"So, what's in the bag, man?"

I try to look as cool as can be as I take off my jacket and hang it up. "Stuff." I try to put emphasis on the period.

He smells blood, or at least a punch-line. That's how this office works. There's a lot of laughs to be had here and a lot of quick wits. Show a moment of weakness, and it's over in a second. He scrutinzes the unmarked black plastic bag which I have knotted shut in the elevator up as a precaution. I had anticipated this.

"Whatcha get? What's in the bag?" he asks again. I can feel the eyes of the a few people around me tuning in. They are waiting for the joke.

"Stuff." More emphatically this time, while I try to give him a deterrent, confident look.

"Don't you know," says the guy a desk over, "it's a don't-tell-Dennis-what's-in-the-bag." I smile and nod. Nice of him to run interference for me. He got the signal meant for Dennis, but Dennis knew he had something, and wasn't going to let up that easily. Most smart-asses, including myself, don't quit without a fight.

"Exactly" I say, as I toss the bag out of sight, under my desk, and sit down. I knew as I came back from my errand that it would have been very easy to have a ready-made fib in mind for just such a question. It's a nosy place. But, I don't want to fib. I don't have to fib.

I should have just answered him the first time straight out. "It's 100 feet of black synthetic braided rope, and pair of bandage scissors."

I bet that would have been funny, actually. I doubt he would have had a retort to that.
posted 3:50 PM | link |