There's some sicko on the phone

Leave it to Michael Moore to steal my thunder.

Rumor has it (according to my second cousin's bookie's welder) that the aforementioned bastion of cinematographic liberal idealism was sitting at home earlier this year, lamenting his paucity of good movie ideas while finishing off a pint of Chunky Monkey, when he read my article on health care. Eureka! Sicko! Viola! Just call me The Muse of the Automatic Oscar for Best Documentary. I'm sure my check is in the mail.

Man, he sure did get that movie from concept to release in a hurry. Good thing he works faster than he walks.

Thing is, in recent years, I haven't been sick very often. Sure, there's the hip replacement that I will need someday, and the slightly high cholesterol that I'm totally ignoring because I'm convinced that it's really not all that bad (and my doctor is just trying to sell me meds that I don't need), but other than that, I'm as healthy as a Federal Prisoner. Which is a good thing, because as a manager of a golf course, I'm really not allowed to be sick, now am I? Unless I'm dislodging chunks of colon in rapid-fire fashion, or am about to lose my mind entirely (and only if I can get someone to cover for me), I simply cannot miss work.

Truth be told, I've called in sick exactly one time in the past 2 years, and even then, I admitted to my boss that I was not in any physical discomfort but that I simply needed a day off for matters undisclosed. Beforehand, I arranged for someone to take my shift. That's it. That's how it's done. Nothing else is acceptable. A cold is an inconvenience - that why we have Sudafed. Thus is the life of the manager.

This was not always the case. My youth is pockmarked with a hearty palette of fictitious circumstances which tragically kept me from the office on many a day, ranging from the ever popular food poisoning (which I actually did have recently, but came into work anyway - how's that for a karmic comeuppance) to the overly dramatic family illness, accompanied by a fable replete with far too many unnecessary and clearly phony details. One of our grounds crew phoned in recently, unable to attend to his mowing duties that day, as a result of his grandmother being bitten by a snake on Minnesota Avenue in SE Washington, DC.

How was I unable to come up with that one? Grandma got fanged in the ghetto. Genius. Pure genius.

It all seems like fun and games until it's you on the other end of the telephone, taking a call shortly before the caller's shift is due to begin, and it's you who is going to have to do his job that day. This was the scenario that confronted me recently. While this was not the first time someone called in sick to me - far from it - it was undoubtedly the most infuriating.

See, I had a plan for this past Sunday. After my usual wake up time at 4 a.m. Sunday morning, I was going to open up the course at 5 a.m., then leave early at around 10 a.m. when the other manager came in.

Over the past week, I had been giddy with excitement at the prospect of attending my first ever professional golf tournament, the AT&T National, hosted by Tiger Woods. It was all I could think and talk about, and I simply could not wait for the day to arrive. Having already purchased my ticket online a few days earlier, and made a special trip to the will call office to retrieve it, there would be no time wasted on Sunday - all golf, all day long. Nirvana. I had my driving route and spectator map all planned out. This morning, it was actually easy to get up at 4 a.m. for once, as I clicked my heels together in anticipation on the way to work.

Then, at 9 a.m., just as the hour of soon-to-be golf bliss approached, I got the call.

"Hey Evan, I can't make it in to work today. I'm sick. I've actually been sick for a while and now I'm really sick." (Imagine sick sounding voice with clogged nostrils and scratchy throat).

"You're kidding me, right?"

"No. Can't you call Scott and have him come in?"

"No man, I can't. Scott has plans, and he specifically asked for this day off well in advance."

"Oh. I'm really sorry."

GOTDANGSHIIIIIITASSMOTHERFRUCKINSONOFABEEOTCH!

So, as my six-hour work day turned into a 16-hour work day and my 55-hour work week turned into a 65 hour work week (and of course I'm salaried), I get to eat the maraschino cherry on top of this crap cake by hearing from earlier attendees how the tournament was "so amazing," just after giving my ticket away. Oh well. I guess things could be worse. I'm not in Iraq and I don't clean sewers for a living.

Thing is, all I got was "I'm sick." I mean, that's it? Just plain old sick? No fever? No clammy hands? No plague? No pestilence? No unnecessary stories of bowel mishaps? No "coming out of both ends" comment? Come on man! When my day turns from ecstasy to misery faster than Paris scored an 8-ball after leaving prison, I want something more than "I'm sick." It's not more believable if you withhold details, in case you were wondering. You may be sick, you may only be hung-over, I really don't know. But dammit man, get creative! Give me "grandma needs snake antidote" or something, so I can feel as if my wretched existence is not for naught.

For instance:

"I accidentally fell asleep in wet cement on the sidewalk. I can't get out. A squirrel hit your speed dial number and you're on speakerphone, in case you were wondering."

"I slept in the woods and was attacked by a pack of she-wolves. They are now raising me as their own. I will soon start my own city after I kill my brother."

"I woke up in the middle of the night with a mysterious crotch rash and the emergency room said it is highly contagious and they need to send me to a specialist. Maybe you can check it out for me?"

"I was whisked away via helicopter to a remote island with many shiny penguins. Either that, or I'm tripping my balls off right now."

"I'm having a sex-a-thon with Jessica Alba and Victoria from Victoria's secret, and I'm just about to find out what the secret is."

"I forgot - today is when I have to worship Zoltar, the great underlord of hideous circular saw maiming. We will need to use you for a sacrifice if you make me come into work."

"There's a 700 Club marathon on CMT today, and my dog ate my TiVo."

"I'm the featured guest on Scalp Talk with Brian Scalp this afternoon and I haven't a thing to wear." (I mean, what do you say to that?)

Bottom line: unless you're dead or dying, give the boss a good laugh, especially if you're going to ruin his day/week/month by crapping out of work. Oh, and thank you, Tiger, for bringing golf back to DC. I planned on thanking you in person, but we all know how that turned out. See you next year.

Here's to your health.

Evan Redmon is a manager of a public golf course in Washington, D.C. and writes a few things about stuff sometimes. Contact him at evanredmon@yahoo.com if you really want.