Subject: Re: Quitting Bob's on All Saint's Day
From: email@example.com (THE What's His Name)
Date: Sun, 26 Oct 1997 03:38:36 -0800
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org>, email@example.com wrote:
> [disclaimer: self-indulgent babble warning. Names have been changed, I
> THINK, although I don't remember any of them anyway.]
> During one of the heaviest learning years, I quit Bob's. I learned a
> couple of things: never walk back with your tray empty and be nice to
Well, Goth Talk was pretty goddamned funny. Swig. And it is in Tampa, so
we get the best of two of our beloved stars, Lex AND Jolene!
Then "Deep Thoughts" That was really funny. Something like this:
When Tad said he had found Jesus, I thought:
"Yahoo! We finally struck it rich!"
But it turned out to be something different.
That killed me. And i think Farley is funny as hell, too. What a no
class, stupid, fat, ugly pig! And while he DOES cap on the clueless, it
is at least at his own expense.
Oh, was I writing about work? This week I got a gig doing "data entry and
customer service." What it really is, is calling receptionists and
getting their fax numbers. Big challenge, eh? I am also supposed to get
their names. That's the sex part. "And...who is this? I am speaking
to? Just your first name? Hello?"
They almost all give it up. Which is nasty. And the ones who don't are
even more nasty.
"This is the receptionist." That means, I am not getting a name. Well,
no, I could. I could go to the "look, my boss wants me to get a name.
She won't kill me if I don't, but she is paying me to get it. Just a
first name. Is it too much to ask?" Say it with a Donnie Brascoe accent
and you will see. It WOULD work on about 80% of the 10% who wouldn't give
it up in the first place. Because they are the smart ones, they will hear
me and give me a fake name for "my boss."
The bad part is the "data entry." Slow, gucky "forms" database
interface. I like the "txt file" at the sock factory better.
Ah, but my co-workers! (This is always the fun part, isn't it? I am such
a perv about co-workers! I have a co-worker fetish, I swear. I can't be
around anyone.) First, the titular boss. I don't know, but the first
dame I ran into was named Sara and she immediately disclaimed ANY
responsibility, but said that since Joan, the boss, was not in yet, she
would help me settle in.
Sara is one of those red hair dames. Well, I can't explain it, or I can't
explain WHY. But she is a total "type." She is very fair, has reddish
blond hair, freckles. The hair is longish and "perm" curly. She has a
sincere smile, and she wants to please. Kind of puppyish. But, at the
same time, she is NOT stupid. She knows about the history of the place
and can size up the players and their games. She has the place figured
out in a lot of important ways. They may not be "true," but they seem to
be working for her.
She left out a lot more than she told me. And she did a lot of crabbing
about no one telling her that I was coming. But, if I am there long
enough to want to know, she'll tell me. She is like a book on the shelf.
She just had a baby. She isn't going anywhere.
Anyway, she put me in Mary's cube. I had a little script and a bunch of
numbers. All she did was hand me a headset and a list and tell me to get
their fax numbers. Which I did. I mean, I have called a million people
to get their fax numbers. If you sound even a little confident, they give
it to you. So, I just acted like I used to when I was really asking
people. And they gave 'em up. And i looked around. Mary seemed to be
quite a chatracter. She had little sticky monster stuff all over her
phone and screen. I liked that. They were like "playform," you know? No
glue or anything. But skeletons and mummies and vomit. She had a bunch
of pictures of her and her friends. All female, I noticed. She had a
shrine to James Dean. Pretty good collection of stills. She had a full
page of Ani which had some typically non-committal statement like "I
believe that to be myself is to be the me I was meant to be and told not
to be all my life..." Nice pic though. And a very cool shot of a dame
doing the top of a park bench on in-lines. Plus she had a copy of
"Shredder." And three cds. The two cd "Best of the Doors," and some
other "guy" cd, I forget what.
