Batter up.

I have personal packages delivered to my work address.  The mail situation at my apartment is unpredictable at best, so I decided to have my deliverables sent to my job where there is always someone around to sign for packages.  Today I was expecting a textbook for a class I am already two weeks behind in studying.  The grungy brown package was well wrapped, a little dusty, but nonetheless here and in my hands.  I felt a tingle in my fingertips as they pressed against the crinkled wrappings; for a foolish second, I thought I might actually be able to get some studying done at work tonight.

I was so terribly wrong.

The phone rings just seconds after I sat down in my chair ready to tackle some paperwork.

"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"
"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"
"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"
"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"
"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"

It appears this is going to be the story of my day.

Between the incessant phone calls, my friend M across the street calling to complain about her shitty personal life, and all the walk-in guests that seem so incredibly intent on interrupting every task I set myself to accomplish, I worry that I won't be able to handle myself professionally.

"Give me one of those rooms.  The cheap ones.  It has to have a fridge."
"Sorry sir, all I have is a king size non-smoking, and I won't be able to offer any discounts."
"Man, this town is BOGUS.  All I want is to be able to smoke in my room.  So how much extra is it to smoke?"
"I'm sorry, but our smoking rooms have sold out for the night.  You cannot smoke in a non-smoking room."

For a moment, I let my mind drift into my happy place.  On any other day I would be compassionate and at least make an effort to accommodate extreme demands, but today the only thing I can conjure is a baseball bat.  A nice hardwood slugger.  Spread my legs, balance my shoulders, choke up on the neck of the bat: I take a swing so hard I feel the crunch of skull and I see bits of brains splash onto the popcorn ceiling that will take hours to completely clean off.  The ceiling fan whips around lazily, sending little splashes of blood onto the granite countertop, wafting the scent of victory to fill my lungs in triumph.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

And then the guest walks out of the lobby.  Good riddance.

His early exit wasn't quite what I was hoping for, at least his death by baseball bat would ensure I would not have to deal with him again, but I would take the empty lobby and the silence and be grateful.  I thought maybe, just maybe, things would stay like this long enough that I could get a few chapters of studying done.  And then...

"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"
"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"
"___________, XXX speaking, how can I help you?"

Scratch that.  This is going to be a long night.