So now you have the main characters of my office story. You've met Angela the judgemental accountant, Andy the "I don't wanna brag, but.." guy, Dwight the egotistical water protector, Creed the crazy and usually incoherent musician turned technician, Meredith the caring alcoholic, the over qualified and overworked Stanley, and of course, let's not forget, Michael the self-centered and oblivious boss.
Looking back and remembering my first week in this vortex I can see how the Universe was warning me. In fact, it was throwing me everything it had, hoping I would notice that I was getting in over my head. Still, I ignored all of the signs and now almost three years later I still sit here wondering how I ever made it this far. Or why I've stayed here this long. But if there's one thing to be thankful for, it's that I've been able to come home from a long days work, or go out after a grueling week at the office and entertain people with my office stories.
The first week at work is always an adjustment period and soon I had settled into somewhat of a routine. I learned who I could trust; Meredith and Andy were always there to help me through the hard times. A few weeks had gone by and it seemed that I was finally getting into a groove here at the office, that is until Michael decided to stage an office party.
As all of "The Office" fans know, Michael Scott is all about the company parties, and so is my Michael. Unfortunately Michael has embarrassed himself or all of us at these functions so many times that he has a hard time getting people to come to his office parties anymore...in fact the last office party had only one other person besides Michael in attendance. Imagine Michael sitting in a room, adorned in his best party hat with only one suck-up employee in attendance, it's a sad story, but another story.
This office party was thrown in an effort to get everyone together in a casual setting. I was still single so my "plus one" was my sister. My sister happens to be very easy on the eyes, and though I don't agree that beautiful or ugly people should be discriminated against, after this office party, my sister would not be invited to any more office events. In fact, since that fateful day, I have refrained from bringing any guests to my office functions. Michael has mentioned several times that he thinks I am making my friends up, but I would rather face scrutiny than put my friends or family through the same turmoil that my sister had to experience.
Experiences tend to build character and after this party my sister and I both came out much more....character-y. The setting was a mini golf course with subpar pizza and light beer. I had already warned my sister about the personalities that would be present and in an attempt to prepare ourselves for the upcoming evening we each packed a flask. A flask of hard liquor will numb the pain of any social situation and we were sure that this would be the only weapon we would need.
We arrived late, probably on purpose. No one wants to be the first person to show up at the office party taking place in the mini golf course. What would you do if you were there first? Twiddle awkwardly with a putter, shuffle your feet and avoid making eye contact with the boss? Absolutely not! Arriving late was our best choice.
Upon our arrival we quickly gathered the situation. There at the table reserved for our company were fifteen or so people looking either bored out of their minds or extremely awkward. Or both. How Michael could make someone feel so uncomfortable and so uninterested at the same time baffles me, it must be a skill that you're born with, either you have it or you don't. I took a quick stock of how much beer was sitting in front of each person. Most people had decided to stay moderately sober for fear of letting their guard down in a casual office party setting. Michael on the other hand took this as a sign that he should drink more and become the life of the party. As a bartender I couldn't help but compare the amount of beer gone from each glass to the assumption I would make about each person present. The beer count went something like this...
Angela...plastic taster glass...One sip gone. Probably because she couldn't stomach the light beer served at these kinds of places. The beer served at a mini golf course/pizza place usually has an aftertaste that reminds one of old moldy carpet and unless you chug it, you lose all appetite for not only the beer but anything else you considered eating that night.
Andy...pint glass....half full. Andy was too distracted from his beer, he was having a much better time showing any passing five year old how to take someone out in the ball pit with one of his signature wrestling moves.
Meredith...wine glass....full. Meredith wasn't a wine and beer kind of girl, she had a flask too. I didn't notice this until Meredith sneezed and discreetly "wiped her nose" aka...took a swig.
Creed...pepsi...he was "sober" tonight which probably meant that Meredith was sneaking him shots from her flask as well. I always suspected an office romance between Meredith and Creed but never got to find out if my suspicions were correct or not.
And then there was Michael....pitcher...nothing but suds. That would explain the bloodshot eyes and slight slur as he announced to everyone, "HEY! Look who finally decided to show up!"
