Looking back on it, even the ones that I considered conniving are still somewhat entertaining. I had a boss at one of the banks where I used to work that might have possibly been satan incarnate, but I can still appreciate him because he did find it humorous when I emailed him this after he kept peeking out of his office to see what his employees were up to:
“If you peek out of your office at me again I’m going to throw a stapler at your head.”
He promptly responded by sticking his head out of his office, staring at me with wild serial killer eyes, then giggling. (click picture below)
Enough of him, though. The person I must address in this particular post is a gentleman named Baxter.
It's difficult to really capture the glory that is Baxter through the written word. Almost tragic, actually, to think I could do it. Perhaps an oil painting is in order? No time for that. I'll try my best.
Baxter, like most Austinites, was a transplant. He hailed from the wilds of Mississippi and had an indiscernible accent. You couldn't have told where he was from, you just knew he wasn't local.
My initial impression of Baxter was, well... "HA! His name is Baxter."
Baxter is the type of first name that one generally associates with boating shoes, a tobacco pipe and an avant-garde mustache. This Baxter, however, was a twenty-something year old with loafers and an affinity for WWF wrestling.
He would end his sentences -pause- give a sideways glance, and very pointedly say "brother" doing his best to channel Hulk Hogan. He would often regale me with his favorite old-school WWF moments. I would stare at him while he was wildly gesturing, doing voices and being inexcusably enthusiastic about this fake wrestling nonsense.
Then, I would go home, and find myself saying BROTHER randomly. For shame, Mary.
Listening to and subsequently emulating Baxter was like reality television. Terrible. And addictive.
Suddenly I started to gain an appreciation of Baxter and his way of doing things. I would watch as he casually strolled into his performance evaluation meetings. They were routinely bad, but Baxter didn't care. He would put his arms behind his head, lock his fingers in place, and lean his chair dangerously far back as he was being scolded about his lack of sales. Baxter would then somehow magically turn the scolding around, and exit the room having just received an apology from our boss.
With a certain pep in his step, he would stroll back to his desk and plop down in his seat - unaware that what he had done was astonishing. I just sat, mouth gaping, wondering how he did it.
On nights that the two of us had to work until 7pm, I would sit and listen to Baxter tell tales. One of my favorites:
When Baxter was in high school, he woke up one morning and decided his school needed a mascot, and he was going to be it. He would dress up and booty dance all around whatever sporting event he was attending. Once he got all-up-on a football player while the player was trying to accept an award. The result was an angry football player swinging punches at a mascot on a podium.
But my most favorite of tales is that of Baxter and his dog.
For a heterosexual man that enjoys such masculine activities as wrestling, one would presume that Baxter was inclined to own a dog that reflected his masculinity. Baxter, however, owned a bichon frise - for which he picked a particularly special name. Which was ...
Now, I must say, I have owned a variety of pets (which I've made abundantly clear in a previous post). But not once has it occurred to me to name one after myself. Though apparently Baxter so thoroughly loved his dog that he could think of no better name for him than the name that had so lovingly been bestowed upon himself.
Truly Baxter had the utmost respect for himself, and being the embodiment of perfection that he was, I can only imagine he could think of no better way to honor the most perfect of dogs.
Needless to say, Baxter (the human) was a devout pet owner. He would take Baxter (the dog) for walks every morning.
To hear him tell stories about his walks was certainly not out of the ordinary. But one particular day, he decided to throw in a particular detail that left me breathless with laughter. Baxter was not one to quit on a garment due to wear, or for that matter, due to it being seasonal apparel. Thus, he had found a use for a particular article of clothing he had received during Christmas. Allow me to illustrate:
THIS, dear readers, is Baxter's dog-walking outfit. No shirt. Just a man, his adidas flip flops, and Santa Claus boxer shorts.
He managed to startle one very unfortunate female neighbor (and God knows how many others) with his antics. In a rush, she was leaving her apartment - she backed out of her door, locked it, and quickly whirled around only to see a shirtless wonder in Santa shorts. Baxter simply looked her in the eyes, laughed at her gaping expression, and relished the thought of her going to work and wondering about this strangely-clad neighbor of hers.
I can think of no better way to accurately capture this man's personality than a mental image of an ear to ear grin, Santa boxer shorts, and a yipping bichon frise. Need I go on further? I think not.
Enjoy.
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