Post by Jack of Blades on Jul 24, 2006 7:43:06 GMT -5
"Ok, thank you for ringing. I hope everything turns out ok. Goodbye."
Another socialite who only purchased a computer so they can communicate with their rollerdex over the medium of the internet. They all do it. They all switch off the computer by simply pressing the off button. After a while, the disc starts to fragment and they wonder why they are only greeted with a black screen and whirring purrs in protest to switching on. The phone's ringing again. Another one. I go to answer. A hand with too many rings on stops me. Although only a single hand, I can tell who it is. The heavily coated fake tan is a dead give away. It's him. David Kofax. Biggest yuppie jackass this side of stereotype.
"Just put that on hold will you uh, John. You just press that button."
He's waving a document around. He obviously wants to complain about some unworthy slight he has found in his nitcomb examination.
"Uh, John, you know about the actuation series I asked you to file? Well, it's about these staples--
"Staples?"
"Uh, yeah."
"As in the small metal object that keeps things together?"
"Yeah."
"Ok."
"Well, solved case files I wanted stapled with blue staples and ones that are still on going, I wanted red. You haven't used colours."
"Well, on the front page it's printed whether the case is solved or not. Italicized. In bold."
"Yeah, but it just makes it easier if you do it that way. Makes the world turn a bit simpler, right? Well, no worries. I'll get Janis to change this one and you can just uh, start doing it from now on."
I notice his dungarees. I wonder if I attach them to the fan system, how long it would take for his body to seperate and each limb to fly to another end of the world. I go to answer the phone again shamed by my inability to recognise the importance of a staple. But when have I ever known it to be that easy. I hear Bridget capacious hips bash into sides of numerous cubicles as she tries to manoeuver her frame down the small corridor leading to mine. Bridget, late thirties, ginger bobbed hair, has a natural propensity to favour hoagies and mumus. They are probably inter-related. We're on the same level in terms of job status but she
desperately wants to be my senior. I hear her grovel to Dave. He removes himself from his coffee only to acknowledge her presence. Nothing more. She carries on, placated by this little gesture to talk to me.
"Uhm, John. We -"
"Who are we?"
"Well, me and a few others. We were thinking about your hair. Don't you think it's a bit too long? I mean we do have to keep up presentation."
I hadn't had it cut since I left the WCF. It was still shoulder length but shaped so that I looked like an extra from 'Happy Days.' I did try and care about presentation.
"Well, here's the number of a stylist. You just go whenever you want."
I took the card from her chubby palm. I worked in a call-centre. My only involvement with customers was to speak to them. Aesthetics had nothing to do with it. I could be speaking to someone on the end of the phone completely naked, masturbating while playing a game of risk as long as I answered their question. Another capital waste of my time.
"Well, what do you think of that?"
"You're a fucking ugly bitch. I want to stab you and play around in your blood."
I go to lunch. I go for the same store-brought sandwich I always go for which I have to get across the street. I find my sandwich, and mineral water (the only thing I may drink while working. The idea about appearances, again) and hand over the money to the clerk as he rings me up. I notice it behind his head on the magazine shelf. "Why not?" I say. I just want to see what's going on in there after all the damage I have caused.
"WCF Magazine, please."
I realise that Sarah is coming over tonight and decide to pick up some ready-meals as well. I turn away from the clerk as he tries to find the magazine amongst dog-eared copies of Time and Variety. After a few residual murmurs, I hear him left a magazine and enter it into my brown bag. I soon return with the rest of my shopping. The transfer happens and the clerk thanks me for my time and purchase before forgetting me forever.
"Hello. My name is John. I have extremely long hair but that doesn't matter and I can't judge the correct usage of staples properly. How can I help you?"
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[glow=red,2,300]Designed for profiteering[/glow]
Another socialite who only purchased a computer so they can communicate with their rollerdex over the medium of the internet. They all do it. They all switch off the computer by simply pressing the off button. After a while, the disc starts to fragment and they wonder why they are only greeted with a black screen and whirring purrs in protest to switching on. The phone's ringing again. Another one. I go to answer. A hand with too many rings on stops me. Although only a single hand, I can tell who it is. The heavily coated fake tan is a dead give away. It's him. David Kofax. Biggest yuppie jackass this side of stereotype.
"Just put that on hold will you uh, John. You just press that button."
He's waving a document around. He obviously wants to complain about some unworthy slight he has found in his nitcomb examination.
"Uh, John, you know about the actuation series I asked you to file? Well, it's about these staples--
"Staples?"
"Uh, yeah."
"As in the small metal object that keeps things together?"
"Yeah."
"Ok."
"Well, solved case files I wanted stapled with blue staples and ones that are still on going, I wanted red. You haven't used colours."
"Well, on the front page it's printed whether the case is solved or not. Italicized. In bold."
"Yeah, but it just makes it easier if you do it that way. Makes the world turn a bit simpler, right? Well, no worries. I'll get Janis to change this one and you can just uh, start doing it from now on."
I notice his dungarees. I wonder if I attach them to the fan system, how long it would take for his body to seperate and each limb to fly to another end of the world. I go to answer the phone again shamed by my inability to recognise the importance of a staple. But when have I ever known it to be that easy. I hear Bridget capacious hips bash into sides of numerous cubicles as she tries to manoeuver her frame down the small corridor leading to mine. Bridget, late thirties, ginger bobbed hair, has a natural propensity to favour hoagies and mumus. They are probably inter-related. We're on the same level in terms of job status but she
desperately wants to be my senior. I hear her grovel to Dave. He removes himself from his coffee only to acknowledge her presence. Nothing more. She carries on, placated by this little gesture to talk to me.
"Uhm, John. We -"
"Who are we?"
"Well, me and a few others. We were thinking about your hair. Don't you think it's a bit too long? I mean we do have to keep up presentation."
I hadn't had it cut since I left the WCF. It was still shoulder length but shaped so that I looked like an extra from 'Happy Days.' I did try and care about presentation.
"Well, here's the number of a stylist. You just go whenever you want."
I took the card from her chubby palm. I worked in a call-centre. My only involvement with customers was to speak to them. Aesthetics had nothing to do with it. I could be speaking to someone on the end of the phone completely naked, masturbating while playing a game of risk as long as I answered their question. Another capital waste of my time.
"Well, what do you think of that?"
"You're a fucking ugly bitch. I want to stab you and play around in your blood."
I go to lunch. I go for the same store-brought sandwich I always go for which I have to get across the street. I find my sandwich, and mineral water (the only thing I may drink while working. The idea about appearances, again) and hand over the money to the clerk as he rings me up. I notice it behind his head on the magazine shelf. "Why not?" I say. I just want to see what's going on in there after all the damage I have caused.
"WCF Magazine, please."
I realise that Sarah is coming over tonight and decide to pick up some ready-meals as well. I turn away from the clerk as he tries to find the magazine amongst dog-eared copies of Time and Variety. After a few residual murmurs, I hear him left a magazine and enter it into my brown bag. I soon return with the rest of my shopping. The transfer happens and the clerk thanks me for my time and purchase before forgetting me forever.
"Hello. My name is John. I have extremely long hair but that doesn't matter and I can't judge the correct usage of staples properly. How can I help you?"
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[glow=red,2,300]Designed for profiteering[/glow]
