I Love it When He Calls Me Gregory.

I love watching Gene perform volunteer orientations. With his gold necklaces and rings, Steven Segal tight ponytail, and a designer shirt tightly tucked into slacks, he is an imposing figure at 6’ 4” and 200 plus pounds. Always immaculately dressed and with a determined scowl that says he is a serious man, he has a flare for dramatics. All of this in expensive loafers.

 

Standing at the head of a boardroom table, he grows more animated as time goes on, often punctuating sentences with “OK?”  I stand in the back of the room with a blank expression, waiting for my favorite part. He knows why I was there, and glances at me and quickly looks away, annoyed.  I know the words he’s thinking. He says it to me every time.

 

When it comes time to talk about delivery, I perked up. It is time. 

 

OK, so all the meals are labeled. Your route sheet will tell you who gets what. It’s extremely important the clients get the correct meal.

 

It’s coming. I smile in anticipation.

 

 If not, they can die, OK?

 

Gene peeks at me, annoyed. My smile hits maximum levels. Gene pauses. The prospective volunteers, uncomfortable with this admission, question if this is a good fit. They’re noticeably agitated. Gene reiterates.

 

They can die if you give them the wrong meal.

 

I sneak out and return to the office I share with Gene. I wait.

 

15 minutes later the door to our office opens. Gene enters and hangs his jacket on the back of the door. My smile returns to maximum. He looks at me with feigned annoyance. He dramatically turns and walks to his desk, and leaves me with three words:

 

“Fuck you, Gregory.

We laugh.

 

I love it when he calls me Gregory.