He, of course, was talking about me and my plus one. Immediately he shuffled up from his seat and tip-toed over to us. No one can explain a drunkards behavior, no one can explain Michael's sober behavior, so I really couldn't tell you why he felt it necessary to tip-toe in the first place. Then Michael did the thing that any bartender knows is a sure sign that someone should be cut off. He did the close talking thing. You know the invasion of personal space that all too many drunk people (including myself) have done. "Hhhhiiiiii" he said and smiled and gooey grin. The smell of beer and moldy carpet breath was overwhelming and I immediately lost my appetite.
Michael then did the unforgiveable. He looked at my sister. No, not glanced and my sister and smiled politely. He stared. He stared for a long time. And it wasn't the "Uh oh, I think he got stuck stare" that happens to people sometimes. I love watching people get stuck, sometimes I envy people when they're "stuck." I start wondering about where they are, what they're thinking about. It's as if they've reached some kind of nirvana that is so pleasurable that all bodily functions must stop. It's as if their daydream has become reality and for a split second they get to leave their body and float above cloud nine. I never bother someone who's stuck. Let them have their moment. Have you ever been stuck only to be brought back to reality with a rude snap or someone waving in your face asking you where you're at? It sucks.
Michael was not stuck. Michael was doing that thing that men do with their eyes. Some people say it's eye fucking. Some people say "undressing you with their eyes." Whatever it was, I'm pretty sure Michael's eyes would have been drooling if given the opportunity. This wasn't a "did you get the feeling he was eye fucking me" look....no....it was like someone freezed the frame and came out with a little flag that said, "Michael is now going to eye fuck Amanda's sister." Then the frame would resume and the eye fucking would commence. I could see what was happening, my sister could feel what was happening and we knew we had to take evasive measures.
"Do I *hic* know you??" Michael asked my sister. The hiccup was a sure sign that something inappropriate was going to happen. The hiccup was what happened right before Michael made the comment about my ass at the business expo. It was time to use the code sentence.
My sister and I had a code sentence that we had discussed prior to our arrival. If either one of us felt the need for a bathroom/flask break we would say "My toe hurts, I think I cut my toenails too short" and we would both know it was time. Looking back we should have picked a more common phrase, or perhaps just one word. Perhaps we should have just gone straight to the bathrooms and started drinking, it would have saved us a lot of time. Either way, the code sentence was used almost immediately and we were on our way to the bathroom.
Once inside we felt a rush of peace and security; kind of like that feeling you would get as a kid when you were playing tag and finally touched base. We were safe, our base was the women's bathroom, we were impervious to any awkwardness that awaited us out in the mini golf course/pizza parlour. I removed my flask and offered the first sip to my sister, she deserved it, she had just escaped a pretty serious eye fucking. She took a good long pull and passed it back to me. Just as I was about to raise the flask I noticed our uninvited guest peeking from around the corner...
Michael was spying on us! Fortunately for us, drunk spies make horrible spies. I'm sure the look on my face was one of shock because Michael immediately knew he had been spotted. He stumbled into the women's bathroom. "Hey laaaadies" his eyes started doing that drooly thing again. "Do you need help with that??"
He touched my sister's arm and reached for the flask in mine. "Whatcha got in there?" Michael asked.
"OKAY!" sister said. "It's time to go."
I can always count on my sister to know when a situation is escalating but this must have been some kind of record. We had only been at the mini golf course/pizza parlour for five minutes. Sister rushed out of the bathroom, I quickly followed not even bothering to re-stash my flask.
Michael was third out of the bathroom and apparently the rukus had caught the attention of the rest of the people in the office. Everyone watched as my sister stomped out of the golf course, everyone watched as I followed.
"Hey, get back here!" Michael exclaimed. "I just want to know what you had in your flask!"
Meredith looked up, "They had flasks?" Suddenly she realized that if we had flasks, hers didn't have to be so hidden so she started chugging from hers publicly.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Creed's Got Balls
Well it turns out, Michael did want to hear why I had left unexpectedly that night. Sometimes I wish I could watch myself lie to see if I'm really that convincing. As soon as I start saying something that is opposite of the truth I can feel my cheeks heating up, I would imagine that the person looking at me might start noticing a faint blush. Or maybe it's not a blush at all, more like a "Holy Shit, did that girl just suddenly get Rosacea all over her face?" or maybe their internal dialogue is saying something like, "I'm pretty sure she just blew her nose with poison oak and just doesn't know it yet."
