Chapter 15
Matthew "Spaz" Brock
"To experiment on another
man's mind is to discover
one's own insanity."
~ T.S. Elliot, 1752
Think of the strangest person you've ever met. Surely you have met someone who you would consider quirky or unusual—eccentric, even. Have you met an individual whom you would classify as weird, bizarre, or peculiar? Of course you have. Now, hold the image of that person in your mind and multiply their strangeness by one million. That is how I can best describe the freak that is Matthew Brock.
I've worked with Matthew at WNYX for many years. Technically, he holds the position of Reporter, however, the only thing he truly reports on is his own insanity. The stories he manages to produce serve as an intriguing insight into the man's psyche. Roughly half of what he writes is directly related to his cats, DooDoo and Lick Me.[1] Once you weed out feline related stories, you will find that Matthew's perspective of the world is unlike any other. This is a man (and I use that term loosely), who believes that New York radio listeners would be enthralled to hear a report on the inequity behind who is and is not allowed on the kiddie rides at Coney Island. He is an individual who thinks a hard hitting story involves spending a day at the zoo to investigate whether or not the penguins are currently engaged in a turf war. When you think about it, Matthew is actually quite a fascinating specimen.
In all the years I've known him I don't know that I've ever seen him do any actual work. At least, not on purpose. His typical day is spent vacillating between being completely unproductive and actively causing harm to the station. Every so often he'll perform some radio related task, such as carting the promos, but only after Dave Nelson, our current news director, has publicly berated him over his failure to do so. Even then, such a task is typically not executed correctly and needs to be remedied by one of his coworkers. On one occasion Matthew did prepare a story that was approved by Dave and made it to the airwaves. It was a piece on the city budget review. However, it was later discovered that Matthew wrote the story entirely by mistake. He actually thought the budget was a clue to the New York Times' Sudoku puzzle. I guess even a spaz like Mathew gets lucky from time to time.
We, at WNYX, seem to have collectively decided that the way for Matthew to do the least amount of harm is to allow him to play computer solitaire all day. I believe it was Mr. James who first introduced Matthew to the game. My guess is that Jimmy was tired of being sued or fined every time Matthew went on the air with a slanderously false news story about a local business or an unfortunate mispronunciation of a publicly prominent individual's last name. Mr. James is a savvy businessman and he quickly saw that the best way to keep Matthew from costing him money was to keep him otherwise occupied. Thus, Jimmy showed Matthew how to play solitaire and Matthew, being the enormous child that he is, was instantaneously addicted. You might wonder why Mr. James didn't simply fire Matthew for his incompetence. In fact, that strategy has been tried time and time again. Matthew has been fired on multiple occasions and has quit at least twice. It has proven to be an ineffective solution. You see, whether employed by WNYX or not, Matthew simply will not be gotten rid of. Like an abandoned puppy, shoved out of the door of a moving vehicle in the middle of nowhere, Matthew always finds his way back to the Criterion building and sits all night, whimpering at our door. The chaos and confusion he sows at the station while unemployed has proven equally if not more disruptive than when he actually works there. Thus, the best solution is to give him an empty title and sit him in a corner with a digital deck of cards to keep him out of trouble.
The man is, self-admittedly, an idiot. Please do not think that I am picking on the poor bastard when I call him a moron. He is fully aware that he is lacking in cognitive ability. I contend that it is neither an exaggeration, nor hyperbole, to state that Matthew is the dumbest man on the planet. As I'm sure you've already gathered, this is not a smart human being (if that is, indeed, his classification as a lifeform). We've all met people who are not smart, so I'm sure you believe you know the type. Let me assure you, Matthew's stupidity is on another level entirely. He thinks a senate hearing is conducted by audiologists. He holds the conviction that I, Bill McNeal, am capable of manifesting a particular weather pattern simply by reporting it on the air. In fact, on several occasions, he has put in requests for clear skies when he had outdoor weekend plans coming up. Matthew believes elves are responsible for the regular disappearance of his office supplies, even when said supplies are quite obviously stolen by me and then placed prominently on my desk a mere six feet away from his own. I was once able to occupy Matthew for a solid hour by giving him a piece of paper that said, "Please turn over," on both sides. Trust me when I say that Matthew's idiocy is in a class of its own.
I think it's fair to say that stupidity and gullibility go hand in hand. Matthew is a prime example of this rule. Having no intellectual framework on which to base the decision of whether something is real or fiction, the man will essentially believe anything said to him with even an ounce of conviction. I once told Matthew that I was in the witness protection program and that Bill McNeal was simply the identity I had been given. When he pressed me about my previous identity, which I knew he undoubtedly would, I "accidentally" let it slip that my prior name was Neal McBill. Once that cat was out of the bag, I informed him that he would also have to join the witness protection program. He spent the rest of the day inventing various names for himself, such as Bratthew Mock and Brockthew Math, as well as writing goodbye letters to his cats.
