“Come on in, man,” Mr. Greenleaf said in his hash pipe graveled voice after I had knocked.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I said nervously to the pole-thin grey haired grizzled looking man sitting in the lotus position on the large hemp mat that he used as his chair/desk.
With his eyes still closed, he said curtly, “Sit down.” With various joints and bones popping and crackling I complied, bringing my knees up and using my hands behind me in an attempt to lessen the sharp lower back pain that was whipping me.
Mr. Greenleaf’s eyes opened as he pulled out a sheet from a closed file in front of him without opening the file itself up. He held it up; it was a photograph. “This you?”
I gulped and said yes then proceeded to fumble out that it was a promotional shot for a local competition. Mr. Greenleaf cut off my explanation with “And you thought wearing this would be appropriate?” He pulled out another photograph without opening the file.
I groaned, my throat was dry, my mind searched for the words to explain. “Well you see, sir,” I stuttered out, “I was under the impression that the theme was ‘Native American style singing to the hits of Mel Torme’. I didn’t realize that it was ‘tribute to the dance numbers of Bollywood’. But being the trooper I am, I went on and preformed anyway…I knew that the local cable station was taping the event but I didn’t think….”
Mr. Greenleaf once again cut me off and finished my explanation with, “That because of a glitch in the cable relay stations went from the broadcast radius of 5 miles to coast to coast…during prime time.”
“Yes sir,” I said as my stomach began to curl its contents resulting in several uncomfortable sounding noises being broadcast from my backside.
“Well, originally we were supposed to do a number from ‘Flash Dance’ but the show’s budget ran out of money for the water…the stage…the costume…the music…” I mumbled then added trying to sound cheerful, “But I’m a trooper, sir! I went on and performed it anyway!”
Mr. Greenleaf went quiet for a few moments; his expression revealed nothing to what he was thinking. Finally he said quietly, "You exposed your penis on national television, Mr. Thomas. What was I supposed to do?"
“Be glad that I didn’t have ‘Greenleaf Organic Farms’ tattooed on my ass?” I suggested hopefully. That got me to thinking and I added, “Plus, this company was never mentioned – they promoted me as a homeless man who just stumbled into the bar to drink the left over bottles.”
Mr. Greenleaf nodded and was silence once more. He stood up, his poncho had accidently gotten caught on his ribcage as he got up: The dude wore nothing under the poncho! At that time I really wished that I had been blind as his thick leathered jewels smacked against his bony inner leg. A draft from underneath the office door caught the file folder and blew it behind Mr. Greenleaf. As he bent over I realized that the brown grass in the employee park may not have just not been tended to carefully.
Mr. Greenleaf stood back straight up and opened the file folder. He looked at me. “I’m not only concerned with the health of the Earth,” he said, “I’m also a business man.”
I tried to say “yes sir” as I was trying to choke down lunch’s soy wiener and lettuce pita but it came out as “ uahre sehreoer”.
“Your display has caused a national panic, an uproar,” he continued, “at the sorry state of men today. I plan to make use of this.”