Whatever Michael was thinking, I was almost sure he knew I was lying. But there was nothing he could do about it. As soon as he walked away I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and wrote, "Emergency call from sister" on it. I stashed the piece of paper in my pen drawer and kept it there for the next time I would need to conjure up an excuse. Why would I do that? Perhaps it was the instinct inside of me similar to the one that tells a squirrel to store nuts for the winter when the weather is still warm outside. Mimicking my squirrel cousins I folded the piece of paper until it could not be folded anymore and saved it for later.
Now almost three years later I have added several things to that ratty piece of paper, all of them are excuses I've used to escape punishment at work. I write them down in hopes that 1.) No one in my office snoops around and finds the list thereby revealing all of my terrible, terrible secrets but mostly because 2.) A good work excuse, no matter how good, can never be used twice. So, when I have some quiet time (I have a lot of it) I review my list, I keep it fresh in my mind so that I remember never to use that excuse again. I've also evolved into separating my list into categories, I won't share the entire list but you can see what's in the "Why I was late for work" category:
- Flat Tire (I'm sure they saw right through this one)
- Ran out of gas on the way to work, had to walk to the gas station, a kind stranger gave me a ride back to my car which explains why I'm only 5 minutes late instead of 30 minutes, which is probably how long it would really take someone to recover from running out of gas on their way to work. ( A well crafted work excuse always includes details like "a kind stranger helped me out." No one would expect you to actually weave a lie that complicated...right?)
- My dog threw up.
- My cat threw up. (Don't ever make the excuse about YOU throwing up, save that for a "I'm not coming in today," excuse or if you show up, they'll all assume you're hung over and lose all respect for you)
- Had an appointment that I told you about, you just forgot.
- Spilled coffee on myself just as I was getting into the car and had to change clothes. (One of my favorites)
- Spilled my pre-packed lunch all over my car just as I was getting out, so I was actually here on time for work I just had to rub the ranch out of my upholstery before it stained. (Anyone looking at the inside of my car would automatically know I was full of shit on this one.)
- Helped an old woman pick up all of the items she had clumsily spilled out of her purse so she could make it to the bus on time. (Ahhh, helping others always a smooth way to get excused for tardiness, especially when they're old.)
There are more on the list but I feel as if I put too many on here I might start giving myself away as a "not so ethical employee" and that's not the point of this chapter.
Actually the point of this chapter is to introduce you to another character in my office saga who is frighteningly similar to "The Office's" character, Creed Bratton. Creed, of "The Office" suffers from memory issues and this is something you notice right away as he announces that his birthday was in 1925 which would make him 85 years old to date. Creed is obviously not 85 but probably just had his 65th birthday give or take a few years. My Creed is the same age.
My Creed used to be a roadie for the Grateful Dead, which he boasts proudly. My Creed, much like "The Office" Creed, was not born Creed at all but instead gave himself that name. But my Creed isn't really called Creed at all, his name is Duke (not his given name, remember), which I feel is just as good as Creed so it will remain Creed, or "My Creed" for the rest of the story. My Creed also has quite the musical background, he plays in a band at a local dive here known as "the biker bar" in town.
Creed is very forceful about his music and every Thursday he would ask me if I would like to come see his show. I would always come up with some excuse, remembering not to use the same excuses I had used under my "why I was late to work" category, though I did consider spilling coffee on myself once to avoid having to tell Creed that I would not, in fact, be coming to see his band play. Everyone knows a guy like Creed. If you're not sure who the "Creed" is in your life, think of the person you would use the word "permafried" for and that is your Creed. My Creed is definitely permafried, but would never admit to doing any sort of illegal drugs due to his suspicion that he's being watched by the government.
