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.”
“His name is Fray?” Eddie says.
“Well, his name is really Fred. But when he talks to the clients and people who call the customer-service line, he tells them his name is Jay. I found that out because someone called here looking for a Jay, but there’s nobody here by that name. Then, he mumbled to me that he goes by Jay. And he kinda, sorta growled at me. I’m always nice to him. He does weird shit like eat coffee grinds in the coffee room and sniff whiteout. Sometimes I can see him ordering knives online. I don’t know what his deal is. But that’s why I go out of my way to say nice things to him. Because when he wakes up and decides that today is the day of reckoning and snaps as soon as he walks in the door. When he opens machine-gun fire on the office and I’m scrambling for the exit or crawling under my desk. When he sees my face, I’m hoping he remembers the time I said hello to him or gave him my whiteout and chooses not to mow my ass down with gunfire or throw one of his homemade explosives in my direction before I can get to safety.”
“Okay, I’ll stay away from him too,” he says.
“Good idea. Let’s continue. That chick with the big James Bond–villain glove on her right hand. She’s Handicapped Erica,” I say.
“Is she really handicapped?”
“No . . . well, I’m not sure. I do know she complains about everything and anything you could possible complain about. She’s got that special glove because she said she was getting carpal tunnel syndrome. Had her desk redesigned ergonomically, because it wasn’t set up right for her limbs. Then, got a special deluxe chair that was just right for her back ailments. I’m sure that shit resulted in me getting a lower raise last year. She has to keep her own personal heater in her cube because it’s too cold in the office for her. She needs to regulate her own climate.
“That dude over there chatting up that brunette, I actually know his name. It’s Terrell, but I call him the Young Bald Black Guy. He’s way too young to be bald. Anyway, he seems to have a lot of free time on his hands. He’s always walking around all day, talking to all of the girls in this place and going to lunch with them. The chicks seem not to be turned off by his lack of hair. Single or not, Young Bald Black Guy is there. He does not care. The worst kind of predator. ‘Cuz at least Jake shows some restraint and has standards for his work hollering. I think Young Bald Black Guy has fucked ninety-nine percent of the chicks here. Maybe he’s getting that male-patterned-baldness-sympathy pussy. He’ll start hollering at a chick by noon of her first day, and might even take her to lunch by the second day, like he’s the dick in the pussy-welcoming committee. If we ever have a company function, keep your chick away. Trust me on that one. Okay, that’s a primer. If I think of any more, I’ll be sure to update you.”
“Thanks, this is all going to be helpful, but how about actual work?”
“I’m glad you asked. The first thing I’m going to show you are pension calculations.”
His face goes from delighted to disappointed. “I kinda know all about them.”
“Really?” I say.
“Yeah, I’ve been doing the online training courses since my first day,” he says.
We have online training courses? I must’ve missed that e-mail.
“Okay, great. Glad you’ve been taking the courses,” I say. “Showing initiative. But that’s only the technical stuff. I’m glad I don’t have to go over that with you. That can be a drag. This stuff they can’t teach you online. This is the practical stuff.”
His face brightens up.
“I’m going to show you how to prioritize them,” I say. “It will never be possible to get through everything you need to do in one day. When that happens, and it will, what do you do?”
“Stay late until they get done.”
“Wrong! You prioritize. It’s all about time management. Take care of the older people first. The older they are, the more likely they’re to call here. Something about dying and having a lot of free time to call and complain. Maybe it’s your ticking clock that forces you to question shit. When you’re old, you bitch about stuff you didn’t when you were young. It must be biological. But you’ll always find something. ‘It’s too hot. It’s too cold. This seat cushion is too soft. It’s the second of the month and I haven’t received my check. The mailman is out to kill me. I can’t get my medication or eat without my pension money.’ Blah, blah, blah. Anything and everything.”
I pull out a stack of folders of my unfinished calculations. “Here you go, work on these, and I’ll review them.” He takes the folders, carries them over to his desk, and starts to work on them. This mentor thing is going to be kind of nice. I have someone I can hand my work off to, freeing me up for other things during the day.
* * *
Two weeks since embracing my mentor role, and the only way things could be going better is if the chubby Croc-wearing security guard greeted me with a gold brick every morning when I walked in. Alexis always talks about how proud of me she is. Although we don’t get to see each other as much anymore since I’m working so much. She understands, ‘cuz it’s for a greater cause in the long run. The kid and I have been able to find a lot of common ground with this working environment. I give him most of my work and he does it. Pretty quickly too. When he’s done, he hands it to me to review. Which I rarely do. I give it a swift once-over, put my name on it, and say it looks fine. I’m convinced he knows what he’s doing. I mean, he’s a bright kid and it’s not like there’s a lot to this job. We’re not bending spoons over here. I even taught him how to write my signature, for times when I’m not around. When he has a question, he asks it. But I also encourage him not to ask me many questions, and to disturb me as little as possible. Can’t have him bothering me every minute. I tell him it’s in order for him to be self-reliant, and I’m teaching critical-thinking skills. Plus, I can be doing something like reading a good article online, and here he is asking me something. The worst part is when I don’t know the answer. Then, I have to do research, look it up, or make up an answer. Our job is all basic stuff that I’m sure the right scientists are probably on the brink of training a high-performance monkey or dolphin to do. That doesn’t say much for me being stuck doing the same thing for eight years, but that won’t be for long now that I’m on the fast track to success.
