Before Jurassic World

Chapter 15

"All I'm saying is someone barley touches them and they fall, screaming in agony, for 15 minutes.  That's the definition of acting like a pussy," I explained to Barry as he stood before a whiteboard transcribing notes about the girl's daily activities.  "No, flip number one and two. Delta got to the pig first then relinquished control to Blue."

I was lying on the couch in Owen and Barry's office chewing on Twizzlers debating with him the merits of American football versus European football, more commonly referred to as soccer.  My little swim in the river rewarded me with three cracked ribs, and too many cuts and bruises to count.  I was ordered by Simon to take the full six weeks of medical leave my doctor had recommended.  I tried to lodge a protest, but he simply ignored me, and my very detailed comment card, going about his business as if I wasn't in the room. Simon was kind of a dick sometimes.

For the first week I'd recuperated at my house with Owen or Barry stopping by at steady intervals to bring me food, dispense my pain meds, and attempt to relieve my boredom.  After throwing a fit and tossing a Vicodin bottle at Owen's head in frustration he made the administrative decision to bring me to work with him every day.  I told him he didn't have to, but kept my fingers crossed behind my back that he wouldn't abandon me in my time of need.  I would have understood if he couldn't handle me at my worst, that shit was ridiculous sometimes.  I don't know how he managed it, but Owen weathered my mood swings like a champ. I think he's trying for sainthood.  If our situations had been reversed I would have smothered him with a pillow by now.  Just sayin'.

I didn't do all that much given I could hardly stand up straight without crying in pain, but being here made me feel more useful than lounging in my house watching DVDs all day by myself.  Right now, I was trying to convince Barry that American football was WAY better than European soccer (or futbol as Barry so eloquently pronounced it with his annoyingly sexy French accent) based solely on the toughness of the players.

"Futbol is not called the beautiful game for nothing Jo.  It is the most popular sport everywhere in the world except the United States," he stated his case while making the correction on the board before turning to face me.

"Soccer Barry, it's called soccer.  Football is where real men put on pads and try to kill each other in the name of sport."

"It's only called soccer in America," he clarified. 

"I fail to see your point."

He smiled devilishly, "We aren't in America Jo.  Therefore, it would only be proper to refer to the game by its true name, futbol."

I rolled my eyes.  "First of all, no one talks like that so stop with the Gerard Depardieu.  Second, you're not getting off on a geographical technicality.  Soccer players are not as tough football players.  It's a scientific fact."

Barry tried to look mock offended by my characterization, but I knew deep down he worked that French accent to his advantage.  Chewing on another Twizzler I read the rest of the notes on the board while Barry stewed in his defeat.  He was sporting an exasperated look on his face that made me smile.  Truth was I really enjoyed soccer, especially when the World Cup rolled around, but messing with Barry was my primary occupation these days.

The door opened, Owen stepping inside surveying the office.  "Are you trying to set some kind of record for Twizzler consumption?" he asked, pointing to the bag lying on my stomach, half empty.

"This is my first bag."  This afternoon.

He smiled, shaking his head as he walked to his desk sitting down facing me.  He reached in his pocket pulling out my Vicodin bottle.