RED BULLY BOSS

He leads with his chin when he walks.
His teeth are clenched and the muscles in his face spasm.
Steel blue eyes navigate as his pointed jaw juts forward pulling his rigid body onto new ground.

His arms don’t swing in a natural way.
They jut out from tight shoulders, robotic and controlled.
Jerking back and forth by his sides.
Bending at the elbows, like two oak planks nailed at forty-five degree angles.
His biceps contract in a permanent bulge.
His fists clench in a white-knuckled grip.
He punches air as he moves.

His long legs make scissor-like strides.
Each foot lands with a determined thud.
He breezes past a desk and a sheet of paper comes to life.
Lifting.
Hanging for a moment.
Then falls back down and becomes just paper again.

A staff writer scurries to clear his path.
I sit fifty feet away watching ripples form in my chamomile tea as his size twelve feet hammer into the ground.
He stops.
Opens the refrigerator door.
Grabs the silver blue can.
Pops the top.
And downs the liquid.

He turns to us, “Alright everybody. Let’s get cracking.”
It’s twelve PM and that’s his third Red Bull today.
He can’t function without them.

I can’t function with him.