I’ve taught him all sorts of things he can apply to the job and his life outside of these neutral-colored office walls. Like when the food drive is being run you can sometimes go over to the box when everyone is busy working and snag some quality canned goods. The real expensive stuff too. You shouldn’t make it a habit, but when you can’t make it out to the supermarket that week and maybe you want a Chunky Soup or Chef Boyardee Beefaroni for dinner. Also, I instructed him on how to get out of paying for people’s birthday gifts when a collection is going around. Tell them you’re on a fixed income. How can anyone dispute that?
This brings us to today, a decidedly important day in training. Even though I’m not a phone representative, I’m sometimes asked to help out and answer phones when the volume is high. These are the worst days known to man. I never thought I hated old people, but I detest them now. They ask so many fucking questions that I sometimes drive home envisioning a wrinkled mouth littered with liver spots perpetually flapping. Even the younger people who call in to ask questions about their benefits upset me. I work in benefits, and I’m not even sure what benefits I have. But I sure as fuck don’t care to the point I call about them. I have better shit to do with my life. In order to prepare Eddie for the phone calls, I compiled a tape of some of my best phone conversations and let him listen to them. This way he can determine how he should handle the same situations. This also freed me up a few hours during the day to run out and get a haircut while he was learning. Time managemen
t. See, we’re both learning.
I hope he doesn’t have too many questions. Monta e-mailed me this funny story he found online, and I want to read that before my afternoon break.
“First thing, when that man told you he was getting laid off right before Christmas, is it best practice not to show even a hint of sympathy?” Eddie says.
“Of course. You want to sound completely removed from the situation . . . like a robot, if you will. Do you remember exactly what I said?”
He looks at his notepad. “Yes, you said, ‘It’s probably going to be a lot less presents under the tree for your five kids.’”
I grin at myself. “Wow, I said that? Good for me. It kept him grounded, I bet. Put some levity on the situation.”
“Well, he started sobbing. Then, you got uncomfortable about him crying. And told him you have to wrap up the call because you were busy.”
“I’m sure I was. He needed to man up. Tears don’t pay bills. That’s pretty good. Can you write that down for me?” I say.
He looks back at his notes. “From what I heard, you have a lot of shouting matches with callers. Like the one when you were arguing with the guy when he was attempting to explain to you how to correctly pronounce his name.”
“You have to let the callers know who’s in charge. And one thing you need to know about me is, I don’t like to get corrected.”
“But did you have to yell at him?”
“Was he not screaming as well?” I say.
“No, he was not. Sounded very calm at first. His tone rose when you told him to shut up.”
“I did say please, though.”
“No, just ‘shut up . . . shut up now,’” he says, reading from his notes.
“What did I do next?” I’m not remembering much of this particular exchange.
“I’m not sure, I was going to ask you about that next. Because you put him on hold for about ten minutes.”
Now, I remember this call. “Yes . . . yes, I did. He needed to cool off. So I went and got myself a snack from the vending machine and a soda. And I didn’t take him off hold until I was finished eating. Let him cool off. I call that the Doritos Cooldown.”
“But he didn’t. He hung up,” he says.
I shrug. In my mind he cooled off. Whether it was on the phone or not. “He must’ve realized he was in the wrong and got embarrassed.”
“When people call to report a death in their family, you never offered your condolences,” he says.
“Robot! You have to be robotic. Don’t get involved. Make sure you write this down. If you only remember one thing I’ve said today, remember robotic.”
“I am writing all of it down. But what you’re saying is, you’re callous approach towards the clients is what makes you a better customer-service rep?”
“You got it. You’ve seen Robocop, right?”
He hesitates. “I think so.”
I don’t believe him. He never gets my references, but I continue with my explanation. It’s too good of a reference to stop. “Robocop was better at his job than all of the other human cops because he did his job. And didn’t deal with all those human emotions. That’s me, I’m Robocop compared to all these other inept douche bags in this company,” I say, as I point to everyone around the office.
As I’m pointing, I notice Jake walking at an aggressive pace toward my cubicle. Right as Eddie is about to say something, Jake puts his right hand in his face. This has become his way of interrupting Eddie and stopping him from talking.
“Birthday party in accounting!” Jake says. By the look in his eyes, I know it’s not a practice run. He then runs off.
I pop out of my chair and fish through the drawers in my desk to grab a few empty file folders, and follow him. “Hell yes, I need this,” I say.
Both of us walk briskly to the elevator. Jake hits the up button, but the elevator is taking too long.
“I can’t wait any longer, man.” I make a beeline straight for the stairs. He follows as we both run up the steps for three floors.
“Whose b-day is it?” I say.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“I hope Suzanne Somers with a Limp makes her brownies again. What’s her real name anyway?” I say.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
We gather our composure as we get to the fifth floor. We don’t want to look like we ran up here to crash their party. Once our panting is controlled, Jake and I casually walk over to the cubicles with the decorations, as we pretend to look for someone’s desk to give them the folders I’m carrying. I notice the pink balloons and signs are for a baby shower, not a birthday.
