Lionel the Oaf

Lionel is an oaf. Lionel is 6'4", at least 275 lbs, and carries himself like a man who lacks the torque to carry so heavy a load. His body obstructs itself so he has to walk around himself. Truly like an oaf.

Lionel and I spend 8 hours a day separated by an inch of foam padding and a hundred-mile chasm of social grace. None of his acts are committed quietly. From the moment he stumbles in, stuffs himself into his cube coughing, wheezing, and gurgling phlegm, the day is filled with the rapturous sounds of expectoration and chewing.

There is always something entering or exiting his bloated corpus.

There is the clearing of the throat. Always with a warning wheeze, he inhales and lets out a bellow from his clotted lungs. You could mark time with it in 10-minute increments. The sound is like a sneeze, but from the throat instead of the nose.

He eats all the time. There is a box of poptarts and a case of diet coke (why bother with Diet Coke, Lionel?) at his desk. In the morning there is the rustling of cellophane and the smacking sounds of fat-man consumption. He loves his frosted, jelly-filled pastries. Before lunch there will more cellophane rustling and then the crunching of chips. He doesn't pour them out to eat them from a pile, rather, he takes them one by one with his pudgy, clumsy fingers, too big for the rustling bag. Then he savors the crunch, always broadcast through open and smacking lips.

Usually he leaves for lunch and there is a 30 minute silent reprieve where I can work without rage. But alas, There will be more chips in the afternoon. And then M&M's. The weight must be maintained.

Lionel does not wait his turn to speak. In conversation, Lionel is a bludeoning force, his pinched shrieking voice rises to a deafening crescendo. He furrows his brow, sneers, and gesticulates madly, punching his hand with his fist. Everyone hears what he has to say, especially when he's on the phone.

Lionel tries to dress well; he is vaguely aware of fashion and a classic overuser of the semi-colon. He wears the stylish clothing that comes from stores that cater to the slim. And his ill-fitting garb is always mismatched: vertically striped shirts with pinstriped pants, always contrasting stripes, both in width and in color. Sometimes he wears black pants and a navy shirt with brown shoes and a red belt. He always looks out of focus. His belt works harder than he does, stretched taut from fighting gravity.

Half the time he emerges from the men's room with his fly open and his shirt tail sticking through the hole. Then he'll prop himself with arms stretched between a door jamb for maximum fly spreading. Lionel is not good with women.

It may surprise you to know that the Oaf lacks the most rudimentary of hygiene habits. Lionel doesn't cover his mouth when he coughs, wheezes, or gurgles. On days when his allergies are bothering him (everyday), he will sit at his desk and sniffle for 8 hours, never blowing his nose.

I used to ask him, "Are you sick?" Only a sick man would make so many nauseating noises.

His answer: "No, I have allergies."

So naturally, it follows: "What are you allergic to?"

"Everything." Clearly these noises aren't going away.

In the late afternoon, half-crazy from all the mucus, I thought, "Maybe he doesn't have any tissue. So I will bring him some tissue and he will begin to blow his nose, bringing this problem to an obvious and natural conclusion." I leaned over the wall and said, "Lionel, it sounds like you need some tissue." As I dropped the pile of tissue, it fell onto a neat, folded, pile of unused tissue and next to a clean, neat, folded, unused, white hand kerchief.

Lionel said, "Was I sniffling? Thanks, but I have a hand kerchief right here that I'm already not using."

When I was a child, if I sniffled more than once an hour, my mother, father, grandmother, aunt, uncle, family friend, neighbor, or dog would bring me a tissue and say something wise and educational, such as, "You are sniffling. Blow your nose into this tissue and then you will stop sniffling."

If I emerged from the toilet with my zipper down, I would be reminded, "XYZ [examine your zipper]."

Can you imagine what it must be like to go to Lionel's house? They probably spit on the floor and walk around with their dicks hanging out, screaming at each other.

Oh yeah, and one of his two front teeth is completely black. And his breath stinks (big fucking surprise I'm sure). He has a girlfriend. She lives in England and I wonder if they've ever met.