I Spy With My Little Eyes...

Everyday, without fail, Bossman says to me, “I gotta run out to my truck.” 

“Okay”, I say, indifferently.  However, the wheels in my noggin start cranking as I attempt to come up with an explanation as to what he could possibly be doing out there at numerous points of everyday.

Drugs?  No, he’s too coherent.  And definitely not emaciated enough for that.

Twinkies, perhaps?  His fiancée is a weight nazi that happened to lose ginormous amounts of her exceptional girth recently and has demanded the same of him.  He could have a stash in his truck to satiate his inner twink-fiend. 

Phone calls to a secret someone?  Certainly possible.  But who would be hopeless enough to spend time having meaningful conversations with him? (If there is such a thing.) His mother, possibly?

Motivational CDs?  It has to be.  The kind that you record your own name and it then inserts it into key parts of the motivational shpeel so as to make one believe that Tony Robbins is speaking directly to oneself…  “It’s a great day to be **The Punching Bag**.  **The Punching Bag** can succeed in all things!  You are awesome, **The Punching Bag**.”   Nah, he’s too miserable and beastly for that.

Being ever so desperate to uncover the truth of the truck time, I even approached security and attempted to enlist their help in watching over surveillance cameras in the parking lot to see what exactly takes place when he’s gotta run to his truck.  They said no.  Some kind of violation of privacy or crap like that.

 I tried following him once, but apparently whatever he does out there makes him unbelievably paranoid and he saw me, so I was forced to act as if I was going to my own car to get something. 

The truck was not always the choice for his escape, however.  Last summer, as I took a jaunt around the parking lot during my lunch, I happened to see someone standing in a shed in the back of the field set far behind the parking lot.  Upon further straining of my neck and eyes, I discovered it was Bossman.  I continued my afternoon stroll and parked it at my desk, anxiously awaiting his return so I could put him on the spot.

He walked past me and I said, staring at my computer as I typed an email, “Saw you out in the shed Bossman, is that your secret clubhouse or something?”

Guilty as charged.  Like a deer in headlights.  His beady little eyes inside his sunken in face bulged out like Large Marge (@ left).

Stumbling over a few indistinct syllables, he finally said, “What were you doing in the parking lot?”  Sure, try to deflect your guilt on me.  I shrugged off the questions, knowing he wouldn’t want to pursue the conversation. 

I happened to mention this to the head of maintenance, not realizing what an upset it was going to be…

The next week on my afternoon frolic, the shed was gone.  Like, there was just a giant grass-less square in the field where a shed once stood.

That’s when the truck time commenced.  What HAPPENED in that shed??  The horrors!!.. I can’t even imagine.  If it was that bad that it had to be torn down??  **chills**

A mystery to this day, my investigation continues.

Maybe he just needs to fart a lot.  In that case, I’m grateful for truck time.