WEBVTT - The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 6

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<v Speaker 1>Previously on Miller High Life Presents The Heavyweight Diaries. Can't

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<v Speaker 1>wait to hear the first episode of the new season.

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<v Speaker 1>I have not. Timothy Nelson is our union representative Subway Sandwich,

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson. Are we all set for our listening part?

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson Gimbletz executive listening room is a darkened chamber

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<v Speaker 1>with the deadened acoustics of a sarcophagus. We all find

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<v Speaker 1>our seats. Stevie and Khalila take the couch, and Heavyweight

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<v Speaker 1>Union head Timothy Nelson commandeer's a backwards office chair. Nelson

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<v Speaker 1>don's his careful listening face a horrid affair that involves

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<v Speaker 1>squinting his eyes, tilting his head beatifically, and I can

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<v Speaker 1>only assume tightly puckering his colon. Finally, Bloomberg drags his

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<v Speaker 1>silver plated Peloton bicycle into the center of the room.

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<v Speaker 1>Hope you don't mind if I take a spin while

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<v Speaker 1>I take it all in, he says, And Timothy Nelson,

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<v Speaker 1>let's loose a belly chuckle sick a fantic enough to

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<v Speaker 1>make my spermatic cord unraveled at great expense. Only weeks earlier,

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<v Speaker 1>re ravel as much an enemy of capitalism as he was,

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson still couldn't help kissing the ring, and by ring,

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<v Speaker 1>I mean caboose, Alex Bloomberg's executive Ask caboose, nice one, chief,

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<v Speaker 1>says Nelson, chasing after Bloomberg's two wheeler to swat his

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<v Speaker 1>foot in camaraderie. Once the room settles down, I squint

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<v Speaker 1>through the darkness. Eight beady eyes stare back at me,

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<v Speaker 1>expectant and unblinking, like a pack of rabid raccoons about

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<v Speaker 1>to tear through a garbage bag full of content. My

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<v Speaker 1>only option is to stall. I succeed in buying myself

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<v Speaker 1>ten minutes by accidentally rebooting my computer several times, but

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<v Speaker 1>the room is growing restless. What is a heavyweight? I

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<v Speaker 1>ask a portmanteau composed of two separate words, heavy meaning

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<v Speaker 1>to exert a gravitational pull and wait, something that can

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<v Speaker 1>be hoisted either in a curling motion or from a

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<v Speaker 1>squatting position. While my mouth jabbers on autopilot, my brain

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<v Speaker 1>is in a terrible sweat. Think Johnny, Think stories. Stories,

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<v Speaker 1>But of the billions of stories to steal and repurpose,

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<v Speaker 1>only two come to mind, The seminal kiddie book Good

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<v Speaker 1>Night Moon, in which a suicidal rabbit bids adieu to

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<v Speaker 1>his earthly possessions, and that poem about footsteps in the sand.

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<v Speaker 1>Please give me something else, I beg my throbbing brain.

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<v Speaker 1>Good night podcast. It whispers back, good night Healthcare, good

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<v Speaker 1>night Twitter followers. But just as I'm about to initiate

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<v Speaker 1>Plan B, tearing down the window curtains and a curtain

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<v Speaker 1>clutching fake heart attack worthy of Red Fox, a third

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<v Speaker 1>story enters my brain. Pan no, please, I scream and

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<v Speaker 1>think get out, as I will later recount in increasing

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<v Speaker 1>states of hysteria to increasingly expensive therapists. It's in this

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<v Speaker 1>moment that my fate hops into a potato sack with

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson's fate. Before I even knew what I was saying,

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<v Speaker 1>I was saying this. The scene is set in in

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<v Speaker 1>an office elevator, as one man tells the tale of

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<v Speaker 1>Sandwich is gone AWRYE if you will, I laugh at

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<v Speaker 1>my own joke to enforce its comedic properties. I don't

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<v Speaker 1>get it, says Stevie. I think I do, says Khalila.

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<v Speaker 1>I shoot them a stern look and continue. My girlfriend

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<v Speaker 1>wanted a subway sandwich without olives. The man says, and

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<v Speaker 1>I wanted a subway sandwich with olives. That's me, cries

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson. I am that man. With a wave of

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<v Speaker 1>my storytelling arm I shush him down. Ah, but with

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<v Speaker 1>impish leco slavic lord of misrule helming the wheel of

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<v Speaker 1>this supper wagon we call life. Nothing is ever certain.

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<v Speaker 1>And so the man who desperately drooled for a sandwich

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<v Speaker 1>with olives received the one without, while his lady friend,

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<v Speaker 1>vigorously salivating for a sandwich without olives, received a sandwich with.

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<v Speaker 1>Will these star crossed sandwiches ever find their rightful sandwich eaters? Well,

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<v Speaker 1>why don't they just swap sandwiches? Asks S Bloomberg. Why, indeed,

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<v Speaker 1>I wonder it's just as I'm about to admit defeat.

