The Thibideaux Situation

Advice from Oliver Cassidy



Back during the first week of February, when Matilda – who at the time was wearing a short wool skirt, black stockings and black heels – asked if he’d be interested in signing up to run the 10K race in McLaren Park, Thibideaux said, “Sure, cool,” and signed up. He rarely said “cool.” Matilda, in whatever outfit, was his weakness. She clouded his mind. He had a thing for the fitness girls. Plus, he’d been meaning to get back in shape. Three months seemed like the perfect amount of time.

Three months later, it was race day, and he hadn’t trained a day, not one day, and at first he thought he needed an excuse. He would not run the race like a wounded gorilla and embarrass himself. What if I have to walk? What if I throw up? Why the hell didn’t I train? There was no way he would run the race. Then Matilda saw him in the hall and asked if he was running and he said yes. Cowardly instinct. She was wearing a tight red t-shirt and jeans and he said yes. So at first he thought he’d go. I’ll run the race. I’ll try. I’ll take it slow.

What Thibideaux didn’t know was that Matilda was trying to give him a heart attack. Literally. Dave Ball, Thibideaux’s underling at the office, wanted his job and wanted him incapacitated or dead. Ball was secretly dating Matilda, and made it clear to her that what was good for him was good for her. In the event of Thibideaux being removed from his position, Ball promised Matilda twenty percent up front of whatever his new salary turned out to be (likely in the $150,000 range), and a meeting with his cousin Ellis, a Hollywood casting agent. Matilda wanted to act.

“Show Thibideaux your headshots,” Ball once said as Matilda rode him. “Be innocent about it. Ask what he thinks. Get him involved. And make sure you show him the saucy schoolgirl shots.”

“Okay,” said Matilda. She pushed her breasts together and smirked.

“I want you in his mind as much as possible. I want him distracted.”



The night of the race, while Matilda ran her eight minute miles and Ball manned a table of plastic cups of Gatorade Ice (one of which was laced with adrenaline), Thibideaux quietly ate a late dinner with his wife. He was turning ideas over in his mind. What do I say tomorrow? Should I call in sick? Say I got sick tonight? His wife popped a thought balloon when she asked how his day went.

“Fine.” He nudged a yam with his fork.

“Anything interesting happen?”

“Not really.”

They ate in silence for a few moments.

“Wasn’t that race tonight?”

“Yeah, it was.”

“So… I guess you’re not running it?”

Thibideaux dropped his fork on his plate and grabbed his wine glass. “Does it look like I’m running it?” He marched to his den and clicked on The Daily Show.

If Thibideaux knew the truths of his life, his head might explode. He’s not particularly good at his job. He doesn’t take very good care of himself. His wife, rightfully so, is cheating on him. Why shouldn’t she? He’s distant and unappreciative. And his weekend wardrobe is despicable. His kids barely notice him. A woman at work is using him for profit. A man at work is trying to kill him.

A friendly warning: don’t let this happen to you.