Shooting Stars (12 page)

“That black dude right there with the Cosby sweater on. You see who I’m talking about?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Now, does he look anything like me?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you.” Best answer he’s given all day. “That’s Wally. He’s a fucking dork. Try not to talk to him either.”

I point to a man who looks like he’s way too old to still be working and should be on the other side of the phone calling about his retirement benefits. “That guy right there, with his pants up to his neck, is Nipple Pants. I really don’t know why they keep him around. He can’t possibly know how to do his job well. And he always has a baffled look on his face when he’s staring at his computer.”

“Maybe they’re waiting to promote him to manager,” Eddie jokes.

I scowl at him.

“That squirrely-looking guy with the glasses on. He’s talking into his cellphone and has a Blackberry and a pager on his hip,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“That’s Ted. He’s a dickhead. Anything you think a dickhead would do, he does it. He’s in sales. All about acquiring new clients. And sometimes that makes him feel like he needs to make sure our work is getting taken care of, because he doesn’t want to lose any of the clients we already have. His grating personality isn’t good for sales. Because, quite frankly, I don’t know anyone who likes him. So imagine that in a meeting or lunch with the client. When he comes over trying to ask you what you’re doing, tell him to fuck off. He’s not our manager. Also, I think he has a thing for Alexis. I often come back to my desk and he’s waiting for me and looking at her picture. Fucking weirdo.”

“Okay,” he says as he writes it down.

“What do you think his name is?” I say, while looking at an Asian man bobbing to the music in his headphones and wearing a cool red leather jacket.

“Sam?” he says.

When I think he’s making progress, he takes four steps back. “That’s Hip Asian. See, these are all self-explanatory. That’s the beauty of it. He always has the latest gadgets, phones, sneakers, and everything. And has these weird but cool Asian lunches he brings in, and wacky candies. Weird flavors too, like eel and kiwi. You don’t have to worry about him talking to you, because he really doesn’t talk to many people. Well, at least, he doesn’t talk to me.

“That guy is Jheri Curl Mullet, because he’s a white guy with a mullet and a Jheri curl. I didn’t even know white people could get Jheri curls. But if being a white man who’s a cross between a Kool & the Gang member and Billy Ray Cyrus isn’t strange enough, the rumor is he had a fan on his desk he used to plug in so his hair could blow. I never got a chance to verify the rumor, because they asked him to remove it. But if you ever get too close to him, that Jheri-curl juice will get on your clothes, and that shit does not come out.”

I look over at Eddie to make sure he’s still paying attention, and he’s doing more than that. He’s writing feverishly to keep up with all of the great information I’m giving him.

“I know I’m throwing a lot at you, but it’s the foundation to a successful career. And trust me, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think you could handle it. That little fat chick we call R2-D2, because she is squat and box shaped like R2-D2. Don’t ever compliment her or say anything that sounds positive, because she’ll think it’s a compliment. She’ll fall in love with you and follow you everywhere. Because she is loyal. Much like R2-D2. I mean, she won’t give you a lightsaber or anything. But if you’re nice, she’ll want to swallow your lightsaber,” I say.

“That man with shifty eyes and slick-backed hair. I don’t know too much about him, but I think he was some type of hit man or something back in the day. Don’t ever sneak up behind him or startle him, because he’d hit you with a swift shot to the kidneys and you’d be pissing blood for a week. I’ve seen it happen,” I say.

“That chick right there. Not very attractive, but has a very sexy phone voice. You should prank call her one day. We all think she was a phone-sex worker at one point. Can’t prove it, though. Might even still do it. It doesn’t work with her regular speaking voice, though.

“The black guy with multiple thin gold necklaces with various medallions on them on the outside of his purple turtleneck is Doo-Doo Brown. Don’t ever rely on him for work. He won’t do it. He dips off from the office for hours at a time, where nobody can find him. Then, he shows up right before it’s time to leave. He also nods off at his desk. And on Casual Fridays he wears these old-school Adidas or Puma tracksuits like a break dancer. I don’t know if he was in the Olympics in the 1960s or not, but that’s the only reason to still have those tracksuits he wears. Some days he even wears an Afro pick in his hair. Keeps it in for meetings and everything. You can be in a meeting discussing important business matters and he’s sitting there looking like an informant in a blaxploitation movie.”

“How about that guy right there with the crazy beard?” Eddie says.

I see whom he’s talking about. “Eh . . . I don’t know who that is,” I say.

“Seriously? I’d think you have a name for him too.”

I get really close to Eddie so nobody else can hear me. “Listen. I’ll talk about anybody in here. But I don’t fuck with Psycho Fray. I don’t even like mentioning his name. You see that crazy look in his eyes and unkempt beard? That guy is Looney Tunes, man.”

“His name is Fray?” Eddie says.

“Well, his name is really Fred. But when he talks to the clients and people who call the customer-service line, he tells them his name is Jay. I found that out because someone called here looking for a Jay, but there’s nobody here by that name. Then, he mumbled to me that he goes by Jay. And he kinda, sorta growled at me. I’m always nice to him. He does weird shit like eat coffee grinds in the coffee room and sniff whiteout. Sometimes I can see him ordering knives online. I don’t know what his deal is. But that’s why I go out of my way to say nice things to him. Because when he wakes up and decides that today is the day of reckoning and snaps as soon as he walks in the door. When he opens machine-gun fire on the office and I’m scrambling for the exit or crawling under my desk. When he sees my face, I’m hoping he remembers the time I said hello to him or gave him my whiteout and chooses not to mow my ass down with gunfire or throw one of his homemade explosives in my direction before I can get to safety.”