I whisper to Jake, “I thought you said—”
“My informant gave me bad intel. Anyway, I’m riding it out. You can leave if you want to.”
I look around and shake my head. “I told you I need this.” He knew I wasn’t leaving. I don’t even know why he would suggest it. I just ran upstairs, dammit.
Jake stops a passing employee who’s holding a plate of desserts and wearing a pink party hat. “What’s the occasion?”
“Stephanie is having a baby.”
“Oh, Steph, wow! Good for her. Your first child is so important,” I say.
“Actually, it’s my sixth,” she says. I look down and notice her baby bump. “We have a lot of food. More than we can eat. You’re welcome to dig in.”
I sneak a peek at the nameplate on her cubicle. “Thanks, Steph. I ate already, but I can grab a little something.” Jake and I begin to pile snacks on our plate. I throw the fake files I carried in the trash. “I think we should use two plates, ‘cuz one plate by itself doesn’t seem too sturdy.”
“Good idea. I’m gonna use my second plate for that old man who loves cake downstairs. That’s the only reason I’m getting two helpings. Good ol’ cake-loving Orville,“ Jake says as he winks at me.
We walk back to the elevator, nibbling on our baby-shower bounty. “She’s six babies deep. Why do they keep throwing these for her? Shouldn’t she have all the gifts from the other babies?” I say.
“I think it’s two different baby fathers,” Jake says. “I don’t care. I’m so glad she loves to let dudes run up in her bareback and bust nuts in her. This cake is delicious, by the way. Keep on fucking, sweetheart. Did you get some of this?”
“No, I went with brownies instead.” I take a bite of the brownie and my face sours. “Did Satan come in and drop these off?”
“No good?” Jake says.
“I’d rather perform cunnilingus on a wild giraffe than take another bite.” I spit it out in a plastic potted plant.
“Here, take my extra piece of cake.”
“This taste won’t go away. I’d rather have a gorilla piss in my mouth to wash the taste out than suffer with this anymore.” Jake laughs at me some more. “I oughta go back there and confront their ass and their recipe. Asking names. Make sure they don’t bring this crap back in the building, with the potential to ruin a fantastic baby shower for a fertile woman who can’t keep her legs shut.” I look back at the party, upset, but I get into the elevator and decide to move on.
Chapter Six
For the next three weeks, I continued the same routine. Coming into the office about an hour early each day. Getting all of my work done each day, with Eddie completing all of my undesirable tasks. His help freed me up to think about my future more and more.
I applied to more jobs. Didn’t manage to get anyone to bite, but just getting them out there was fine for me. My whole job-hunting method is to flood the market. Eventually something has to stick. I send out all of my resumes and fill out all of the applications when I get to work early. I know it’s risky doing that stuff at your job, but my home computer has issues. Might be the effects of downloading too much porn on it. I don’t really want to find out, because if I take it to the shop and they come to the same conclusion, it’d be quite embarrassing to have a virgin computer geek marvel at the amount of porn I have on my computer. Or it could go the
other way and be an extremely attractive girl sifting through the many porn files on my hard drive. Unless she loves porn too and gets turned on by it. But that particular scenario reads more like a script for an actual porno movie.
I wish the company would upgrade me from my desktop to the laptops practically everyone has. I’ve been here long enough. And I’d be able to use it for my job hunting at home. No matter how much I’ve lobbied my manager, I still get turned away. It’s like they think I’m some sort of flight risk. Do they think I’ll take their precious laptop hostage and hold it for ransom? Send them keys off the keyboard every day, smashed up into little pieces in an envelope, until they pay? That’s just another one of my gripes.
During this time I’ve called out of work only once and left early on another day. But that was more of a mental-health day, if anything. There are studies that show people need to take those days so they can perform better, and I simply want to perform to the best of my capabilities. I was working way too hard, and sometimes you need a breather away from this place.
Each day blends into the following day, and I can no longer tell the difference between a Tuesday morning and a Friday afternoon. I really don’t understand how people can do this year in and year out, every day of their lives. I’m not seeing even the slightest bit of satisfaction from doing this. It’s solely what I have to do in order to get this promotion, make Alexis happy, get my parents to be proud of me, and make my co-workers envious. That pretty much sums up the list of what’s driving me right now. I sense others who put in this type of hard work have some sense of honor or pride in their job, something I severely lack . . . at least for this job. This job isn’t something I confidently bring up at dinner parties when people are discussing their careers. First of all, it takes entirely too long to explain what I do, to the point I hear the gears slowly turn in the listeners’ heads as they try to wrap their minds around the idea of my job. Combine that with the look on their faces when calculating the lack of importance my job actually serves in the grand scheme of the universe. They could be a lawyer, policeman, or doctor, and there’s a tremendous drop off in overall importance when positioned next to an aspiring Pension Operations Manager. Those occupations are major cogs of the community. They serve a purpose. I’m just there.
Shooting Stars Page 12
