He says nothing. I didn’t really plan a training curriculum. I sort of thought it’d work its way out after I got here. I do know I’ll start him with the basics.
“It’s important you’re in the right state of mind for work,” I say. “Get things that might distract you out of the way as soon as you sit down.” Eddie writes down every word I say on a yellow notepad. His attention to detail makes me feel important. This mentoring thing might actually grow on me after all.
“First thing I do is check my personal e-mail. There might be items I have to attend to right away. See if any jobs have responded to my resume submissions.”
Eddie laughs. “Oh, you’re serious?”
“Of course I am. There’s no better upward mobility than outward mobility.” I pause and look at his pad so he can write that down. He writes. “Here, check this out.” I look around to make sure no one is watching as I open up the locked bottom drawer of my desk. I pull out a laminated piece of paper and hand it to him. He analyzes it.
“A resignation letter?”
I nod.
“Why is it laminated?”
“Good question . . . very good question. A few years ago I thought I was being offered a job . . . I forget with who. But that’s not important. It was for a marketing job. One of those ads in the paper that lure you in with very vague questions like ‘Do you like sports? Do you like money?’ Anyway, I felt really good after the interview. It led me to write this farewell address to my boss at the time and all my co-workers. I wanted to tell them to kiss my ass and all that type of stuff. I spent two hours working on this letter. Then, I got a call back from the job, and they wanted me to come in. Of course, I initially thought it was for orientation. But instead of handing in my resignation, I decided to really hit them where it hurts. To start the next job while on vacation from this job.”
“Why would you do that?” he says.
“So I can get paid twice.” That was a dumb question. I think I prematurely gave him too much credit for his smarts. “I go to the orientation and find out it’s only a second interview. But it’s a huge interview, with over twenty men and women in a room. At first everything was normal, they went over basic information. Explained the benefits and vaguely got into detail as to what they actually did. Then, they paired each one of us up in groups with three current employees, and told us the second part of the interview was going to begin. All of the applicants looked confused, but everyone still maintained their eager-asshole interview façade.”
“What’s that?” Eddie says.
“You know, when you’ll tell the interviewer you’ll do anything. A team player who’ll run through a brick wall for his boss. Try to convince him if he brought out a bowl of shit you’d eat it up if he wanted you to.”
Eddie looks disgusted. “How long was this interview?”
“Shit, that was just the beginning. They had me and three other employees pile into this little-ass car, a Hyundai Accent or some shit. Did I mention it was August? So it’s hot as fuck, and they start driving. Not sure if the AC worked in the piece-of-shit car. But we’re packed in there. I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t ask. Can’t make it seem like I don’t want the job. We get on the highway and keep driving. Now, we go over a bridge. We end up in Delaware. Ain’t that some shit? We drove so long we had to stop for lunch at a Wendy’s. I should’ve made a run for it then, but I had no means of getting home. All four of us get out of the car in this suburban residential neighborhood. It’s about twelve thirty or so. Two of them tell the other guy, who as driving, they’ll meet up at the car at seven. And they leave us. He takes me and he starts ringing on random doorbells, trying to sell printed-out Pizza Hut coupons. Every fucking door. I got on my interview suit, I’m sweating up a storm, and my feet hurt. A few people buy them off him, but most say no. One lady let us in the house, and the dude I’m with asks to go to the bathroom. He leaves his jacket on her couch. I lift the keys from his pocket and try to trace my steps back to the car on some Hansel-and-Gretel shit. I find it and drive back to Jersey.”
“You left them stranded?” he says.
“The fuck I did. I get back to the business, and it’s already dark out. Looks like most of the other people at orientation made it back already. I go up to the door, enraged, because the entire ride home I’ve been thinking how I’m gonna curse everyone out. I take a peek in the window, and all of the employees are in there playing loud rave-type music, going over their sales on the chalkboard and pounding away Mountain Dews. I don’t even want to bother going in now. This shit is too weird for me. I get in my car and drive home.”
