Run Over

By Gordon Akinpelu

Your boss gives you a good chewing-out in front of everyone. Or maybe you get a nasty email from him that sends you through the roof. You can't take it anymore; you are pull out of the parking garage and see him walking towards his vehicle. You can't help it- you aim your vehicle his direction, close your eyes, and mash on the gas. Everyone thinks of doing this-this time someone actually does.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Akinpelu
• Release date: Mar 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311051431

Gordon Akinpelu

Austin, Texas-based Gordon Akinpelu has a great love for writing, with no particular genre in mind-just whatever strikes his fancy at the time. He also loves good food, good drinks, photography, good food again (he states that he has a tapeworm he must feed, too), hours-long conversations, museums, snowboarding, and traveling both domestically and abroad. Inspiration for his writings come from all of these different areas. "There is so much to experience, see, and tell in this world-it doesn't matter if you're at the grocery store buying lettuce, or stuck in a carpet shop located in a dark back alley in Istanbul getting threatened to buy an overpriced rug (true story!); inspiration is everywhere. Sometimes truth is wackier than fiction." Between being a worker bee, social butterfly, and succumbing to frequent cravings of wanderlust and Tex-Mex cuisine ("if it's REALLY good, it will put you in a food coma"), Gordon continues to find time to write.

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Run Over

By Gordon Akinpelu

Copyright 2014 Gordon Akinpelu

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

The Rundown

How did I get here?

Selling the Dream: The Interview

Training (Or Lack Thereof)

Introduction to the Rumor Mill and Finding that the Copiers Never Work

Hey! They Didn’t Tell Me THIS Was In My Job Description

My Lead/Supervisor/Manager is a Complete Idiot

So Many Meetings, So Little Accomplished

Something’s Not Right about this Place

I Hear ______ (insert cross-town rival company) is Hiring

My Last Hoorah?

The Morning Grind

The Crazy Lady

The Lazy Guy

The Overachiever

The Harmless Old Man

The New Boss

Chunking the Deuce

Conclusiveness

The Last Jab

About Gordon Akinpelu

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The Rundown

My name is Darwin. And I am a survivor.

I was on top of the mountain-not figuratively, but close to the summit of an actual mountain, breathing the crisp, cool, albeit thin, high altitude air. Even though it was summertime, at this elevation of about 10,000 feet above sea level, the searing summertime heat gave way to a nice, calm, cool breeze that we only seem to experience in Austin, Texas, during our Winter time, which in most parts of the state lasts roughly from January to the end of February. This was now July and I was enjoying very bit of it. I had tossed my map aside and just followed the roads that lead through this national forest that I stumbled upon that lead to the top of this so-called Mt. Revelation, above the tree line and all. I sat on the hood of my car for about 30 minutes; taking in the stillness of the world this high up and watching the birds fly against a backdrop of the extraordinary deep blue sky.

Looking out towards the west I could see that storm clouds were forming and heading my direction. To the east, nothing but blue skies. The Ella Fitzgerald song of the same name came into my head, and I start singing what words I remember of it out loud because I am alone at this scenic overlook. It was one of those moments so serene and just so pure, it makes you fall in love with life all over again-the simplest pleasures of nature laid out before me in a patchwork of approaching storm clouds, flying birds, and evergreen trees standing their ground mightily below until they couldn’t grow past the mountain tundra.

So inspiring this all was; so inspiring that nature was calling me in a different way-it was time to suddenly go, as we used to call it in grade school, do the number two. Scenic beauty apparently can stir the emotions as well as the bowels.

I jumped into my car and sped down the winding road from the top of the mountain; it was like I was shooting a commercial for the latest sports coupe. The road was winding left and right as I skillfully navigated myself down at top speed towards the main highway that cut through the mountain pass. I had been road tripping for about a week now, and of all the places I had driven around to, I had failed to pack or pick up a roll of toilet paper or wet wipes in case I was on the highway, and the emergency urge to poo hit me 100 miles from the nearest rest stop or gas station. Luckily in my case, once I descended the mountain and got back on the main U.S. Highway, there was a small town about ten miles down the road. It was close enough to where I could make it to the nearest gas station or fast food restaurant (preferably a fast food joint, as they have far cleaner toilets than most gas stations), yet far enough as to where it would be a photo finish once I stepped inside the restaurant or gas station and raced to the bathroom. It’s like when you have to urinate, you can hold your bladder just until you get to your pee destination. When you get within ten feet of said destination, your bladder thinks you are already there and just wants to unleash. Bowels are just as impatient.

Thankfully there was a Taco Loco right as you got into town. I had seen a few of these as I drove across the great State of New Mexico-I suppose this was a taco chain native to here. I grabbed my phone, bolted out the car, and ran inside. Luckily the bathrooms were in a position as to where I could walk in the door and take a left and go right to the bathroom, without having to be in sight of the order counter. If they see you come in, you have to obligate yourself to order at least something once you use their facilities. From the smell of this Taco Loco, eating here would only exacerbate my current situation. I was unseen. I got to the stall, and shat down. I looked at my phone, and saw that I now had service again, and about three text messages popped up. One text message was from a number that I for some reason failed to save in my phone, and was therefore unrecognizable. When I opened it, it was a video clip about one minute long.

I hit play. It was my boss-rather my former boss. He was on a side street somewhere in our town, next to his car. Hey, what are you doing with that crowbar? He said almost with a shriek, What’s going on here? Why are you videoing this??!

Shut the hell up and take it like a man! a muffled voice said. Then you see a crowbar start flying, beating him on his side like there is no tomorrow. He’s screaming and trying to defend himself, but the crowbar is flying fast and furious. Whomever manning it is a whiz with the stick. Then I see a foot kick up, with the kick landing square in the middle of his chest, knocking him to the ground. I then hear another muffled voice yell he’s down, he’s down, hurry up and get your ass in the car!

