Just Off Center

I'm a coffee person. It doesn't matter if it's fresh Columbian brew or the tar water they boil for three hours in the local Circle K. I drink up to 40 ounces each morning. But I have to admit a fondness for Yuban. It's got a decent flavor and it goes on huge sales every so often, so Nina buys the giant containers two at a time. Yuban is the same coffee that is brewed in the industrial brewer in the office next door as well. So many mornings I'll throw in my 25 cents and pour my 18 ounces in the red, insulated mug my employer gave me for my birthday, and come back to my desk to doctor it up with two vanilla creamers and four Equals. Yummy.

If you've ever spent a considerable amount of time in a large office area, you know that there are different kinds of office one can be assigned, based on their importance. There's the built-in office, that rare gift to those with tenure, some even possessing a door. There's the ceiling-height cubicle for lower managers. And finally, there's the basic cubicle for the masses. There's also the dual cubicle that is shared between two people, but that's so sad that I can't justify talking about it.

As I pass through the office next door to get my coffee I always pass by an engineering manager's cubicle. In the two years I've been in this office I've seen it occupied by four different men. The newest one has been there for about five months. And with each passing month I grow more and more terrified of this dorky looking supervisor of schematic analyzing panty sniffers. To see him in the halls, he's nothing to behold. He's just another adequately dressed, thin, spectacled, pale engineer with poor social skills. But given his similarities to most other engineers, he has decided to decorate his office with things that will smack of individuality. He has chosen to wallpaper his office with the finger paintings of his young son.

Now, before the "aww that's so cute"s start falling off of the highly estrogenic lips of my readership, I need to describe the nature of the art he hangs.

1. On the door of his credenza there is a two-page layout, each page turned sideways and taped at their meeting. The painting is of a large military assault rifle done entirely black. The weapon has an elongated clip, a grenade launcher, laser scope, and enough detail to make me believe that the artist has at least been very close to a gun of this ilk. A small plume of smoke rises from the barrel, suggesting it has just been fired.
   
   
   
2. A large page of sketchpad paper hangs above the phone. The scene is a close up view of what must be a soldier from the shoulders up. The troop is dresses in green with rust-colored skin. His facial features suggest he is of some Asian descent, perhaps Vietnamese. His oversized maw is open wide, teeth bared in a war cry. He has pink-tinted fangs. His eyes are bulging each complete with red iris, and black pupil. Red and yellow flames comprise the background and engulf the sides of the grunt. Set back and partially covered by the man's dead is the word "HELLO" in large bubble print of yellow and black.
   
   
3. Next to the troop is a painting of identical size to the flaming soldier. This may have been the after shot. Similar flames take up much of the scene. The center of the page is a large gray skull, misshapen and screaming. Red blood pours from the eye sockets and what appear to be bullet holes are scattered on the face. Beneath the skull are two crossed Saracen swords, blades down-facing. The cutting edges of the swords are stained red with small blotches of brown, similar to the color of the soldier's former face.
   
   

I can't get any closer to his office to see the rest of the art. The man rarely leaves his office and keeps a hawk's gaze on any passersby. As expected, I am a bit frightened that not only is this the kind of painting that his son chooses to create, but that this educated man has chosen these pieces to display so prominently. I would think that your average parent would see this kind of expression as the drippings of a developing emotional problem, requiring immediate concern, not a proud showcasing.

I once drew a picture of a man with half his head blown off and the handgun muzzle visible on the side. The caption read "I think he got me". It was meant as a joke and was drawn out of boredom. My mother freaked out and forced me to tear it up and then burn it. I was grounded for a week as a result. Even though I knew she just didn't get it, I could still understand her trouble with this sketch. And I was a high school freshman. The artistry and choice or color and paint make it clear that this kid can't be above the fifth grade.

I won't tell anyone how to raise their children. When parents completely fuck up their offspring's heads I take heart in the fact that the world will be more interesting because of it. But it's so rare that the actual process of corruption and serial killer rearing is right there in front of as I pour my morning coffee.