What’s in a Name

Brad Mulcahey was always a fly-under-the-radar type of individual at his place of work, just as in life. He never made a fuss, always did what he was told, performed his tasks as expected, and showed up without fail. He was no stick of dynamite, but he was dependable and steadfast. More than anything, though, he was just kind of… there. He was never at the forefront, always in the background, not unlike a cobweb or white noise.

For over twenty years, he collaborated with his colleagues at the food processing plant, a place where everyone had a nickname.

Dylan got the nickname “Boots” after wearing a pair of cowboy boots to a staff Christmas party back in 1997. Mark was dubbed “Beef” because he grew up on a cattle farm. When Beef’s son Marty started working at the plant, he got the predictable moniker “Calf”. And of course, Art answered to “Spaz” because of his innate way of overreacting to every little change that graced the workplace.

Meanwhile, Brad was simply known as “The Guy” as in “The Guy” who knew the Wi-Fi password, “The Guy” who could be counted on to take a last-minute shift, and “The Guy” over there in the corner just minding his own business.

Or least, that WAS Brad’s office nickname… until that fateful day.

Brad knew he was pushing his luck the previous night at home when he dished out more than a heaping helping of steamed Swiss chard on his dinner plate. But he could not help himself. He loved that green leafy vegetable and Tish “Green Thumb” Mallard from work had brought him a fresh stash from her garden that same day.

To his way of thinking, it was the perfect side dish to greasy, spicy chorizo sausage. Prepared to perfection on his stovetop, he topped it all off with a tablespoon of butter and a dash of cracked black pepper. Then he settled himself on his couch and set his plate before him on the coffee table. He ate it slowly, savouring each bite. Then he washed it all down with a couple of thick, rich stouts.

Satisfied, he lay back on the couch with his left hand just inside the waistband of his track pants and his right hand on the television remote. He drifted off to sleep watching Sportsdesk – in a state that he considered to be absolute Heaven on Earth.

He was up and at ‘em the next morning, kick-starting his brain with a hot black coffee at home and picking up a large double-double on this way to the plant for his 12-hour day shift.

Brad had not fully considered that the two coffees might also kick-start his metabolism.

He arrived at work just prior to 7 a.m.

By 8 a.m., he felt a little flutter in his belly.

By 8:15, the flutter evolved into a little growl.

And by 8:17, the growl and flutter combined to create a rumble, severe abdominal discomfort, and a cold sweat. A larger-than-life voice in his head sounded an alarm that alerted him to an imminent large-scale evacuation in his lower intestines and bowels.

He had to act quickly. The growling was getting louder. The fluttering was growing more intense. The sense of urgency was worsening. His underpants were in serious peril.

Brad clenched his glute and sphincter muscles and gently backed away from his workstation, making his way to the toilet facilities. He walked swiftly but gingerly so as not to tempt the beast in his belly. He could not risk any sudden movements, lest his colon’s contents reach the point of no return too soon.

Upon reaching his destination, however, he was met with a sign at the entrance to the gender-neutral restroom: “Temporarily closed for janitorial maintenance. Come back in 10 minutes.”

His mind could accept it. His digestive system could not.

Cramping and doubled over at the waist, he tried to navigate the now-congested corridor for an alternate location. How could it be that there was so seldom ANYONE in this hallway at this hour but on THIS day of all days, it was crowded?

Alas, by a stroke of luck, he determined that the janitor’s closet was within meters of where he stood, and fortunately for Brad, the door was open. He needed relief - and soon - and he could not bring himself to trust a fart at this point. So, into the closet he ventured.

Rapidly slamming the door behind him, he scanned the small room frantically for a bucket, a bag, or a box – anything he could use to contain the mess that was brewing inside him anxiously trying to escape. But time was of the essence.

He had to settle for the industrial sink.

He barely got his belt unbuckled and his pants to his knees before the contents of his stomach exploded from his hind quarters… and all over the back of the sink wall and faucet, creating a splatter worthy of a Jackson Pollack painting and accompanied by a stench comparable to that of a rendering plant.

He stood there gasping, vulnerable but relieved, taking a moment to gather his bearings before deciding his next move.

And that is when the janitor walked in.

“Um…. Got a bit of Montezuma’s Revenge there, do ya, bud?”

Brad wanted to die, to just fade into the wall behind the sink along with his bodily waste. He had no words. All he had was a red face, an exposed mid-section, and the evidence of his ordeal directly behind him, framing him as he stood there. This was not a time for pride. There was no way to make this picture pretty.

“Got a washcloth, pal? I swear I’ll clean all of this up,” was all Brad could muster.

The janitor pointed to the shelf to Brad’s right. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

By the time Brad made it back to his workstation, the word was out. He was met with applause as he resumed work. A lesser man, his colleagues reasoned, simply would have left the site and never returned. But not Brad – he could be counted on to finish the job.

And ever since that day, he has been known as “Monty” - short for Montezuma’s Revenge.

He has severed all ties with Swiss chard.