The video then is blurred a la that show Cops whenever they start chasing a criminal on foot as the person capturing this attack on video runs from the side of the car to the passenger seat. Then I see my boss get up in a bloody stagger. He has on a white shirt, and the side where he was getting whacked with that crowbar is bloody, looking as red as the tie he is wearing. The mystery car backs up away from him, and then speeds forward as my boss is holding his hands out and is screaming Nooooooooo!!! Then THUMP-he slides up on the hood, and then up the windshield, all the while making this bloodcurdling scream, and then the video abruptly ends.

Luckily I was watching this while on the toilet; otherwise I would have soiled myself. My heart was racing; this was truly unbelievable. This was real and NOT a staged act; sometimes you just know this from your gut. Was he dead; was he just hurt really badly? I was hoping hurt really badly, because after all, he was a prick. It was always a happy hour topic when I was working; that someone needed to run him over, but not sure who would actually have the balls (or boobs) to do it. I played the video back again and watched in disbelief. But something caught my eye. Right as that professional kick to his chest connected, I paused and saw that the assailant was wearing an orange Crocodile shoe (one of those hideous plastic shoes that people where when they are on the water).

Another text message popped up from this same anonymous number as I sat dumbfounded.

I will always love you. It read.

Again, thankfully I was already on the toilet. Shit!!

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The last three weeks had been a whirlwind of emotions, stresses, and events. Now at the age of 32, I, Darwin S. Adjebwongo (pronounced EXACTLY as it’s spelled) was suddenly thrust into waxing philosophical about my current life, past life, future life, and how what I was doing as a career and the whacky environment I was in was slowly draining the soul out of my body; not unlike when you put a piece of masking tape on a balloon and then prick it with a needle. It won’t pop immediately, but you can most definitely notice the slow deflation. Exactly three weeks ago, I began to re-evaluate everything. I had drunk the proverbial corporate kool aid, and the high fructose corn syrup was making me sick. Damn what the commercials say, your body does know the difference. I had left my job of 7 years and was on a sabbatical trying to figure things out while I travelled.

So any normal person witnessing someone getting run over would panic, and then try to call the police, or at least something along those lines. So why, after a small freak-out while on the toilet, would I just shrug my shoulders about someone I knew personally getting ran over? Calloused by Corporate America, that’s why. I had felt ran over all these years going from one job to another, dealing with oftentimes the same things. This guy who probably made close to six-figures as my boss and doing less work and being an overall ass to everyone had it coming. The karmic circle was completing itself. Realigning my priorities and decompressing after years of aggravation was the very reason that drove me up into these mountains in the first place.

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Back in the olden days, companies were entities in which entire lives and communities were focused on. From my endless bank of useless, nerdish information, I recalled that Pella, Iowa, was one such town. It was named after the Pella Window Company, which actually built the entire town for its workers. Even decades after this, people would start their careers at one company, move on through the ranks, and then die with the company gold pen they received at retirement clutched in their cold, dead hands. Maybe that is a little extreme, but nonetheless, pretty accurate. In these good old days the company and worker had a symbiotic marriage; the company took care of the worker, and vice versa. Not so much anymore. Mergers and acquisitions and layoffs were the buzzwords of the 1980’s and1990’s. People that had spent much of their life (and time) at these large companies suddenly found themselves twisting in the wind. It doesn’t matter if you slaved 70 hours a week for XYZ, inc, for the past 12 years. Someone way up top brokered a deal to fatten their pockets, and allegedly streamline and cut costs by merging with ABC Co. Never mind that you and about 15,000 of your closest friends were now suddenly unemployed and out in the Street; some with severance, most with none. Suddenly you were the jilted wife or husband, and your spouse has dumped you for someone a little younger, flashier, and full of life. Allegedly.

These days, some of the mergers and layoffs have become a little less common, or maybe they are a little less jarring than they used to be because we all have gotten used to them. One thing is for sure, the companies like Pella of way back when are no more. Can you imagine Citigroup City, or Wells Fargo Estates or Microsoft Manors? Yes indeed, perish the thought. It’s hard enough to get decent insurance from these larger companies, let alone a whole TOWN built to house their workers. There was a study or survey done not too long ago stating that most employees cannot even afford to live where their offices are located. This in turn leads to workers facing ever increasing commutes, to get to the job that most hate, and feel doesn’t really care about them in the first place. What a wicked turn of events. At any rate, this is why there is no loyalty anymore from the workers themselves-the companies that they are devoting all their time to keep moving further and further away; people are chasing their jobs.

I wish the reason why people hated their jobs and feel so disconnected from their employers was that simple-that they have to drive so far to get to them, that it’s just merely an inconvenience factor. Unfortunately, there are many, many, many reasons. Some the employers can control, some employers cannot. All the experiences start the same; no one (or at least very FEW) start at a new company wanting to hate it in the end. Luckily, even fewer develop a hate enough to run over 40 year old prick with a Napoleon complex and bad hair cut.

How did I get here?

I may epitomize the Gen-X generation, as far as being cynical and having no loyalty to the big companies. When I look at the new crop of kids coming up, though (Gen-Y or Millennials or Boomerang Kids, whatever the marketers and social observation pundits have labeled them), they make us Gen-Xer’s look like our overachieving Baby Boomer parents. And that’s pretty damn bad.

However, I didn’t start out that way. One of the things I looked forward to as far back as I can remember was getting a high powered job, where I would put on a nice suit and tie every day, leave my loft downtown, and drive in my ultimate driving machine to my office on the 30th floor of some big downtown high rise and just work. Lunch would be an hour or two, and paid for by the company credit card. On occasion, I would have to meet a client or seal a deal with someone in another city, so I