Shooting Stars (13 page)

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.

F
or 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.

For example, I’ve accidentally overheard my mom talk to some of her friends about what I actually do. First of all, she never gets it right, and sometimes even tries to spruce it up and add some flare to it, as if it were a breakfast nook she’s designing. Unfortunately, there are no drapes pretty enough to dress up human resources. “Oh, he oversees . . .” she says, or something to that effect. It goes horribly wrong, and I always pretend I don’t hear. But sometimes when the same person comes back to me and asks how things are going at my job, they get underwhelmed when I spare them the boring details. The enormous wave of letdown is inevitable; the only desirable approach is complete avoidance.

I’m sure some people would note that this is the career I’ve chosen. Thus, I cannot be mad at anyone for not being pleased with my job. I would first correct that stooge, because it’s a job, not a career. A career is an occupation someone performs during a period of time (I’ve looked it up). And there is no way I can see myself doing this job for the rest of my life. But in retrospect, I didn’t think I’d be doing my job as long as I have. This is my job, and I do it not because I want to. It’s more of a vital necessity. How else would I pay my bills? What would I do if I got in an accident and needed health care? Which reminds me, I should take advantage of my medical insurance and go to the doctor once in a while, instead of saying I have a doctor’s appointment and staying home.

And the notion that I was the one that chose this job is a bit of a fallacy. Sure, I filled out the application, put on my suit, interviewed, sent a follow-up thank-you letter to the interviewer, and accepted the job. But this job kind of decided on me. Mr. Jenko told me when I was in his high-school guidance-counselor office I am average. Where do average people go for careers that they can be passionate about? Regrettably, I don’t have an answer. If I did, I would’ve exhausted that avenue by now. But I do know the average end up toiling away in the cubicles of STD-type offices littered all over the world. Even my co-workers who work in the office in India, I’m sure their professional lives aren’t what they thought they’d be. They’re sitting doing my job, but with a twelve-hour time-zone differential or some shit. I couldn’t fathom sitting in a cubicle at 2 a.m., waiting for the last few hours to tick away so I can pack up my stuff to go home. That would be incredibly brutal on my spirits. But I guess their options are slim as well.

M
ost aspects
of my daily life have become excruciatingly repetitive, and going to lunch is no different. All of the shit-talking and same faces sometimes make me want to escape from spending my one free half-hour with Jake, Eddie, and Dontrelle. They always have some drama that I really don’t care for, and it grossly outweighs my need for their companionship. When those instances occur, I make an effort to flee to lunch by myself at least once a week. It can be as simple as me driving around for a half-hour. But with gas prices the way they are, I tend to lean toward sitting in my car in the parking lot and listening to the radio. But I don’t like sitting in our lot; I prefer to go to one of the neighboring companies’ lots. I don’t want a co-worker to see me sitting in my car, for fear of them coming up to my car and disturbing my break by asking me questions, or feeling obligated to engage them in banal small talk. I don’t know why seeing somebody alone makes an onlooker think that person needs company. Sometimes people just want to be alone, and you should leave them that way. That’s what I always do, but then again, I’m a lot more advanced than 99 percent of the human race when it comes to properly recognizing the feelings and needs of others.

I’ve learned from past experiences that taking a nap in the car is a bad idea. One afternoon, after a late night, I dozed off and didn’t wake until three hours later. I hurried back to work, with lines on my face, drool stains on my shirt collar, and wrinkled clothes. The only thing missing was the morning erection, and that’s because I smartly walked it off while repeating the theme song for the
Golden Girls
in my head. Something about thinking about Dorothy and Blanche can turn a man flaccid in a matter of minutes.

Other times, I head to the mall for lunch. The good thing about the mall is, it is a buffet of options and you’re not tied to doing one thing. You have the variety of eateries in the food court. It always blows my mind that some third-world countries don’t have food at all or have to walk miles for clean water, but I’m capable of buying Nathan’s hot dogs or walking two feet to the left and getting a slice of pizza from Sbarro’s. There’s a Chinese place that sells Cajun food in addition to regular Chinese food. I’ve never been to China or the bayou, so I’m not sure how the two cultures mixed. But I’m sure somewhere along the line they traded recipes. And that’s what I’m eating today. I do a pretty respectable job of picking my two dishes to go with either the rice or noodles for a very low price, since I found the nametag of a Macy’s sales associate left on one of the tables last summer. So when I wear the pin, I get the 15 percent mall-employee discount. It’s not much, but every little bit helps. Now the mall excites me to the point I have to take a step back and realize that all of this actually excites me. Then, I get a little depressed. I really shouldn’t get thrilled by the food court.

