![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Continued from first part here.
The irritants continued as Oberon strode down the hallway of Fletch & Tiegel. As was his habit, Oberon turned into the gents' before anything else. This was his routine every morning: arrive at work, relieve bladder, have cup of water, sit down at desk.
No sooner had Oberon let the hydraulic door closer puff its way to the end, than the hinges whined anew and the cheery face of Buzby emerged into view in the mirror.
Oberon pulled up his half-undone zipper and ducked into the nearest cubicle.
If there was one thing he could not face first thing in the morning, it was the breezy, round and immensely irritating face of Buzby. Even as the cubicle door banged shut and Oberon hammered home the bolt, Buzby called out, "Morning, old chap! Spot of indigestion, eh?"
Oberon pulled the flush in order to drown out the sound of Buzby's jolly jabbering.
The gurgling of the cistern died down. Oberon pricked up his ears. Yes, unfortunately, Buzby was still in the vicinity. His voice boomed out over the soft splashing of urine against porcelain and the intermittent 'hm' of some unseen interlocutor told Oberon that the insufferable little man had found some other victim to regale with his endless tales of carnal cavorting.
There were a number of things that annoyed Oberon about Buzby.
One: Buzby's height. He knew it wasn't Buzby's fault but it bothered Oberon no end that Buzby came up only as far as Oberon's own mid-chest. To be fair, Oberon was taller than average but to be forced to stare at Buzby's bald patch or the silly motion of Buzby's upturned grin was vexing beyond belief.
Two: Buzby's girth. Again, not everybody could be as gaunt as Oberon but surely there was no need for the absurd rotundity of Buzby's. Buzby's shirts stretched across his belly, frequently revealing glimpses of his coloured -- coloured! -- singlets in the gaps between the buttons. Buzby's chins wobbled across Buzby's throat. Buzby's pudgy hands had dimples across the knuckles, like a baby's. Oberon took Buzby's corpulence as a personal affront, especially and particularly as Buzby showed no sign of contrition or embarrassment about his unfortunate personal bodyline.
And three: Buzby, despite being short, despite being fat, despite his thinning wispy hair and his shiny cheeks and the knock-kneed way he walked, seemed to indulge in endless erotic adventures. Buzby was more active in this area than anybody else Oberon knew, and Buzby liked to talk about it, too. Mondays were veritable orgies of lavatorial braggadocio but there was only a slight let-up on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, and by the time Fridays came around, Buzby was already talking in the future tense and outlining his plans for weekend entertainment.
It mystified Oberon but the strange truth was that women fell at Buzby's feet. The corkboard behind Buzby's desk was adorned with a mosaic of polaroids, all showing Buzby with some buxom lovely or other hanging off his arm. Because Buzby didn't attract other overweight women, other undersized women, other sagging middle-aged women or any other kind of sad reject -- as Oberon would have expected. On the contrary: Buzby regularly had dates with curvy hotties sporting studio tans.
Oberon couldn't remember the last time he himself had gone out with any type of woman, let alone a curvy hottie. No, that was wrong: he could remember all too well but he knew it was pathetic to be remembering such a minor and admittedly disastrous event over a period of so many years, so he tried to think of it as little as possible.
The hot air hand drier stopped droning. The door closer hissed. The coast was clear.
Oberon crept out of his cubicle, put his briefcase on the floor between his feet, carefully washed his hands in a mix of hot and cold water, frowned at the liquid soap dispenser because yet again there was no soap in it, dried his hands on his own hand towel extracted from the outer compartment of his briefcase (because he had heard on the radio that hot-air driers distributed germs), filled a cone-shaped paper cup from the chilled-water dispenser, crumpled the cup between his left hand, dropped it in the metal-grid waste bin and opened the loo door with a determined flourish.
Only to be stopped dead in his tracks.
tbc
The irritants continued as Oberon strode down the hallway of Fletch & Tiegel. As was his habit, Oberon turned into the gents' before anything else. This was his routine every morning: arrive at work, relieve bladder, have cup of water, sit down at desk.