One day though, Creed got me and he got me good. What I mean by that is he got me and then later he got me again but better. Let me explain. Creed soon figured out that I was giving him fake excuses as to why I couldn't come see his band play, so hoping that I wouldn't take note of the day, Creed asked, "So, what's going on in the crazy world of Amanda tonight? You're always so busy, what's it gonna be tonight?"
Probably being tired and a little hung over from the night before, (yes I would come to work hung over on Thursdays as there was an open mic night I would go to on Wednesdays that always led to too much drinking) I wasn't paying attention to the fact that Creed was asking me this question on a Thursday.
"Nothing tonight Creed." I smiled, feeling somewhat good about myself. Here Creed thought I was some party girl who always had something to do every night of the week and I felt proud telling him that I indeed was not that person and that I had no plans. He knew that I would want to impress him with my lack of goals for the evening.
"Well then you can come see my show tonight." This is where he got me. I was caught in the spider's web and squirming would just bring more attention to the fact that I didn't want to be there at all. I agreed to go; Oscar would also be there that night, along with a personal friend of mine who I brought along as moral support.
Nine o' clock came swiftly that evening and soon myself, my wing-woman, and Oscar were all at the table drinking. Drinking for we all had that feeling that says, "This night miiiiiight be fun, but you'll need a few beers to really decide." I bought the first pitcher, Oscar the second. Then Creed walked in and you could see two things written clearly across his face. One was "I'm drunk" and the second was "I'm going to get them as drunk as I am." So Creed bought us the third pitcher. Fortunately we were sharing this amount of beer with quite a few people so we weren't as inebriated as Creed had hoped.
Creed started playing, and the band was alright, we were in a biker bar for crying out loud, there's a cap on how good a band playing at a biker bar can be. Unless you're a biker, you'll totally understand what I'm talking about too. This cap, a ceiling if you will, states that a band can only be so good if playing at a biker bar, and Creed's band was within its limits. What I'm trying to say is, they were good, . . .for a biker bar band.
Creed could see the classic signs of my wingman and I getting ready to "get an emergency call from my sister" a.k.a. "try to slip out unnoticed." Immediately Creed stopped what he was doing and stumbled to the front microphone.
"And, I'd like everyone to know that tonight is Amanda's birthday, so buy her a drink!!!" And this is where Creed got me good.
I could feel my cheeks doing that instant red thing again. WHAT had he just DONE??? Did he really just tell everyone it was my birthday in June when my birthday is really in September? Didn't Creed know how much I hated public attention? Suddenly, a loose woman dressed in pants too tight for her started to demand that everyone dance in celebration of the just announced birthday. This was getting to be too much. I could see the bartender pouring a shot of Jager for the birthday girl and I could feel things spiraling out of control.
Wingman and I decided to get out and get out quick. As soon as Creed was distracted we exited the bar, but not before wingman could grab the eleven ball off of an unsuspecting pool table as a souvenir. We later questioned what was going through wingman's mind when wingman grabbed the eleven ball, but when you've been drinking in a biker bar no one can really question your actions.
Update: Later the eleven ball was returned out of pure guilt for actually taking such an integral part of a game that so many bikers had grown to love. A dark cloud wearing leather and spikes followed that eleven ball and we would not be able to rest until it was returned to its rightful
Whatever Michael was thinking, I was almost sure he knew I was lying. But there was nothing he could do about it. As soon as he walked away I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and wrote, "Emergency call from sister" on it. I stashed the piece of paper in my pen drawer and kept it there for the next time I would need to conjure up an excuse. Why would I do that? Perhaps it was the instinct inside of me similar to the one that tells a squirrel to store nuts for the winter when the weather is still warm outside. Mimicking my squirrel cousins I folded the piece of paper until it could not be folded anymore and saved it for later.
