded hand not more than a span and a half away (we're doing away with metric and going with Biblical units today for effect). I'm pretty sure the septic impact radius of a flesh wound is at least three times that. At least.

*A cheap plastic cup that my coke came in at Invesco field when I attended the AFC championship game--the only NFL game I've ever been to--back when the Broncos didn't suck. Seems like a lifetime ago.

I swallowed hard to keep from vomiting, grabbed the cup, and headed for the sink and began sanitizing. It never occurred to me to throw it away. Until now. The only thing holding me back is that Creamer Man looks so much like a reincarnated Barrel Man that I worry if I throw the cup away, it may turn into the Broncos' equivalent of the curse of the billy goat. But I can keep it without ever drinking from it again, right?