I stare at Eddie’s agape mouth as he tries to soak in the entire story.
“After that, I learned how torturous this job shit is. Then, I rewrote that resignation letter over and over again. That right there must be something like my seventeenth draft. I even hired a professional writer to do a draft. And I got it just right, so I laminated it to preserve it for the right time when I tell this company to kiss my ass. If there’s ever a day when I get freed from this place, I’ll have this handy right here,” I say as I point to the bottom drawer. “And I’ll relish the looks on their faces when they read it.”
He looks at the letter again. “I see a few typos.”
“Really?” I say. “Shit, I’ll fix those.” I take the letter and put it back in the bottom drawer and lock it.
“I don’t understand. Some people don’t even have jobs,” he says.
“But I don’t care about them.”
“But shouldn’t you feel honored for the chance to earn a wage and provide for your family?” he says.
“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you? That picture is fake. There’s no family.”
“I know that. Maybe I’m a bit naive since this is only my second day. But I don’t know why you want to leave so badly.”
I really can’t believe what I’m hearing right now. And when I can’t find another way to break it down for him, I see Frank, a co-worker who’s been here for about three years, walking by my desk. “Frank, when’s your next dentist appointment?”
Without missing a stride, he says, “Third Thursday next month,” and keeps walking.
“See,” I tell Eddie. He doesn’t get it. “Think about it. As kids, we never wanted to go to the dentist. We’d go because our parents forced us. But we’d be kicking and screaming. They had to bribe us with ice cream, cartoons, or candy. Now, we look forward to it. Why?”
“Because we’ve learned to embrace the importance of good dental hygiene?” he says.
“No, because it’s a day off from work, or at least a half day. No one wants to be here . . . ever. You spend the majority of the time in your life at work. Or you’re commuting to work. You’re basically either asleep or at work. Life wasn’t intended to be that way. So you should be passionate about what you’re doing.”
Eddie thinks about what I said for a minute. I think he’s starting to see I have a great point. “Well, what are you passionate about?” he says.
I don’t know what to say. No one has asked me that question since my high-school guidance counselor. And I certainly didn’t expect it from a kid who looks like he’s in the tenth grade. But more importantly, I don’t think I’ve asked myself this question. I’m stumped. As clueless at age thirty-two as I was at seventeen. Age is supposed to bring you wisdom. Evidently, I’ve lost mine and this kid has picked it up.
He continues, “First step should be discovering what you care about, and then you can take it from there.”
Now, he’s giving me life lessons. How’d we get to this point? I have to wrangle this relationship back to where I’m in charge. “I’m passionate about teaching you this job and getting you to be the best pension analyst you can be,” I say, sporting my fake smile. “I’ve gone over my morning e-mail-checking routine. Now, you need to know all of the major players in the office. Who to avoid. Who to stay away from. Who can help you, and so on.”
“
Great, this can be useful,” he says. He grabs his pad again.
“I’m not too good with names, but I’ve developed a system of remembering people with nicknames, and this should work for you too. The names are based on Garbage Pail Kid–type logic.”
He’s confused.
“Come on. You remember the Garbage Pail Kids,” I say.
The same look.
“They were trading cards back in the day, with kids who were named based on their characteristics. Like, a fat girl would be Large Marge.”
That was way after his time.
“Well, anyway, that’s my process for remembering our co-workers.” I point to a fortyish dark-haired woman. “She’s Horny Housewife. She and her husband are swingers. She gets all types of sex toys and shit delivered to her here at the office. And there’s a rumor that one time three other co-workers had a gangbang with her. Office legend says it was supposedly videotaped, but I’ve never seen it, so I can’t confirm. One Christmas party, she got totally shitfaced and told Floyd that she knows ‘he hates her because she fucks all the little boys and girls in his company.’ Right there on the dance floor, in the middle of ‘Whoomp! (There It Is).’ She especially takes pride in christening new employees, so definitely watch out. Unless you’re trying to have a crazy fling with a worn-out leathery-vagina’d cougar before you get married. Then, don’t let me stop you.”
