Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free,alt.slack

Subject: Re: Quitting Bob's on All Saint's Day

From: biteme@spam.sux (THE What's His Name)

Date: Sun, 26 Oct 1997 03:38:36 -0800

 

In article <34514b11.2264109946@news1.radix.net>, nospamum@radix.net 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

> waitresses.

 

 

 

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!

 

Swig.

 

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

born into.

 

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

behind.

 

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

would work.

 

OK, enough.

 

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,

eh?

 

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

"dough-ray-me."

 

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.

 

Later...

 

j, sd