This is Epth Nation

Epth is a state of mind, not a place. Reading this will give you a virtual drivers license in that state, but you'll still need to be 21 to purchase alcohol. And you can't get any there anyway, so stop asking.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

The 2nd Craziest Person I've Ever Worked With?

There was the old lady who insisted that cashews tore up her husband's stomach...
The old guy who believed that the Trilateralists were running things.
The guy who changed out the interior decoration on his house every 6th months, just for a change...
The girl who was on Jerry Springer...
Several people who outright stole things from the company...
That guy who was a postal worker, possibly disgruntled...
The pregnant girl with the banana-yellow camaro who got pregnant and had violent (and I do mean violent) mood swings...
The girl who likes only pineapples on her pizza...


But one towers above them all...

His name was Bruce. At least, that's what he told us his name was. He was working at a major steel fabrication outfit in Rockford, IL when I arrived there as a temp. He and I worked the night shift alone -- I would write an "e" on a yellow piece of paper all night, and he would check trucks in and scan blue pieces of paper into the computer. There would occasionally be another person with us, first Shannon, then Margie, then his dog. Mostly, though, it was just he and I and the huge office that was attached to the plant.

Bruce was a weird cat in those days. First of all, he was about the tannest person I had ever seen. He looked like he was covered in shoe polish. He also liked to listen to the syndicated radio program "Delilah" at night (which for those of you who don't know "Delilah" let's just say there's a lot of soft rock and warm fuzzies involved), and he claimed to have an ex-wife who was a champion body builder (why would you want people to think that?). He was romancing this girl from sales named Ann, and she would come up and talk to him often as I sorted the yellow pieces of paper that I had just drawn an "e" on. Occasionally, he would go off by himself, saying, "I don't feel very well. I'm going into the sales manager's office to take a nap." He was lying.

All this went on for a few months, but then one day everything changed. Bruce was gone, and I was told the standard thing companies tell their employees when someone is fired: "If you see him, don't let him in." Ok, I thought. What was this all about? Down the hall, I saw workmen building a security door between where the night office people were and the rest of the offices, the important offices. Could this all be related? Apparently (I heard through office gossip channels) the powers that be were very upset at young "Bruce." Stuff had been going missing. Hidden cameras had been planted in strategic spots. Bruce's goose was cooked and his fate was sealed the moment he took that final "nap in the sales manager's office" and instead carted out a TV or something. Thanks to Bruce, that accursed security door was built and I could no longer get to the break room in the office. I had to go outside to get my potato chips. Grr. Brr.

I thought that was the end of the story, but a couple of months after the firing, I got to work and Margie asked me if I had heard what happened to Bruce. I said no. She gets out a clipping from the Rockford newspaper and there's this big story about a guy named David who was on the run from the cops, and who was eventually cornered in a dumpy house on the dumpy Near East side of the city. After a 2-hour standoff, police determined that he was alone and decided to storm the house. Bruce/David was up in the attic. Rather than face the punishment for his life of lies, he shot himself dead as the cops prepared to enter the building. They heard a gunshot, and that was the end of that.

His name was not Bruce. It was David. David. I had heard the story of the suicide the day before, but had no idea it was actually somebody I knew up in that attic. He was the craziest person I've ever worked with, that I know of anyway. I mean, you never know, right?

With that in mind, I give you Ms. Rebecca Baca. She is claiming that she was abducted 3-5 times (depends on who you ask) by a dude in a beard who looks kinda like Osama bin Laden. The last time, she ended up in Missouri. Here are the relevant news articles:

The first one, when Police were still "not discounting" her story.

She doesn't want to talk to the Police.

"Ms. Baca could not be reached for comment."

This girl was a cashier here at the computer store for about a year, back when they made a habit of hiring insane big-boned people to handle our money. If you knew her like our cashiers do, you'd understand that she is most definitely lying about all this. She's apparently one of those people who tells "stories." But it is bizarre, isn't it -- repeatedly claiming these crimes are happening to you? Why would you do that? A desperate need for attention? Low blood sugar? Hatred of beards?

She may in fact pass "Bruce" when it's all said and done. We here at This is Epth Nation are keeping a close eye on this story, and will notify you of any further developments.

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