Tuesday, August 03, 2004

Umm, it's Geoffrey

People with OCD are fun. One of our brokers who has been around for many years suffers from it; hence, we all suffer from it. His name is Geoffrey and whatever you do, don’t fucking spell it Jeffrey. And don’t call him Geoff. It’s Geoffrey, bitch. Know it. Love it. Live it.

Geoffrey has a red felt tip ink pen. He has this pen with him at all times. He can’t function without the pen as it represents his voice. Without it, Geoffrey can not speak. He is incapable of addressing anyone verbally. How this man has become as successful as he is I will never understand. Geoffrey is a note writer. One a single sheet of white copy paper he will scrawl a hand written note in red ink and walk that son of a bitch to your office, gently placing it on your desk before you, then walking back to his office before you ever notice he was there.

Today my note read, “Can I get a prospectus from you for Am Fds Cap Growth Equity Fd? -Geoffrey”

I like to screw with Geoffrey. He likes me and I don’t know why. Maybe because I screw with him while the others simply whisper about him behind his back. Geoffrey likes his space. Don’t enter his bubble. He needs several feet around him at all times. If you pass him in the hallway, he will flatten his 5’6” buck forty-five frame against the wall until you pass. Don’t touch him either. Geoffrey doesn’t like to be touched.

Rain or shine, sleet or…well, it doesn’t get any colder than sleet around here…Geoffrey wears the same style white button up, short sleeved shirt with a navy tie and black slacks. Every. Damn. Day. He also has an overactive olfactory gland that is too easily stimulated; therefore nobody around him can wear perfume or cologne. One time the receptionist lit a candle at Christmas. She got a note. Don’t touch his stuff either. A rookie drank Geoffrey’s special caffeine-free diet Dr. Pepper. Infidel! Here’s your note.

So, back to my point, I grab a prospectus from my drawer and walk it down to him. “Hey Geoff!” I walk around his desk to stand right beside him. “Here’s that prospectus. I brought you two. Does that make it prospecti?”

“Um, Geoffrey. Thank you, Jay. No, it doesn’t. But, thank you.”

I sit on the corner of his desk and make myself comfortable, arms crossed over my chest. “How’s it stand with that MAC account you were working on? Did you get it converted before the end of the month?”

Geoffrey nervously slides all of his papers toward the center of the desk, far away from my ass and whatever monkeys might be hiding within. “I think, um, yes, I think so. Yes. Thanks for the prospectuses, Jay.”

I cough. Oh shit, he fucking wigged out! Germs! GERMS! He rolled his chair as far against the side of the L-shaped desk as he could. I saw him glance beside his monitor, a can of Country Fresh Lysol begging to be sprayed. “Good for you, Geoff! Bet it felt good to open that pay stub Friday.” He covertly covered his nose and mouth, as if in thought.

“Um, Geoffrey. Yes, good pay day.”

When I placed my germ laiden hand on his shoulder he melted away like butter beneath a hot knife.

“Well all right, man.” I could see the immense relief on his face when I stood to leave.

“Thank you for the, um, prospectuses, Jay.”

“Any time, Geoffrey.” I winked and for the first time during our chat, he smiled.

As I headed back to my office I heard the hiss of a Lysol can behind me.