On another occasion I told Matthew that I had it on good authority that Dave was actually a robot sent to test our allegiance in the event of the sentient robot uprising. He then tried various methods of detecting whether or not Dave truly was robotic. Matthew threw a bucket of water on our news director to see if it would fry his circuitry. I pointed out to him that many forms of electronic devices can be made waterproof these days. Matthew then tried to find Dave's power cable, assuming that he would need to recharge his batteries somehow. I dropped a few hints that all that coffee Dave drinks may be fueling him with more than just caffeine. By the time I switched out a memo Dave had written with a sheet of paper covered in ones and zeros, Matthew was fully convinced that the robot uprising was nigh. For weeks thereafter, Matthew went around saying "please" and "thank you" to the photocopier and giving compliments to the fax machine. Of course, my toying with Mathew is all totally harmless fun.
I have been accused of lying to Matthew for the purposes of my own amusement. I feel that characterization of my actions is incorrect. While I do manage to garner much amusement at Matthew's expense, I would argue that they're not lies, per se. Rather, I paint fictional pictures for Matthew which do him little to no harm and which he is likely to forget about in a matter of days. Sure, I once told Matthew his mother had long ago had an affair and I was, in fact, his father. He was a little upset at first, what with thinking his entire life had been a lie and all. But I came clean as soon as the return window had passed on all the retroactive Father's Day gifts he purchased for me. Say what you will about the man, but he does know how to pick out a good gift when he puts his mind to it.
Admittedly, I did tell Matthew that a previously unnoticed clause in his contract stated that he had to pay me a sum of one-hundred dollars every month as a Bill McNeal Proximity Fee. I would hardly call that a lie. Yes, technically by definition it is untrue. But proximity to Bill McNeal is most definitely an honor worth paying for. I would hardly say any harm was done by this little fib. What would Matthew have spent that money on anyway? His cats? I can certainly put those funds to better use. In a way, you could say I was doing him a favor. Besides, if he ever notices that the clause in question was hand written in the margins of the last page of his contract, I will be happy to return any of the money which has not yet been spent.
In addition to being both dumb and gullible, another notable characteristic of our resident spaz is his unmatched clumsiness. Outside of toddlers who have just learned to walk, I have never met another individual with such an enormous propensity for falling down. Every chair he's ever sat in has seemingly ejected him at one point or another. It matters not how flat or even the floor is, Matthew will find a way to trip over it. He has never met a bowl of hot soup or a cup of tea which he was unable to spill on his person. Falling backwards into trash cans, tumbling down flights of stairs, and walking face-first into windows are all daily occurrences in Matthew's world. It's a miracle he's still alive today to continue pestering all of us. If he ever figures out what worker's compensation is, Jimmy may have him shipped off to Mongolia just to avoid paying the claims.
Needless to say, Matthew is an interesting phenomenon. I doubt there is another person like him on Earth. Which raises the question, how did Matthew become Matthew? Why is he like this? Much like Sigmund Freud before me, I blame the parents. Matthew's relationship with his mother is what he calls endearing, but what most normal people would call unhealthy at best. I've been told that Matthew has never lived more than five miles away from his mother. She still packs his lunches and folds his laundry for him, in spite of the fact that he is in his thirties. I have long been considered something of a momma's boy myself, but Mathew takes it a stretch too far. He gives Norman Bates a run for his money. Let's just say if Matthew suddenly decides to open a motel, I wouldn't recommend booking a room.
I will say that despite Matthew's idiocy and ineptitude, his gullibility and his clumsiness, he does have one redeeming quality. The man worships the ground I walk on. Quite frankly, he seems to be the only one of my colleagues who has been able to embrace my preeminence with neither jealousy nor fear. Rather than try to tear me down from my pedestal, compete with me, or attempt to discourage me from climbing to the pinnacle of my professional field, Matthew has recognized my greatness for what it is: an unstoppable force. He has demonstrated his willingness to support me both personally and professionally by literally giving me the shirt off his back. It's not unlike Matthew to walk around the office half nude anyway, but that's not the point. The point is, I needed something to clean mustard off my shoe, and he gladly provided his shirt to do the job. What can I say? Despite his many flaws, Matthew has one thing going for him. He really gets me. He understands what makes Bill McNeal tick.
[1] Editor's note: Matthew Brock's cats are named Chew Chew and Mitt Mitt.