Five
days a week, I show my identification badge to Achmed, our
building's lead security guard. He always peers at it
for a very long time. Achmed takes his job quite seriously. He knows,
beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he's our last line of defense
against terrorist bombers. When I walk down the hall to my bank
of elevators, I can feel Achmed's mistrustful eyes following me.
Then—DING!—I
step inside the first door that opens, and tap my knuckle against
41.
Achmed
is a short, strutting man who originally came from Pakistan. He
used to wear a toupee. Some toupees look reasonably okay, but not
Achmed's.
I usually
walk past Achmed a couple of times each day, because I need to escape
from my
workplace. That 41st-floor bullpen can become quite the
pressure cooker. Plus, our building's
plaza contains a lovely garden, with flowers, waterfalls, trees,
fountains, and a stabile by Alexander
Calder. You can see this sculpture in Pretty
Woman, right outside Jason Alexander's office building.
It looks like a giant orange spider.
Achmed
observes my daily comings and goings with great suspicion.
The lobby
of our building contains a rack, offering free newspapers. These
publications are composed mainly of advertisements, and nobody ever
reads them.
Except
me.
Nearly
a year ago, one
of these newspapers decided to do a piece on my wildly
unsuccessful attempts to moonlight as an author. They dispatched
a photographer, who took many pictures of me in front of the orange
spider.
Achmed's
skeptical nose was pressed up against the glass, looking out from
inside his lobby. Terrorists have been known to hide bombs in camera-like
contraptions.
After
months of nervous waiting, the
article and photo were finally published. I collected
thirteen copies of the newspaper, in a pathetically misguided effort
to impress friends, family and co-workers.
Achmed
collected one copy. He was supposedly in the middle of writing a
book, and wanted to better understand the promotional process.
When
that article appeared, Achmed stopped wearing his toupee and became
my best friend.
Achmed
now enjoys discussing story arcs and character development, but
I've never believed his book actually existed. Yesterday, however,
he proudly showed me a brand new three-ring binder, containing four
hundred pages of single-spaced typing. His first page recounted,
in mind-numbing prose, the hopeless boredom of a typical security
guard's day.
The narrative
went downhill from there.
I never
thought I would be able to say something like this, but Achmed's
book is even worse than mine.
And now
he wants me to convince the newspaper to take HIS photo.