Now almost three years later I have added several things to that ratty piece of paper, all of them are excuses I've used to escape punishment at work. I write them down in hopes that 1.) No one in my office snoops around and finds the list thereby revealing all of my terrible, terrible secrets but mostly because 2.) A good work excuse, no matter how good, can never be used twice. So, when I have some quiet time (I have a lot of it) I review my list, I keep it fresh in my mind so that I remember never to use that excuse again. I've also evolved into separating my list into categories, I won't share the entire list but you can see what's in the "Why I was late for work" category:
- Flat Tire (I'm sure they saw right through this one)
- Ran out of gas on the way to work, had to walk to the gas station, a kind stranger gave me a ride back to my car which explains why I'm only 5 minutes late instead of 30 minutes, which is probably how long it would really take someone to recover from running out of gas on their way to work. ( A well crafted work excuse always includes details like "a kind stranger helped me out." No one would expect you to actually weave a lie that complicated...right?)
- My dog threw up.
- My cat threw up. (Don't ever make the excuse about YOU throwing up, save that for a "I'm not coming in today," excuse or if you show up, they'll all assume you're hung over and lose all respect for you)
- Had an appointment that I told you about, you just forgot.
- Spilled coffee on myself just as I was getting into the car and had to change clothes. (One of my favorites)
- Spilled my pre-packed lunch all over my car just as I was getting out, so I was actually here on time for work I just had to rub the ranch out of my upholstery before it stained. (Anyone looking at the inside of my car would automatically know I was full of shit on this one.)
- Helped an old woman pick up all of the items she had clumsily spilled out of her purse so she could make it to the bus on time. (Ahhh, helping others always a smooth way to get excused for tardiness, especially when they're old.)
There are more on the list but I feel as if I put too many on here I might start giving myself away as a "not so ethical employee" and that's not the point of this chapter.
Actually the point of this chapter is to introduce you to another character in my office saga who is frighteningly similar to "The Office's" character, Creed Bratton. Creed, of "The Office" suffers from memory issues and this is something you notice right away as he announces that his birthday was in 1925 which would make him 85 years old to date. Creed is obviously not 85 but probably just had his 65th birthday give or take a few years. My Creed is the same age.
My Creed used to be a roadie for the Grateful Dead, which he boasts proudly. My Creed, much like "The Office" Creed, was not born Creed at all but instead gave himself that name. But my Creed isn't really called Creed at all, his name is Duke (not his given name, remember), which I feel is just as good as Creed so it will remain Creed, or "My Creed" for the rest of the story. My Creed also has quite the musical background, he plays in a band at a local dive here known as "the biker bar" in town.
Creed is very forceful about his music and every Thursday he would ask me if I would like to come see his show. I would always come up with some excuse, remembering not to use the same excuses I had used under my "why I was late to work" category, though I did consider spilling coffee on myself once to avoid having to tell Creed that I would not, in fact, be coming to see his band play. Everyone knows a guy like Creed. If you're not sure who the "Creed" is in your life, think of the person you would use the word "permafried" for and that is your Creed. My Creed is definitely permafried, but would never admit to doing any sort of illegal drugs due to his suspicion that he's being watched by the government.
One day though, Creed got me and he got me good. What I mean by that is he got me and then later he got me again but better. Let me explain. Creed soon figured out that I was giving him fake excuses as to why I couldn't come see his band play, so hoping that I wouldn't take note of the day, Creed asked, "So, what's going on in the crazy world of Amanda tonight? You're always so busy, what's it gonna be tonight?"
Probably being tired and a little hung over from the night before, (yes I would come to work hung over on Thursdays as there was an open mic night I would go to on Wednesdays that always led to too much drinking) I wasn't paying attention to the fact that Creed was asking me this question on a Thursday.
"Nothing tonight Creed." I smiled, feeling somewhat good about myself. Here Creed thought I was some party girl who always had something to do every night of the week and I felt proud telling him that I indeed was not that person and that I had no plans. He knew that I would want to impress him with my lack of goals for the evening.
"Well then you can come see my show tonight." This is where he got me. I was caught in the spider's web and squirming would just bring more attention to the fact that I didn't want to be there at all. I agreed to go; Oscar would also be there that night, along with a personal friend of mine who I brought along as moral support.
Nine o' clock came swiftly that evening and soon myself, my wing-woman, and Oscar were all at the table drinking. Drinking for we all had that feeling that says, "This night miiiiiight be fun, but you'll need a few beers to really decide." I bought the first pitcher, Oscar the second. Then Creed walked in and you could see two things written clearly across his face. One was "I'm drunk" and the second was "I'm going to get them as drunk as I am." So Creed bought us the third pitcher. Fortunately we were sharing this amount of beer with quite a few people so we weren't as inebriated as Creed had hoped.
