My Coworkers Don’t Know Me

I’ve been working at this job for well over nine months.  It’s been long enough that I could have had a kid here (and long enough to know that Trisha did have a kid and is now on maternity leave).  And none of my coworkers know me.  They see me every day and none of them know who I am.  I really thought that taking a job at a baltimization plant would be where I would excel as a person.  A job where I would have room to learn and grow.  But that’s not the case.  For some reason everyone thinks I’m this other guy named Dirk Hirder.

Now don’t get me wrong, this Dirk guy is clearly well-liked.  Everyone says hey to me all the time.  I get invited to all kinds of parties and get-togethers.  All the ladies wink and smile at me.  It kind of makes me wonder at times why Dirk doesn’t work here anymore.  It makes me wonder why Dirk left (I assume he left. I can’t imagine as well-liked as he seems to be that he got fired).  And then I guess I also have to wonder how everyone doesn’t know that I’m not Dirk.  But those are all questions that are probably better left unanswered because having people at work think you are someone else is the best thing ever!

Granted it was kind of uncomfortable for the first couple weeks.  People would call me Dirk and I would correct them.  And then they would laugh and say, “Dirk, you’re so funny!”  So I eventually decided to lean into it.  And I leaned hard.  Because Dirk always says if you’re gonna do something, do it big!  Dirk does all kinds of fun stuff I never do.  Dirk goes sail fishing.  Dirk has been cliff diving.  When I took a week off to go see my aunt and cousin in Cleveland and spent the whole week watching reruns of Mama’s Family and The Golden Girls, Dirk went big game hunting in the heart of Africa with Lance Bass.

One weekend I was out in the yard planting some new daffodils in one of my flower beds, and, when I stood up, I lost my balance and fell directly on a hand rake, which jabbed a pretty decent size hole in my side.  I went to the hospital and they patched me up.  Luckily, that was the same weekend of the famous running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain.  So I bet you can guess what Dirk did that weekend.  That’s right, that lucky sonofabitch ran with the bulls and ended up getting gently tagged by one of them.  Dirk considers it a sacred scar of the experience of living life to the fullest.

And if you saw my cubicle, you’d immediately realize that I’ve spent quite a lot of money on trophies over the past eight and a half months.  That’s really Chase’s fault.  Chase is a real stickler (a-hole).  It all started one Monday when Dirk was chatting with Cindy, Monica, and Pam at the water cooler and telling them about how he had won this big bowling tournament over the weekend (Kingpin was on TBS).  So the ladies were all impressed and giggling when Chase walked up and said, “Oh, so you won a bowling tournament?  Where’s your trophy then, Hirder?”  Well, that afternoon, I went to Eduardo’s Tienda de Trofeos near the flea market and got the biggest bowling trophy that he had!  And since I buy a lot of guacamole and chapulines from his sister’s bodega, Eduardo engraved the trophy for free!  And the look on Chase’s face when I brought in that 36 inch trophy to proudly display in my cubicle was priceless.  In fact, I sat the trophy on the top of my cubicle cabinet, so the little bowler guy on top of the trophy almost touches the ceiling.  It’s like a little miniature Chrysler building towering over all the other cubicles in of our office.  Since then, Dirk has won 38 other trophies for various events ranging from unicycle hockey to bog snorkeling.  So take that, Chase!  Cross Dirk Hirder and you get burned!

Then there is all the female attention Dirk gets.  I don’t sleep around, but Dirk has slept with casually dated eleven different women at work in the last six months.  Yup, you did the math right.  That’s a different girl almost every two weeks!  Yessirre!  Dirk is quite the ladies’ man.  And the best part is there hasn’t been any drama.  All the girls sleep with Dirk for a couple weeks and then go through this phase where they break up with him because they feel they aren’t good enough for a great guy like Dirk.  And then I, uh, I mean, Dirk gets to be all heart-broken so the next lucky lady can swoop in and console him.  And I’ve found that a woman consoling a heart-broken Dirk Hirder is a one-way ticket to make-out town!

So to sum up the last nine months of my life at my job, my coworkers have no idea whatsoever who I am.  And oddly enough, I’m totally okay with that.  Or, more to the point, Dirk Hirder is totally okay with that.


♠ The title for this essay is courtesy of Brandon Echols.  If you have an essay title you’d like to suggest, email it to  You might see your essay title in one of my books, and I’ll be sure to thank you in the book for it!

About BatDoc

I’m a dynamic figure, often seen scaling buildings and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train and bus stations on lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention and reducing high-traffic areas. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees and write award-winning plays about pastry. I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I make meatloaf. I have been known to woo women with my sensuous and god-like electric air-guitar playing. I can pilot riding lawnmowers up severe inclines with unflagging speed and accuracy and can cook 30-Minute Brownies in 20 minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Brazil. Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon River Basin from a horde of ferocious smaller-than-your-pinky-finger fire ants. When I’m bored, I build full size models of airplanes out of Popsicle sticks. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, I repair TVs and VCRs free of charge. I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Last summer, I toured Wisconsin and Minnesota with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me. I can hurl coat hangers at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read War and Peace, Moby Dick, and Great Expectations in one day and still had time to repaint the exterior of my house that afternoon. Though not a narc, I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I can recalibrate and repair gas lines with blinding speed and precision, and I don't require a face mask. I still find time to sleep eight hours a night; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation to Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me. I balance; I weave; I dodge; I frolic; and my bills are all paid. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a jello mold and a toaster oven. I used to breed prize-winning killer dolphins. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, performed open-heart surgery, and have spoken with Elvis. I have been to Area 51 and seen the complex. I enjoy cake and my best friends are Edmund the Penguin and Dr. Narco the Intelligent Thermos. I tied Jose Canseco in home runs last week, and I’m mere words away from completing a New York Times crossword puzzle I started on in 1988. Volumes and volumes of written works have been produced about me, but they were all lost in the fire. I am an extrovert. I’m marginally more popular with feminist than Rush Limbaugh. I don't scrape my vegetables onto my grandmother's plate when no one is looking. Hard as it may be to believe, I have never lost a pole-vaulting competition. I was nowhere near the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963. I’ve never hit a silver-medalist in the knee with a club. I wear sensible clothing, and I did not mastermind Julius Caesar's death. That was Cassius.

Posted on August 7, 2014, in A BatDoc Original, Original Series, Short Essays and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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