No sooner had Oberon let the hydraulic door closer puff its way to the end, than the hinges whined anew and the cheery face of Buzby emerged into view in the mirror.
Oberon pulled up his half-undone zipper and ducked into the nearest cubicle.
If there was one thing he could not face first thing in the morning, it was the breezy, round and immensely irritating face of Buzby. Even as the cubicle door banged shut and Oberon hammered home the bolt, Buzby called out, "Morning, old chap! Spot of indigestion, eh?"
Oberon pulled the flush in order to drown out the sound of Buzby's jolly jabbering.
The gurgling of the cistern died down. Oberon pricked up his ears. Yes, unfortunately, Buzby was still in the vicinity. His voice boomed out over the soft splashing of urine against porcelain and the intermittent 'hm' of some unseen interlocutor told Oberon that the insufferable little man had found some other victim to regale with his endless tales of carnal cavorting.
There were a number of things that annoyed Oberon about Buzby.
One: Buzby's height. He knew it wasn't Buzby's fault but it bothered Oberon no end that Buzby came up only as far as Oberon's own mid-chest. To be fair, Oberon was taller than average but to be forced to stare at Buzby's bald patch or the silly motion of Buzby's upturned grin was vexing beyond belief.
Two: Buzby's girth. Again, not everybody could be as gaunt as Oberon but surely there was no need for the absurd rotundity of Buzby's. Buzby's shirts stretched across his belly, frequently revealing glimpses of his coloured -- coloured! -- singlets in the gaps between the buttons. Buzby's chins wobbled across Buzby's throat. Buzby's pudgy hands had dimples across the knuckles, like a baby's. Oberon took Buzby's corpulence as a personal affront, especially and particularly as Buzby showed no sign of contrition or embarrassment about his unfortunate personal bodyline.
And three: Buzby, despite being short, despite being fat, despite his thinning wispy hair and his shiny cheeks and the knock-kneed way he walked, seemed to indulge in endless erotic adventures. Buzby was more active in this area than anybody else Oberon knew, and Buzby liked to talk about it, too. Mondays were veritable orgies of lavatorial braggadocio but there was only a slight let-up on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, and by the time Fridays came around, Buzby was already talking in the future tense and outlining his plans for weekend entertainment.
It mystified Oberon but the strange truth was that women fell at Buzby's feet. The corkboard behind Buzby's desk was adorned with a mosaic of polaroids, all showing Buzby with some buxom lovely or other hanging off his arm. Because Buzby didn't attract other overweight women, other undersized women, other sagging middle-aged women or any other kind of sad reject -- as Oberon would have expected. On the contrary: Buzby regularly had dates with curvy hotties sporting studio tans.
Oberon couldn't remember the last time he himself had gone out with any type of woman, let alone a curvy hottie. No, that was wrong: he could remember all too well but he knew it was pathetic to be remembering such a minor and admittedly disastrous event over a period of so many years, so he tried to think of it as little as possible.
The hot air hand drier stopped droning. The door closer hissed. The coast was clear.
Oberon crept out of his cubicle, put his briefcase on the floor between his feet, carefully washed his hands in a mix of hot and cold water, frowned at the liquid soap dispenser because yet again there was no soap in it, dried his hands on his own hand towel extracted from the outer compartment of his briefcase (because he had heard on the radio that hot-air driers distributed germs), filled a cone-shaped paper cup from the chilled-water dispenser, crumpled the cup between his left hand, dropped it in the metal-grid waste bin and opened the loo door with a determined flourish.
Only to be stopped dead in his tracks.
tbc
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2002-12-28 05:16 pm (UTC)thanks
Date: 2002-12-29 02:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2002-12-29 09:43 am (UTC)thanks
Date: 2002-12-29 12:05 pm (UTC)