Creed started playing, and the band was alright, we were in a biker bar for crying out loud, there's a cap on how good a band playing at a biker bar can be. Unless you're a biker, you'll totally understand what I'm talking about too. This cap, a ceiling if you will, states that a band can only be so good if playing at a biker bar, and Creed's band was within its limits. What I'm trying to say is, they were good, . . .for a biker bar band.
Creed could see the classic signs of my wingman and I getting ready to "get an emergency call from my sister" a.k.a. "try to slip out unnoticed." Immediately Creed stopped what he was doing and stumbled to the front microphone.
"And, I'd like everyone to know that tonight is Amanda's birthday, so buy her a drink!!!" And this is where Creed got me good.
I could feel my cheeks doing that instant red thing again. WHAT had he just DONE??? Did he really just tell everyone it was my birthday in June when my birthday is really in September? Didn't Creed know how much I hated public attention? Suddenly, a loose woman dressed in pants too tight for her started to demand that everyone dance in celebration of the just announced birthday. This was getting to be too much. I could see the bartender pouring a shot of Jager for the birthday girl and I could feel things spiraling out of control.
Wingman and I decided to get out and get out quick. As soon as Creed was distracted we exited the bar, but not before wingman could grab the eleven ball off of an unsuspecting pool table as a souvenir. We later questioned what was going through wingman's mind when wingman grabbed the eleven ball, but when you've been drinking in a biker bar no one can really question your actions.
Update: Later the eleven ball was returned out of pure guilt for actually taking such an integral part of a game that so many bikers had grown to love. A dark cloud wearing leather and spikes followed that eleven ball and we would not be able to rest until it was returned to its rightful
Friday, July 2, 2010
Stanley's Movement
I arrived home from the traumatic business expo and considered throwing away the pants that encouraged the "ass" comments from drunk Michael. Instead I gave them to my dog Luke and told him to go at it, why throw away a perfectly good pair of pants when they could be offered up as a free chew toy instead? Perhaps this was just rewarding bad behavior but I really didn't care, and neither did Luke.
As soon as I collapsed on my futon mattress and closed my eyes my alarm clock was blaring me awake again. Why did it seem that time was dragging on during the day and skipping beats at night?
Armed with coffee cup in hand, I arrived at work with a perfect excuse for Michael. I would tell him that I had to leave the business expo early and unexpectedly as I had received an emergency call from my sister. I've found that lies tend to do better when they are allowed to unfold naturally, if Michael asked more questions about the emergency call, I would answer, but there was no use coming up with a choreographed excuse if he didn't care. Bushy tailed and bright eyed Michael was waiting for me as I walked through the door.
My heart started beating itself up into my throat, I used to hate lying to him.
"Gooooood Morning Amanda!" Michael cried.
"Hello Michael," I smiled.
"I'm going to have you go out in the field with Stanley this morning, it will be good for you to see some of the Telewave POS systems in action."
"Ok great, where's Stanley?" I asked, had I really evaded the question about the previous night so easily?
"He's in the Poop Bathroom," Michael answered.
This is the type of answer that makes me wish I could move my eyebrows independently of each other for I certainly would have raised my right eyebrow as if to say, "Poop bathroom? Did you just say 'POOP'? How do I even react to this? Why is there a 'POOP' bathroom? Will you always mention that someone is using the 'POOP' bathroom? Is there a signup sheet? Is there a time limit? Why wasn't this 'POOP' bathroom mentioned during Angela's introductions?" My rambling questions stopped when I realized that Angela would never say the word "toilet," let alone the word "poop."
I asked for directions to the Poop Bathroom and found myself walking towards the darkest, farthest corner of the warehouse. Perhaps I hadn't noticed the Poop Bathroom before since it was hidden behind stacks of unwanted parts and broken telephones. As soon as I arrived, Stanley was immerging drying his hands on his shirt. Stanley didn't seem to mind that I had caught him coming out of the Poop Bathroom, though he was still annoyed by my presence.
