That means that I end up having some "free" time. I use this time to tweak my log/manifest system, harass people ("other duties as assigned", but I don't like anyone enough to harass them), or rearrange the backroom. The backroom is a place where stuff goes. It's in the back. The Hamster Wheel (the hall that looks like an 'O' from the sky and houses all of the cubicle-dwellers) is near to it, kind of.
I was in there, rearranging- and there's all sorts of stuff to rearrange- when I hear this smokey, raspy, drained breathing. Then I hear this raspy, dusty voice. "I useda be jus't like you," it said. "I use to be at the tip of my game!"
You should have seen the look on my face. I sure wish I could have.
Now, I've spent hours and tax in that room. Hours, and with tax! I made the soda manifest- counting every soda and labeling them for quality- and I rearranged the soda God knows how many times. I've stored odds, I've stowed ends, I've archived files...if there wasn't all that concrete, I would have buried treasure in that room. I...I love that room. I never knew there was anything in there except supplies.
And now, there's quite possibly the creepiest voice I've ever heard (In Real Life, at least) emanating from somewhere behind the Gatorade jugs, which are stored alphabetically from left-rear to front-middle (it's a complicated process) on the floor underneath the Emergency Magazines.
I reacted diffe...defensively. I kind of stood there. Then I turned around.
There he was, peeking out from behind the 5-gallon Gatorade jugs with a scowl on his face. The kind of face that would go well with a cigar in or next to it. His hair was that really ugly kind of red-brown and it was curly, but not very dense. I wasn't exactly sure he was human. I considered a preemptive strike.
"I useda be JUST LIKE YOU!" he said, pulling himself out from the jungle of jugs. "Once time, I OWNED this town, and everyone in it! ALL OF THEM, ALL OF YOU...YOU...RATS!"
He looked up at me angrily. He's about 70 pounds, 2.5-3 feet tall. "IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I LOST MY TOWN!" he shouted.
Uhh, unexpected.
"What?"
Paranoia creased his face. "Aren't you the new mayor of Arizona?"
Arizona has a mayor? "No, I'm the new cook," I said.
"Oh. Wow. Sorry about that whole thing there. My name's Max." "Hi, Max."
He stuck out his hand. I shook it. I made a mental note to wash my hands. "My name's Kevin," I said.
"So what brings you here, Kevin?"
"Well, it's kind of my job to rearrange stuff here." Stars formed in his eyes. He held his imaginary hat in his hands. "Can...can I help, Kev?"
Long story short, Max is my new backroom assistant. He said I could call him the Backroom Gnome, hence the post title. He lives in the backroom- and has lived here for years, and I didn't notice him earlier, creepy- and he's good at rearranging things. Better yet, he's really good at working with me so that I can feel comfortable with how things are arranged. You know, like, he only halfway cares about the rearranging, so...I can do whatever I want with what he's done, and he doesn't get offended. He works with the new parameters.
For my part, I have to provide him with food. We were already doing that, but now it's on my Other Duties As Assigned list. As Executive head assistant chef, Feed Max. Frozen soup (or canned soup that's frozen), coarse-, medium-, and fine-ground dried corn, and citrus peels when possible. I'm really still not that wholly convinced that he's human. He sometimes doesn't act like it. But he's a fine rearranger.
And by the way, we keep the emergency magazines just in case the magazine producers ever stop producing magazines. We're totally prepared.
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