I look at him for his reaction, which reflects embarrassment. He wasn’t expecting that, but it’s only gonna help him out in the long term. “I will not be taking part in any christening. I’m engaged,” he says, with his bright red face, as if he was just hit in the nose with a snowball.
“But of course,” I say. “That chubby guy right there, with the beard and holding a slice of pizza at quarter to nine in the morning, is called Chuck Norris with a Thyroid Condition. Why?”
“Because he kinda looks like a fat Chuck Norris?” he replies.
“Exactly, now you’re getting it. He’ll talk your head off about weird sci-fi shit that you don’t give a fuck about, like Battlestar Galactica or Dr. Who, even when you visibly show no interest. And that sneaky-looking dude with a mustache and slicked-back hair is Creepy Bathroom Chuck. No matter when or what time of the day, every time I’m in the bathroom he’s in the bathroom too. He shows up at the urinal or stall right next to me. Always trying to start conversations and shit.”
“Maybe you guys share the same bathroom cycle,” he says.
“See, that’s what I initially thought, but now I think he’s simply a perv. It’s way too frequent.”
I continue, “The lady at her desk, with the Christian Slater shrine—“.
Eddie looks over at her desk and sees the posters, calendars, and figurines all of Slater surrounding her cubicle as if it’s a fifteen year old girl’s bedroom circa 1988.
“Who’s that?” he says.
“That’s Barbara. I don’t have a name for her. Just Barbara. She’s harmless, but kinda creeps me out.”
“No, who’s Christian Slater?” he says.
I shake my head. “An teen actor from the 80’s and 90’s. Now plays in b-movies.”
“Looks like she has an unhealthy addiction,” he says.
“Ya think? Quite stalkery,” I say.
“That guy right there,” I say, as I direct him to a late-forties-looking man with gray hair. “Guess how old he is.”
“Forty-five?” Eddie says.
“Nope, he’s closer to your age than mine. That gray hair and worn-down face are misleading. His wife beats him. I mean, he’s never come out and said it, but I put the pieces together. He was on our basketball team—”
“You mean, the same team you led the overweight fella to his death?” he says.
“What? No . . . well, yeah, that team,” I say. “He was on our team for a few games, and he was getting dressed before a game in the locker room and we saw he had marks on his back. Jake, being the asshole he is, asked him about them. And he said that he fell.”
“So?”
“Fell. If that ain’t some Lifetime-movie shit. He also married young too, like you’re about to do. So take note,” I say. “That black dude right there who has the shirt with the first four buttons unbuttoned. That’s Monta. He’s cool and pretty funny. And hates this place as much as me. We talk about it all day long. When this place really sucks, we get some epic e-mail chains going back and forth, talking shit about everybody and everything in this place. I don’t hang out with him all of the time, because he can get a bit dramatic and gossipy.
“That black dude right there with the Cosby sweater on. You see who I’m talking about?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Now, does he look anything like me?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you.” Best answer he’s given all day. “That’s Wally. He’s a fucking dork. Try not to talk to him either.”
I point to a man who looks like he’s way too old to still be working and should be on the other side of the phone calling about his retirement benefits. “That guy right there, with his pants up to his neck, is Nipple Pants. I really don’t know why they keep him around. He can’t possibly know how to do his job well. And he always has a baffled look on his face when he’s staring at his computer.”
“Maybe they’re waiting to promote him to manager,” Eddie jokes.
I scowl at him.