Stanley was annoyed with everyone's presence though, and in his defense, I would be annoyed by everyone too if I knew as much as Stanley did. Pardon the pun but, . . . Stanley knew his shit. Now he'd have to waste what could have been a productive day showing the new salesGIRL around. He pointed me towards his old work van and instructed me to "load it up."
"Load it up?" I thought to myself, "I wasn't hired to 'Load it up' I was hired to look nice and use big technical words and sell stuff, not to 'Load it up.'"
As fate would have it, I was all out of pants now and decided to go with a short skirt and heels instead. Of course Stanley would have me load it up today, but there's no arguing with Stanley, so I practiced keeping my balance as I "Loaded it up." Finally I had finished my task and it was time to leave to the jobsite. We had an hour of driving before we arrived on site, so I did my best to start a conversation.
A good salesperson would be able to assess the situation, find a knick-knack sitting on the dash of the van, relate that to the other passenger and artfully weave a conversation out of thin air. I, was not a good salesperson at the time, some might argue that I'm still not, so instead fell back on the mindless questions that someone asks when they're nervous and trying to fill the silence.
"So," I paused for a brief second, wondering if I should even try to start this, "how long have you worked here?"
"Twenty-six years," Stanley answered and pursed his lips.
"Do you like it?" I asked.
"Nope."
Stanley wasn't giving me anything to work on here. I'm sure that after working anywhere for twenty-six years I might have the same attitude as Stanley. After twenty-six years it's probably not about loving your job anymore, it's probably more like going through the motions and waiting for retirement. Stanley had been working here longer than I had been alive, and since he'd probably heard every dumb question in the book, I decided to nervously smooth the wrinkles out of my skirt and keep my head down for the rest of the ride.
One long hour later we arrived to the site and walked in to the office with the problematic Telewave POS. It pleased Stanley to loudly point out that every problem was "USER ERROR" and could have been prevented if only the customer wasn't such a dolt. I noticed the secretary of the office nervously smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt and knew immediately that Stanley had this affect on many people. After we were finished humiliating the poor secretary it was off to the exterior of the building to check out some faulty wiring. Stanley quickly deduced that a new wire would need to be run and assigned Kevin, the greenhorn technician, to complete the task. "He could use the exercise," Stanley said to me, talking about Kevin in the third person.
Stanley was of course referring to Kevin's portly size. Kevin shuffled off to his work van and grabbed his tools. "I'm not sure how he squeezes through those crawl spaces," Stanley whispered and when Kevin was within earshot again he said, "And don't fall through the ceiling this time! If you get this finished in an hour then we can go have lunch....not that you need it."
I crossed my arms hoping that Stanley wouldn't focus his attention on me next. He seemed to be satisfied poking fun at Kevin. A few awkward hours later we were finally done watching Kevin hustle and it was time to go back to the office. Rarely do I get to work nowadays and have an overwhelming happiness at seeing my desk, but this time I could have kissed it. I sat down and started shuffling papers, trying to get a little more organized.
As I shuffled, I didn't notice Michael sneak up behind me and I had a feeling that perhaps he would want to hear my thought out lie after all.
As soon as I collapsed on my futon mattress and closed my eyes my alarm clock was blaring me awake again. Why did it seem that time was dragging on during the day and skipping beats at night?
Armed with coffee cup in hand, I arrived at work with a perfect excuse for Michael. I would tell him that I had to leave the business expo early and unexpectedly as I had received an emergency call from my sister. I've found that lies tend to do better when they are allowed to unfold naturally, if Michael asked more questions about the emergency call, I would answer, but there was no use coming up with a choreographed excuse if he didn't care. Bushy tailed and bright eyed Michael was waiting for me as I walked through the door.
My heart started beating itself up into my throat, I used to hate lying to him.
"Gooooood Morning Amanda!" Michael cried.
"Hello Michael," I smiled.
"I'm going to have you go out in the field with Stanley this morning, it will be good for you to see some of the Telewave POS systems in action."
"Ok great, where's Stanley?" I asked, had I really evaded the question about the previous night so easily?