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<v Speaker 1>Admit that I have nothing. Admit that, like a half

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<v Speaker 1>baked sandwich bread made without yeast, this plotline has no

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<v Speaker 1>rising action. Admit that, yes, Alex, this is indeed the

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<v Speaker 1>most asinine story ever told. It is at this exact

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<v Speaker 1>moment of my final comeuppance that Timothy Nelson grants me

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<v Speaker 1>a kind of salvation. My special lady is allergic to

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<v Speaker 1>pickled peppers pipes. He and my sandwich was populated by

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<v Speaker 1>a peck of them. And like the humble sandwich, so

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<v Speaker 1>too is man, I say, already hearing the well of

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<v Speaker 1>orchestral music in my mind's ear. Like sandwiches, are we

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<v Speaker 1>not assembled according to a greater, unknowable plan? Who among

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<v Speaker 1>us has not found themselves slathered in the mayonnaise of doubt,

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<v Speaker 1>sliced in two by the bread knife of self hatred?

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<v Speaker 1>Had our crusts removed by the attentive mother of anxiety?

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<v Speaker 1>Who among us will not be chewed up, devoured, and

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<v Speaker 1>excreted before our time? Out of the darkness, I see

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson wipe a tear from his cheek. So true,

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<v Speaker 1>he says, But what if that olive, burdened couple had

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<v Speaker 1>the chance at a do over? I continue affecting the

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<v Speaker 1>voice of a wizard casting a magic spell, and could

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<v Speaker 1>confront the sandwich maker who got their orders so horribly wrong.

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<v Speaker 1>If you allow yourself to venture past the limits of

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<v Speaker 1>your earthly imagination, try to invent what such a conversation

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<v Speaker 1>might yield. Bloomberg stops peddling his three thousand dollars wheelless bicycle,

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<v Speaker 1>his attention wrapped interviewing the subway sandwich artist who got

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<v Speaker 1>the order wrong. He says, of course, to offer the

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<v Speaker 1>mustard of forbearance, I say, the sweet tapanad of forgiveness.

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson is now openly blubbering, damn you and your storytelling,

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<v Speaker 1>he weeps. And for an added layer of narrative richness,

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<v Speaker 1>I say, the man eavesdropping in the elevator was none

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<v Speaker 1>other than the host of Heavyweight himself. You were wearing earbuds,

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<v Speaker 1>cries Nelson with incredulity. And when I asked you how

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<v Speaker 1>your weekend was, you ordered me to pipe down because

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<v Speaker 1>you were listening to a podcast. But you weren't listening

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<v Speaker 1>to a podcast at all. Oh but I was, I say,

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<v Speaker 1>just one that was yet to be recorded. Beautiful, says Bloomberg.

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<v Speaker 1>The symmetry is breathtaking. In response, all of us in

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<v Speaker 1>the room, dutifully quoting from the Gimlet Manifesto, recite in unison,

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<v Speaker 1>symmetry divided by catharsis and multiplied by advertising dollars equals storytelling.

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<v Speaker 1>We all take deeply satisfying SIPs from the miller high lifes.

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<v Speaker 1>We've all been drinking, and that I never mentioned until

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<v Speaker 1>this moment. You and Timothy will have to work together

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<v Speaker 1>very closely on this one. Bloomberg says, I'm seeing a

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<v Speaker 1>co reporting situation. I don't know, I say, Khleland, Stevie are.

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<v Speaker 1>He's telling me that Heavyweights more of a one man operation.

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<v Speaker 1>We could sell some product placement, brand opportunities to Subway,

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<v Speaker 1>says Bloomberg, steamrolling me. And maybe you can also find

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<v Speaker 1>out why subway bread smells the way it does. You

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<v Speaker 1>mean smelling like if you put an armpit in a

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<v Speaker 1>Betty Crocker easy bake oven and set it on high.

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<v Speaker 1>I ask that smell. I love the smell of subway bread,

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<v Speaker 1>says Timothy Nelson. Bloomberg laughs and claps his hands together.

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<v Speaker 1>I'm just loving the banter here, he says. I know

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<v Speaker 1>we can put our political differences aside and the interest

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<v Speaker 1>of creating some compelling content, says Timothy Nelson, And then

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<v Speaker 1>for some reason, he extends his fist to me uncertainly.

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<v Speaker 1>I grab hold of it and shake. I had saved

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<v Speaker 1>the show, But at what price? This has been Chapter

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<v Speaker 1>six of the Heavyweight Diaries. The next season of Heavyweight

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<v Speaker 1>will begin in three weeks on September twenty sixth. Remember

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<v Speaker 1>September twenty sixth is Spotify Day. Actually, every day is

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<v Speaker 1>Spotify Day, at least according to the corporate mantra we're

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<v Speaker 1>forced to repeat every morning. Heavyweight is me Jonathan Goldstein

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<v Speaker 1>along with Jorge just Stevie Lane, Khalila Holt, and b A. Parker.

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<v Speaker 1>This episode was mixed by Emamonger, music by Bobby Lord.

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<v Speaker 1>Our ad music is Vivaldi's Spring, performed by the Wichita

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<v Speaker 1>State University Chamber Players. Will have a new chapter of

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<v Speaker 1>the Heavyweight Diaries next week.