“That squirrely-looking guy with the glasses on. He’s talking into his cellphone and has a Blackberry and a pager on his hip,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“That’s Ted. He’s a dickhead. Anything you think a dickhead would do, he does it. He’s in sales. All about acquiring new clients. And sometimes that makes him feel like he needs to make sure our work is getting taken care of, because he doesn’t want to lose any of the clients we already have. His grating personality isn’t good for sales. Because, quite frankly, I don’t know anyone who likes him. So imagine that in a meeting or lunch with the client. When he comes over trying to ask you what you’re doing, tell him to fuck off. He’s not our manager. Also, I think he has a thing for Alexis. I often come back to my desk and he’s waiting for me and looking at her picture. Fucking weirdo.”
“Okay,” he says as he writes it down.
“What do you think his name is?” I say, while looking at an Asian man bobbing to the music in his headphones and wearing a cool red leather jacket.
“Sam?” he says.
When I think he’s making progress, he takes four steps back. “That’s Hip Asian. See, these are all self-explanatory. That’s the beauty of it. He always has the latest gadgets, phones, sneakers, and everything. And has these weird but cool Asian lunches he brings in, and wacky candies. Weird flavors too, like eel and kiwi. You don’t have to worry about him talking to you, because he really doesn’t talk to many people. Well, at least, he doesn’t talk to me.
“That guy is Jheri Curl Mullet, because he’s a white guy with a mullet and a Jheri curl. I didn’t even know white people could get Jheri curls. But if being a white man who’s a cross between a Kool & the Gang member and Billy Ray Cyrus isn’t strange enough, the rumor is he had a fan on his desk he used to plug in so his hair could blow. I never got a chance to verify the rumor, because they asked him to remove it. But if you ever get too close to him, that Jheri-curl juice will get on your clothes, and that shit does not come out.”
I look over at Eddie to make sure he’s still paying attention, and he’s doing more than that. He’s writing feverishly to keep up with all of the great information I’m giving him.
“I know I’m throwing a lot at you, but it’s the foundation to a successful career. And trust me, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think you could handle it. That little fat chick we call R2-D2, because she is squat and box shaped like R2-D2. Don’t ever compliment her or say anything that sounds positive, because she’ll think it’s a compliment. She’ll fall in love with you and follow you everywhere. Because she is loyal. Much like R2-D2. I mean, sh
e won’t give you a lightsaber or anything. But if you’re nice, she’ll want to swallow your lightsaber,” I say.
“That man with shifty eyes and slick-backed hair. I don’t know too much about him, but I think he was some type of hit man or something back in the day. Don’t ever sneak up behind him or startle him, because he’d hit you with a swift shot to the kidneys and you’d be pissing blood for a week. I’ve seen it happen,” I say.
“That chick right there. Not very attractive, but has a very sexy phone voice. You should prank call her one day. We all think she was a phone-sex worker at one point. Can’t prove it, though. Might even still do it. It doesn’t work with her regular speaking voice, though.
“The black guy with multiple thin gold necklaces with various medallions on them on the outside of his purple turtleneck is Doo-Doo Brown. Don’t ever rely on him for work. He won’t do it. He dips off from the office for hours at a time, where nobody can find him. Then, he shows up right before it’s time to leave. He also nods off at his desk. And on Casual Fridays he wears these old-school Adidas or Puma tracksuits like a break dancer. I don’t know if he was in the Olympics in the 1960s or not, but that’s the only reason to still have those tracksuits he wears. Some days he even wears an Afro pick in his hair. Keeps it in for meetings and everything. You can be in a meeting discussing important business matters and he’s sitting there looking like an informant in a blaxploitation movie.”
“How about that guy right there with the crazy beard?” Eddie says.
I see whom he’s talking about. “Eh . . . I don’t know who that is,” I say.
“Seriously? I’d think you have a name for him too.”
I get really close to Eddie so nobody else can hear me. “Listen. I’ll talk about anybody in here. But I don’t fuck with Psycho Fray. I don’t even like mentioning his name. You see that crazy look in his eyes and unkempt beard? That guy is Looney Tunes, man.”
Labor Pains Page 11
