Yesterday I went home feeling that we'd had a good day. You seemed to understand the words that came out of my mouth, something I had long ago stopped taking for granted. You seemed to be listening, sort of. You seemed to almost learn.
It meant something to me. It meant maybe you could stick around. It meant maybe I wouldn't have to fire you, an unfairly intricate process which involves recording every time you fuck something up - a task which frankly, can get exhausting.
But then I realized that I had come into the office with uncharacteristic good cheer that morning. After my generous and inexplicable purchase of coffee and doughnuts for the team, I had exhibited patience, forbearance - maybe even kindness - as you told me precisely what you didn't understand about your job. As I explained the finer points of Excel for an hour or so, I spoke with the attitude of a teacher speaking to his most treasured pupil. You sat there wide-eyed, eating doughnut after doughnut as I held your hand through each step of the way.
In retrospect, you didn't learn any faster, or actually help me, or really do much of anything besides eat the free doughnuts. I was the one with the great attitude, I was the one laughing off the fact that you had been faxing papers to clients upside down for a month. So our great morning together was only a result of the fact that I woke up still drunk. It seems the only way this relationship can work is if I am constantly drinking whiskey to the point of vomiting each night - unfortunately a pipe dream.
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