Scott Wahrenberger

The Meat Popsicle

   “What slays me is that everyone just assumes you’re a meat Popsicle,” Danny told Jason as he poured a cup of coffee. Both Jason and he stood by the security desk, inside and stuffed into a corner of a less than prestigious junior college.

   “Look at the kind of people that get hired,” Jason countered. “It does give the impression that we’re meat Popsicles.”

   “Touché my terse but jocular associate,” Danny chuckled. “None the less I believe those with the ambition to pursue advanced degrees should maintain a certain amount of class. Manners perhaps?”

   “Have you noted the class of the security staff at other campuses? Take for instance the Pittsburgh Center of the Performing Janitorial Arts and Custodial Sciences located on the North Shore?”

   “I use to work there, it’s a hole,” Danny replied sipping his coffee. He grimaced as the motor oil like liquid passed his gums and scoured his pallet like a load of steel wool. “You couldn’t pay enough money to work there daylight.”

   “That bad?”

   “During the day, so I worked nights. Most of the time it resembled a cemetery unless the Pittsburgh Hurricanes are engaged in an athletic presentation. Worst team in the midget woman’s bocce league.”

   “You recognize some citizens take that serious,” Jason replied as he fumbled through a drawer looking for his daily paperwork. 

   “Like your mother?”

   “My mother’s prickly about that. She tried out years ago but got canned because she’s too tall.”

   “Too tall?” Danny replied astounded. He held his hand, flat and perpendicular to his lower chest, and said. “She’s only this tall!”

   “Quarter inch over. It took her years to perfect her overhand from the shoulder pitching method. Where’s the supervisor?” Jason looked at the computer monitors. The security system had nineteen cameras on the institution allowing a full view of the campus. He watched the evening supervisor’s vehicle pull into the employee lot. “There he is, on time.”

   Danny poured himself a cup of coffee from his thermos and opened the box of almost fresh doughnuts. He commented it was the feast of security guards everywhere and began to inhale the Bavarian cream confectionary.

   “Did you take notice of what happened the other day at the hole? I was talking to Wayne…”


   “Wayne the housekeeper,” Danny elucidated. “He use to be part of the security staff at the hole. Still keeps in touch with a few of the guards there.”

   “Well go, extrapolate your tale of woe,” Jason replied and began to sort through the box of doughnuts. He complained about the lack of Panettone.

   “Well as suspected, when the cats away the mice became rats,” Danny explained. “Being on skeleton staff for the holidays one guard by the aptly sarcastic moniker of ‘Brains’ went with his lunch to a staff member’s office on the sixth floor of the Hall of Janitorial Arts. There he had a television pilfered from the audiovisual laboratory and tunes in the game.”

   “Which game? To bad we don’t have any Amaretti for the coffee,” Jason quipped.

   Pittsburgh Passion and the New York Jazz at Heinz Field. He kicks back opens his lunch of cold pirogues, waffle cake and a six pack of Iron. I mean why the hell not? Who’s coming on campus anyhow? Well at this point of the space time continuum, otherwise known as the fickle finger of fate, singles him out. He gets a call from the desk and not wanting to have the cheering crowd from the game being heard he steps out of the office. Of course he closes the door behind him, it locks and the keys are on the desk.”

   “Converse on the subject of dreadful providence,” Jason commented and began to dutifully fill out the daily ledger.

   “That goes without saying. The comical item is the call isn’t important, just the Desk Sergeant inquiring as to the score. Seems his sometimes girlfriend is the place kicker.”

   “Without jest?”

   “Truly. Needless to say the trouble deteriorates from misfortune into a psychotic episode. First, note the typical reaction of the man animal. He attempts to beat the door down. No such luck, so he calls the desk sergeant who attempts to duplicate the feat and reaches the same conclusion. Now the door and the lock are damaged beyond repair. Now, in the fullness of a full blown bout of insanity the two of them go up one floor to the Domestic Engineering Laboratory.”

   “That’s the location where hopefuls learn the finer points of bed making?”

   “Precisely. They then commandeer a dozen linens of cottony softness and fabricate a line for the purpose of repelling from the seventh level to the sixth. The deadly duo affixed one end to Brains the Magnificent and the other to a desk.”

   “Brilliant gambit,” Jason sarcastically hissed shaking his head in a moment of disbelief.

   “As destiny unfolded my then partner one by the name of Harold Mack arrives. He spies the line wavering in the breeze from an open window and rushes…quite heroically if not misguidedly…in and finds the miscreants attempting to reinforce the effort with a pilfered electrical extension chord. Needless to say there were many red faces when he informed them that all they needed to do was access the security cabinet for master key and hence forth…”

   “Avoid the whole fiasco,” Jason interjected finishing for him.

   “Exactly my literate partner. You have white cream along your oral cavity,” Danny told Jason.

   “Much thanks.” Jason found a napkin and was wiping his mouth off when the supervisor arrived.

   “Well anything to report?” the supervisor asked.

   “Huh?” Danny belched, his face frozen with an empty look of a cow.

   “Nudding Chief…uh you wants me to checks the, the huh dum, boilers room today?” Jason stuttered.

   “You’re a bunch of meat Popsicles on a good day,” the supervisor belched and sat down at the desk. “Danny you take the truck on patrol and try not to hit any parked cars will you?”

   “Huh duh…yeah whatsever you say boss,” Danny garbled and left hurriedly.

   “I’m like going to check the boiler room okay wid you chief?” Jason asked and began to back off.

   “Yeah sure and don’t touch anything!” his supervisor barked.


This bit of fiction is based on real events that I experienced first hand while working as a security guard on the North Side of Pittsburgh at a junior college.  After seeing this, I realized why they didn’t give us stun batons and handcuffs.



My first book ‘He Came From Earth’ is available at and many other places. I write under the name S. Wilhelm von Wahrenberger.










All rights belong to its author. It was published on by demand of Scott Wahrenberger.
Published on on 03/24/2009.


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