The apex of my pathetic fawning over the food court was the five months it was closed for remodeling. I walked past the blocked-off area anticipating which new restaurants would be in the revamped fast-food heaven. I wasn’t the only one looking forward to the unveiling. There were others who tried to peek in to get a glimpse of what was being constructed. And I stood there for a bit too, hoping to overhear a rumor of what chain was coming to the mall. This would undoubtedly turn to shame when I realized how pathetic it was. My life shouldn’t hinge around a food court, but when you’re a cubicle civilian seeking enjoyment out of your mundane life, those are the types of things that get you going.

Another great way I spend my break at the mall is to people watch, a favorite pastime of mine. I can post up on a bench with a Sprite and watch people shop or simply loiter. It’s amazing to see how they interact with one another. There’s the man holding the woman’s purse, standing outside of the store and looking confused as to how he had gotten to this point in his life, but if he’s lucky his significant other allows him to sit on a bench, with her shopping bags, of course. Sometimes he tries to sit next to me, but I can’t associate with an emasculated man who’s watching shopping bags like a guard dog. He’d bring down my lunch-break spirit with his saddened, hopeless demeanor. There are the senior citizens who are simply happy to be out of the houses. They’re different from Robbie’s mall audience. Their families have not forgotten them and cast them away in a nursing home—yet; they’re at the mall under their own will. Maybe their families didn’t get a chance to forget them because they’ve outlived them. Who knows, really? But they’re active, maybe more so than I. They never buy stuff. I think they like the exercise of walking around in an air-conditioned building, as opposed to their other hobby of calling benefit centers to find out the whereabouts of their pension checks and other assorted benefits.

There are also the young people who bounce around the mall as if it’s the greatest place their teenage brain knows the world has to offer. And it very well may be the case for them. There are the young girls who walk around in packs like alley cats. Now, this is where I always get a borderline pervy type of feeling in my gut, but I ignore the self-conscience feeling. I do tend to contrast their clothing with what I was accustomed to back in my day. Girls never wore such skimpy clothes as these young chicks, but I watch attentively as they walk back and forth, as if it’s my television. I always tell myself each one is eighteen, but in my heart of hearts I know better. Yet I won’t let it interfere with my daydreams.

Today, I’m going for the riskiest way to spend my lunch break in the mall, but it’s also the most rewarding. But everything worth a damn does involve some unpredictability. I’m going to spend my time shopping. If I was to truthfully classify what I do, I’d probably say browsing instead. But the clerks don’t know that. I can jump from store to store like a pro, knowing exactly what I want to look at. And if they don’t have it, I keep moving. I examine each article of clothing like they’re clues at a crime scene; even the most seasoned salesperson can be duped into feeling I’m really considering buying something. Sometimes I try on clothes. The workers who’ve seen me enough now know I’m only browsing. They don’t pay me any mind, and I’m more than fine with that. It allows me to operate unhindered by their quest for a sale. If their bosses are around, they have to say their obligatory “Can I help you with anything?”

It doesn’t matter what I’m browsing either. Sometimes it’s housewares, or it might be furniture. Today, I’m going with clothes. I need to prepare because as soon as I get this promotion I’m going to need some new managerial-looking work-wear. Maybe a turtleneck sweater will be appropriate, or a blazer with patches on the elbow. I might even get a pocket watch with one of those chains attached to it to look extra important. How can anyone deny taking me seriously with one of those things? I wonder if they have any cashmere sweaters left over from the holidays. If I’m lucky, I can find a cheap turtleneck. Where’s a clerk when you need them? I find one.

“Excuse me, but do you have any cashmere sweaters?”

“I think we have some on the clearance tables over there. Do you need any help finding sizes?” the clerk responds.

“No thank you, I can handle it,” I say, as I walk in the direction she pointed. This stuff might be cheap enough to buy. I don’t really need any gaudy colors. Something stern but extra-professional will do the trick. I continue to sift through the sales table. I’ve never had a cashmere sweater, or anything that was cashmere for that matter. Shit, these are soft. Feels like a pair of fresh out-of-the-shower titties. I don’t disturb the tidy order they have everything in. Anything I look at I put back in its place. If I unfold something, I fold it right back up. It keeps me on a nice even keel with the clerks. I don’t fuck their shit up. They don’t fuck with me.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, sir,” I hear a woman say as I search for my size. She raises her tone. “Excuse me, I am ready to check out. Can you ring me up?”

I turn around, and it’s a woman of about forty years of age. She’s talking directly to me. Now, this is the drawback of going shopping in the mall while on my break. I look the lady up and down with disgust that should be reserved for someone who spat at me.

“No, I cannot ring you up. You want to know why?” I don’t give her time to answer. “Because I don’t fucking work here. I’m here shopping, just like your retarded ass.”