The morning started off normally enough. Work was, well, work. It was a fairly constant routine in which those of us whose brain had multiple channels (everyone but Scott) tried to let our minds wander off to more productive and interesting programs while still giving the appearance of attention to the tasks before us. Of all things, I was actually wondering what sort of chocolate bar I would like to be if I had to be a chocolate bar. It could be worse. I could have been contemplating who would win in a fight between Darth Vader and Voldemort. Seriously. I heard a couple guys talking about it as I was waiting at the bus stop on the way to work.
I digress. Like normal people are wont to do.
All in all, a normal morning. Something was off, however. Something I had hardly noticed enough to even be aware of it as anything aside from a niggling feeling in the back of my brain that if I would just adjust the channel the picture would come in more clearly.
The difference, the thing that was off, was the fact that Scott was not in the office yet. Being the type of man who was aware solely of his surroundings and whose mind was focused so utterly on the here and now, Scott was never late. Scott was always at his desk precisely when he should be, engaged in all the appropriate tasks at exactly the correct speed - neither too quickly, as we had quickly disabused him of that habit, nor so slowly that there would be a complaint from management as had occasionally been lodged against one of the rest of us. No, Scott was the model drone, to be quite honest.
But Scott was not there. There were no comments about staplers or copiers, no puzzling over just what a random statement would relate to. It was, to put it bluntly, bliss.
My contemplation of life as an Oh Henry was, however, interrupted by a disconcerting desire to break into a drum solo and it was then that I realized someone was singing Bohemian Rhapsody. My first thought was to wonder just who was awake and enthused enough to be singing that song at that hour of the morning. My second was that I could not identify who it might be.
My third thought was replaced by the "technical difficulties" screen that stations display when I recognized Scott as he entered. Admittedly, recognizing him was a bit difficult. His hair was mussed in a way that looked almost fashionable. Usually it was combed absolutely flat. His shirt was a bit rumpled, his tie crooked. Such things would normally not be allowed.
Then he jumped and clicked his heels together like he thought he was in some musical number in one of those movies my girlfriend was always trying to get me to watch that I laughed at because of all the spontaneous dancing and singing. But there was Scott, singing and dancing in apparent spontaneity.
I was not the only one to notice the radical change. Heads all over were popping up like little cubicle gophers and we couldn't do anything but stare in confusion. Scott's brain had suddenly gotten cable. And the good cable at that.