The Lunatic Wilson (Part 1)

Click click clack click click… fingers flying over the keys. My deadline was 4:00 P.M. Thursday, and it was Wednesday.  I was in the Zone; the fabled groove; words flowing forth like honey, sweet and golden: Oh, the sheer artistry of it! Wait, change a word here, and ta-da! Alliteration! This stuff was too good for a corporate intranet site. This deserved publication where the world could gaze upon the sheer spectacle that was my creative genius…a quick end quotation mark…and Fin.

Now to insert that graphic I'd worked on for three hours yesterday…subtle, but providing just the touch that my prose so richly warranted. I reached into the laptop case, and grabbed the floppy disk. Now to pop it in…wait…oh, right. Wilson had my floppy drive.

Two days earlier, my neighbor just across the way in cubicle-town had turned to me and asked, in his own inimitable style, if he could borrow my floppy drive.

"Say uhh…I was wonderin'…could I use your…you know…you're floppy drive? See, I got me a document (he pronounced it dok-YOU-ment) I was workin' on last night at home, and I need to uh, you know…copy it over to my computer, you see. If I could find my drive, you understand, I wouldn't bother you…you see, but I can't seem to find my drive…"

I listened politely, desperately battling the urge to roll my eyes, and had the drive out of my bag, holding it out to him before he got through the word "doc-YOU-ment", but with Wilson, you had to hear him out.

"Sure," I said. I hardly used the thing anymore anyway. How useful is a floppy disk drive these days? I handed the thing across the aisle to him, and turned back to my work, without giving the exchange a second thought.

Wilson, you must understand, was a loon. Not the web-footed type, known for their eerie cries across isolated ponds at sunset (although one could also describe Wilson as a quack, a cuckoo, a gooney-bird, or a do-do. I would not be surprised to find he was hiding webbed feet inside his eight-dollar Wal-mart loafers, now that I think of it. And he did, in fact, waddle when he walked). I mean, Wilson was a genuine, honest to goodness nut-job, the likes of which few people encounter these days, at least not on a daily basis.

Now far be it from me to mock those who are sincerely mentally ill. I happen to live in a community where a state hospital is one of the largest employers, and those with mental challenges are accepted widely. However, Wilson came very close to making me Daffy.

What was it about him that made me want to lose it? Hard to single out an example, there are so many. I guess it was his Need. And yes, I mean, Need, with a capital "N". Day after day, hour after hour, it was necessary to prop up Wilson's fragile, damaged psyche. Nobody liked him. Nobody cared about him. Nobody appreciated him. Yet, somehow, no matter what was going on, it was all about him. Co-worker leaving to take a better job: It's because they hate Wilson. Somebody doesn't say "Hi" when they pass his cube: They don't like him. Team members leave and go out to lunch, while Wilson (who always brought his lunch, and would bow out pleading poverty if you asked him to join you) stayed behind: They're ditching him. Someone nearby gets an award for good performance: That means everyone hates Wilson, because he didn't get one.

See what I mean? Once, Wilson's wife had surgery. The whole team pitched in to ensure his work didn't get behind. We sent a card, bought dinner a few evenings and actually delivered it to his home, and welcomed him back with genuine expressions of concern. Wilson mumbled, nodded in appreciation, and seemed somewhat moved by our outpouring of affection. Later, Karen, our team lead, was talking quietly with him.

Karen:  Everybody's been asking about you, Wilson.
Wilson:  (Nodding) Uh huh. (a pause) Do you mind telling me exactly who?

That may not sound like much, but it was classic Wilson: He wanted a list, because he wanted to check off the people in our 100-plus-person department. 
    Asked about me (aka – likes me)  /   Didn't ask about me (aka – hates me)
    Jeff                                                          Kelly
    Mary                                                       Linda
    Dan                                                        Gail….

Now do you see? This freaky combination of narcissism and self-loathing, with a massive persecution complex…and we had to deal with him. Every day.

Now, back to the floppy drive:

I turned in my chair, and looked over at Wilson, dutifully plugging away at whatever it was that he did. As usual, out of the corner of his eye, Wilson got wind of my glance. He jumped, as if I had poked him hard in the side. For a man in his late 50's, Wilson had the peripheral vision of a young bovine. In fact, we called it the "rolling-calf-eye", because it reminded those of us who had grown up with livestock of the panicked eye-rolling that the calves would do when it was their turn to be neutered. It was like his eyes could somehow roll to the sides of his head.

"What?" He asked, immediately defensive.

I knew better than to mess with him. It was too easy, and it only made him worse. "I was going to ask if you're done using my floppy drive. I need it to transfer a graphic."
 

to be continued...