Jabba. What more is there to say about the woman who changed my life? She's shaped me. She's taught me. She's an inspiration. This is her story. This is her world. You're just playing in it. She lives it. For real.
What ensues will be my coming to grips with the genius that I am blessed to be confronted with on a day to day basis. I sit down and listen. I experience. I learn. Let's begin.
Jabba is a 46 year old lady. She sits behind me. She has awesome black, curly, perma-greasy hair, and she is full of brass. Unlike others, she is here to make friends. She is the happy accident of a cross between a standup comedian and the laziest person on Earth. Whatever you come up with when I say "imagine Humpty Dumpty with black hair and and a permanent frown on his face", that is Jabba (secret pictures forthcoming). In order to remain impartial (and because it pains me so), I don't ask her questions. Perhaps to better educate, I can map out a typical day.
1pm: Jabba stumbles into work, waddling all the way. She is out of breath from the two block walk from Grand Central. She sits down in her chair with an audible "ouch" (a habit that takes place every time she moves from/to her chair now). Her brilliant stench is of the off-brand cherry flavored cigarettes she smokes. Before any work is started, she must refuel. There is a trip to the break room, which returns with on average 2 bags of Cheez-Doodles brand cheese snacks (not cheetos mind you). Yesterday it was 3 bags, but most times only 2. By 2:30pm she has finished all of them.
3pm: Jabba is thirsty. She returns to the machines for a diet coke (Experts believe she, like a cactus, needs little actual water).
4pm: By now, she has exhibited a fair number of witty observations/ opinions about how much her job/life sucks. This is also accompanied by some of her patented wise cracks.
Example: She has complained that she can't afford to buy a flying car.
When another worker says something she deems a li'l wacky, she has been known to suggest that they have "taken the wrong medication". In fact, she says this nearly 3 times a day. Or she asks them if there is a room open in Bellevue for them yet. What you might say is 'ironic' is that while i write this, she has removed 2 pills from her vicodin bottle to ingest.
.... and about that vicodin:
6pm: It's time for her call-in to the lawyer's office. "Joel Horwitz please?" I hear from behind me, as my ears prick in anticipation. Though no one asks for it, she tells everyone why she needs a lawyer. 4 years ago, she was walking through downtown Brooklyn, and at one fateful corner, a truck rolled by, running over her foot in the process. What ensued was a "Platoon"-esque level of madness and pain resulting in a chronic leg pain. Little did the driver know, she was on her way to a civil service test/interview for a job with the NYC government. What he also didn't know was that in Jabba's/Joel Horwitz' mind, he is liable to pay her all of the money she could've earned at that job, had she gotten it. So, she is on the phone, receiving news that she has gotten a 16,000$ settlement for this accident, which is to her chagrin, "not all that she wanted". She also lets slip that Bank of America is suing her for 5,000$ for an account she used to have, "and a little credit card issue" from 20 years ago. I hope that after fees she is at least able to have some of the 16,000 she deserves for having her toe crushed. At 6:45, she goes to smoke another off-brand cherry cigarette.
8pm: She's now asking for help with her work, which has backed up due to her perusing missing child stories on msnbc.com (the only website I think that she knows of). I help, while staying mostly silent. she prefaces asking her help, usually with the phrase "It's me, your friendly neighborhood pain in the ass.". She then giggles by literally saying the words "he he" in quick succession like a small cordless drill.
Then an hour later, I leave, disappointed in the fact that I will need to wait another 12 hours to find out more.