"He's in the Poop Bathroom," Michael answered.
This is the type of answer that makes me wish I could move my eyebrows independently of each other for I certainly would have raised my right eyebrow as if to say, "Poop bathroom? Did you just say 'POOP'? How do I even react to this? Why is there a 'POOP' bathroom? Will you always mention that someone is using the 'POOP' bathroom? Is there a signup sheet? Is there a time limit? Why wasn't this 'POOP' bathroom mentioned during Angela's introductions?" My rambling questions stopped when I realized that Angela would never say the word "toilet," let alone the word "poop."
I asked for directions to the Poop Bathroom and found myself walking towards the darkest, farthest corner of the warehouse. Perhaps I hadn't noticed the Poop Bathroom before since it was hidden behind stacks of unwanted parts and broken telephones. As soon as I arrived, Stanley was immerging drying his hands on his shirt. Stanley didn't seem to mind that I had caught him coming out of the Poop Bathroom, though he was still annoyed by my presence.
Stanley was annoyed with everyone's presence though, and in his defense, I would be annoyed by everyone too if I knew as much as Stanley did. Pardon the pun but, . . . Stanley knew his shit. Now he'd have to waste what could have been a productive day showing the new salesGIRL around. He pointed me towards his old work van and instructed me to "load it up."
"Load it up?" I thought to myself, "I wasn't hired to 'Load it up' I was hired to look nice and use big technical words and sell stuff, not to 'Load it up.'"
As fate would have it, I was all out of pants now and decided to go with a short skirt and heels instead. Of course Stanley would have me load it up today, but there's no arguing with Stanley, so I practiced keeping my balance as I "Loaded it up." Finally I had finished my task and it was time to leave to the jobsite. We had an hour of driving before we arrived on site, so I did my best to start a conversation.
A good salesperson would be able to assess the situation, find a knick-knack sitting on the dash of the van, relate that to the other passenger and artfully weave a conversation out of thin air. I, was not a good salesperson at the time, some might argue that I'm still not, so instead fell back on the mindless questions that someone asks when they're nervous and trying to fill the silence.
"So," I paused for a brief second, wondering if I should even try to start this, "how long have you worked here?"
"Twenty-six years," Stanley answered and pursed his lips.
"Do you like it?" I asked.
"Nope."
Stanley wasn't giving me anything to work on here. I'm sure that after working anywhere for twenty-six years I might have the same attitude as Stanley. After twenty-six years it's probably not about loving your job anymore, it's probably more like going through the motions and waiting for retirement. Stanley had been working here longer than I had been alive, and since he'd probably heard every dumb question in the book, I decided to nervously smooth the wrinkles out of my skirt and keep my head down for the rest of the ride.
One long hour later we arrived to the site and walked in to the office with the problematic Telewave POS. It pleased Stanley to loudly point out that every problem was "USER ERROR" and could have been prevented if only the customer wasn't such a dolt. I noticed the secretary of the office nervously smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt and knew immediately that Stanley had this affect on many people. After we were finished humiliating the poor secretary it was off to the exterior of the building to check out some faulty wiring. Stanley quickly deduced that a new wire would need to be run and assigned Kevin, the greenhorn technician, to complete the task. "He could use the exercise," Stanley said to me, talking about Kevin in the third person.
Stanley was of course referring to Kevin's portly size. Kevin shuffled off to his work van and grabbed his tools. "I'm not sure how he squeezes through those crawl spaces," Stanley whispered and when Kevin was within earshot again he said, "And don't fall through the ceiling this time! If you get this finished in an hour then we can go have lunch....not that you need it."
I crossed my arms hoping that Stanley wouldn't focus his attention on me next. He seemed to be satisfied poking fun at Kevin. A few awkward hours later we were finally done watching Kevin hustle and it was time to go back to the office. Rarely do I get to work nowadays and have an overwhelming happiness at seeing my desk, but this time I could have kissed it. I sat down and started shuffling papers, trying to get a little more organized.
As I shuffled, I didn't notice Michael sneak up behind me and I had a feeling that perhaps he would want to hear my thought out lie after all.
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