Scott Barnes


Filed By Scott Barnes | March 28, 2006 2:12 PM | comments

Filed in: Living

Bil saw this on my blog this afternoon and liked it so much that he asked me to post it over here, too. It doesn't have much to do with gay stuff (unless you count the sentence about the blowjob), but hey, sometimes we all stray off topic. Of course, first names have been changed o protect the innocent.


Before I took this job that I have now, I was a supervisor for an art department in a graphics company. I had 27 artists reporting to me.

The youngest of them, Jason, was just out of college. He was a soft spoken, bookish and shy kid that played in a punk band on weekends. I remember his first day; he walked in and shook my hand and his palms were sweaty, his hand was shaking.

The prettiest of them, Camille, was 50% African-American, 25% Chinese, and 25% Caucasian, sort of like Tiger Woods. But pretty. She trained new artists and most people complained that she was arrogant, like Tiger Woods. But worse, they said.

The second prettiest of them, Jenny, would have been a lot prettier if she didn't insist on coming to work with a ponytail stuck through the back hole of a baseball cap. When I was bored, sometimes I would sit at my desk and look at her, and fantasize about walking up to her with scissors and cutting it off.

The hottest of them, Brian, was short and naturally muscular. He was married but thought it was fun to flirt with me, probably because he knew that it made me uncomfortable. Once, on a Friday night when we had a huge deadline and I asked them all to work overtime, Brian followed me into a conference room, where he almost literally ripped off his shirt and started flexing for me. (A few years later, I found him in a chatroom, still married but looking for a blowjob. And yes, I gave it to him. But maybe this is a blog entry for another day.)

The oldest of them, Vince, was retired from the Navy. He was also quiet, and sometimes he walked to work up the Interstate. He reminded me of someone but I could never decide who. If I had known Mikevil then, he may have reminded me of him, but older of course.

Things didn't end well for this department. The company lost a huge contract with a major California newspaper and without consulting me, the management team laid off 50% of my staff. For the next week, I would get periodic phone calls from Ann in Human Resources, asking me to come to her office. I never knew who she was firing until I walked in on it. And then Ann would ask me to escort whomever she had just sacked back to his/her desk to retrieve personal items, and then out the door.

After it was all said and done, the management team gave me a promotion. This was when I decided that I don't really like corporate America.

It feels like this job was a lifetime ago.

But yesterday, I drove past a homeless shelter on my lunch hour and saw Vince sitting on the sidewalk outside the door.

I didn't stop -- I couldn't stop because there was also some kind of police action happening right outside the shelter involving about five patrol cars. But I thought, how did this happen? How did you get there? And how did I get here?

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