Joan, the boss, came in around 10:00. She is about 20. Tall, kinda
skinny. White girl. Blonde, in fact. And she has lots of (like 30)
braids, all dreaded into themselves. Absolutely gorgeous. I can not
stand it. She has a beaded thing holding most of them together, but she
lets a couple of them fall free. I can't even begin to express my
appreciation for her beauty. It isn't her skinny, tall bod, either. It
is that magical hair that she must have been cultivating for years. It is
a total rejection of the blond western genes (and high school) she was
I am in love. And she has the cutest smile and just enough of a lisp to
be painfully vulnerable. She came over and "showed me the job," if you
get the picture. Once again, I assumed I could figure it out and I didn't
hear a word she said. The light came down and shone on her. Joan. Saint
Joan. Santa Juanita. With an overbite. How could I listen to her
regurgitate a bunch of corporate lies when she was this work of art? I
know, I know. You are rolling your eyes and saying "oh brother," or "here
he goes again," or "Jimbo does need to get out more..." but fuck you. I
wasn't never meant to fall in love. I just cain't hep it. A purdy young
thang with an anti-imperialist agenda? Dang.
The Mary came to work. Told ya I had been sitting in her cube? So, she
appeared around noon. And I said "Mary. Hi. Joan said you wouldn't be
in today." Mary cocked her head for a second and said "OH SHIT!" Turns
out, Mare had a lab she had forgotten. Called her friend on a cel phone
and borrowed a car and took off, leaving only a James Dean calendar
That pretty much covers day one.
On day two, Mary came in and worked a while. She is so funny. She is a
20 year old know it all lesbian. Well, who wouldn't like to be? She has
all the lines down and a voice like Melissa. You know, that low, gravelly
les voice? "I'm calling to get your fax number" she says. Funny. Tries
to bully the girlies into it. She is pretty good though, I have to
admit. Scares it out of them.
My next line is: "Ya, who'm I talkin to?" Usually gets me the name. She
doesn't seem to worry about that. Must have a lot of "Marys," as I call
'em. The ones who won't tell me. I just say "Mary" on the form. Doesn't
skew the stats much. I wonder what she puts down?
And then, Friday, all Mary could talk about was "Gay Day" at Disneyland
which I guess was Friday night. She kept trying to get the other dames in
the office to go with her. She even got into a fight with one of them. I
mean, physically. They were either actually or virtually rolling around
on the floor. I didn't dare look when I heard lines like "HEY! NO BOOB
PINCHES!" And "Ahhh...the smell of clitoris in the morning..."
But, at that point, it became a "hostile workplace" for me. I mean,
legally. I don't have to put up with it. The problem is, well what is it
worth? Nada. And the visuals as I imagine them, are priceless. But, if
I figure out a way to capitalize on it, I will. If I can sue them to get
myself a nice chunk of change, well, too bad. How do people get their
start in this country? Suit, theft, inheritance, or insurance. If no one
close to you dies at the right time, you probably don't have a farkin'
chance. If it comes too late, you end up buying certificaes of deposit at
6.25% and being glad to get such a good rate. If it comes too early, you
end up with a bunch of cheap furniture, an outdated stereo, and a mortgage
you can't cover.
But if you are lucky, someone dies and leaves you a bundle just when you
get your first great idea.
Somewhere around my age.
I DO have a great idea that will make all kinds of money for everyone who
gets invloved and it is killing me because I don't want to give it away,
but I don't want it to be passed by, either. Everyone here could
contribute AND make money.
But NO, I don't have the hundred grand I need to make it start.
So, too bad.
All I can say is that I had this idea before Bill Gates invented BASIC. It
I wish I was, in Carrick far away...
An old Irish ditty.
Now I am watching "Scarface" on TBS. Tony Montana is sitting there at his
big old desk, with mountains of coke, watching the Colombians move in on
his TV monitors. Some (most? all?) great ideas kill their inventors,
Yeyo DID make a big difference to the integration of the Latino community
into Yanqui life.
It brought real money into the game. And face it, that is all that
matters. It don't matter who you are, if you ain't got the
Anyway, it is now time for the Seventh Game of the World Series. If there
are sweeter words in the English Language, I haven't heard them. Well,
OK, there are a few things. Like "Let's fuck" mouthed through the smoke
filled air of a boring poetry reading. But still, this is pretty good. I
have to get some sleep, do laundry, pay my bills (or at least figure out
what I can do financially), get groceries (including beer and cigs), and
settle in for the Big Game.
Hey! What the fuck happened to MTV AMP? Now it is old Rachel and Puck
Real World re-runs. Which I probably have on tape somewhere.
OK, my monitor is fucking up, so I have to reboot...
But, I DO love you, darling.