“Okay, I’ll stay away from him too,” he says.

“Good idea. Let’s continue. That chick with the big James Bond–villain glove on her right hand. She’s Handicapped Erica,” I say.

“Is she really handicapped?”

“No . . . well, I’m not sure. I do know she complains about everything and anything you could possible complain about. She’s got that special glove because she said she was getting carpal tunnel syndrome. Had her desk redesigned ergonomically, because it wasn’t set up right for her limbs. Then, got a special deluxe chair that was just right for her back ailments. I’m sure that shit resulted in me getting a lower raise last year. She has to keep her own personal heater in her cube because it’s too cold in the office for her. She needs to regulate her own climate.

“That dude over there chatting up that brunette, I actually know his name. It’s Terrell, but I call him the Young Bald Black Guy. He’s way too young to be bald. Anyway, he seems to have a lot of free time on his hands. He’s always walking around all day, talking to all of the girls in this place and going to lunch with them. The chicks seem not to be turned off by his lack of hair. Single or not, Young Bald Black Guy is there. He does not care. The worst kind of predator. ‘Cuz at least Jake shows some restraint and has standards for his work hollering. I think Young Bald Black Guy has fucked ninety-nine percent of the chicks here. Maybe he’s getting that male-patterned-baldness-sympathy pussy. He’ll start hollering at a chick by noon of her first day, and might even take her to lunch by the second day, like he’s the dick in the pussy-welcoming committee. If we ever have a company function, keep your chick away. Trust me on that one. Okay, that’s a primer. If I think of any more, I’ll be sure to update you.”

“Thanks, this is all going to be helpful, but how about actual work?”

“I’m glad you asked. The first thing I’m going to show you are pension calculations.”

His face goes from delighted to disappointed. “I kinda know all about them.”

“Really?” I say.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing the online training courses since my first day,” he says.

We have online training courses? I must’ve missed that e-mail.

“Okay, great. Glad you’ve been taking the courses,” I say. “Showing initiative. But that’s only the technical stuff. I’m glad I don’t have to go over that with you. That can be a drag. This stuff they can’t teach you online. This is the practical stuff.”

His face brightens up.

“I’m going to show you how to prioritize them,” I say. “It will never be possible to get through everything you need to do in one day. When that happens, and it will, what do you do?”

“Stay late until they get done.”

“Wrong! You prioritize. It’s all about time management. Take care of the older people first. The older they are, the more likely they’re to call here. Something about dying and having a lot of free time to call and complain. Maybe it’s your ticking clock that forces you to question shit. When you’re old, you bitch about stuff you didn’t when you were young. It must be biological. But you’ll always find something. ‘It’s too hot. It’s too cold. This seat cushion is too soft. It’s the second of the month and I haven’t received my check. The mailman is out to kill me. I can’t get my medication or eat without my pension money.’ Blah, blah, blah. Anything and everything.”

I pull out a stack of folders of my unfinished calculations. “Here you go, work on these, and I’ll review them.” He takes the folders, carries them over to his desk, and starts to work on them. This mentor thing is going to be kind of nice. I have someone I can hand my work off to, freeing me up for other things during the day.

T
wo weeks
since embracing my mentor role, and the only way things could be going better is if the chubby Croc-wearing security guard greeted me with a gold brick every morning when I walked in. Alexis always talks about how proud of me she is. Although we don’t get to see each other as much anymore since I’m working so much. She understands, ‘cuz it’s for a greater cause in the long run. The kid and I have been able to find a lot of common ground with this working environment. I give him most of my work and he does it. Pretty quickly too. When he’s done, he hands it to me to review. Which I rarely do. I give it a swift once-over, put my name on it, and say it looks fine. I’m convinced he knows what he’s doing. I mean, he’s a bright kid and it’s not like there’s a lot to this job. We’re not bending spoons over here. I even taught him how to write my signature, for times when I’m not around. When he has a question, he asks it. But I also encourage him not to ask me many questions, and to disturb me as little as possible. Can’t have him bothering me every minute. I tell him it’s in order for him to be self-reliant, and I’m teaching critical-thinking skills. Plus, I can be doing something like reading a good article online, and here he is asking me something. The worst part is when I don’t know the answer. Then, I have to do research, look it up, or make up an answer. Our job is all basic stuff that I’m sure the right scientists are probably on the brink of training a high-performance monkey or dolphin to do. That doesn’t say much for me being stuck doing the same thing for eight years, but that won’t be for long now that I’m on the fast track to success.

I’ve taught him all sorts of things he can apply to the job and his life outside of these neutral-colored office walls. Like when the food drive is being run you can sometimes go over to the box when everyone is busy working and snag some quality canned goods. The real expensive stuff too. You shouldn’t make it a habit, but when you can’t make it out to the supermarket that week and maybe you want a Chunky Soup or Chef Boyardee Beefaroni for dinner. Also, I instructed him on how to get out of paying for people’s birthday gifts when a collection is going around. Tell them you’re on a fixed income. How can anyone dispute that?

This brings us to today, a decidedly important day in training. Even though I’m not a phone representative, I’m sometimes asked to help out and answer phones when the volume is high. These are the worst days known to man. I never thought I hated old people, but I detest them now. They ask so many fucking questions that I sometimes drive home envisioning a wrinkled mouth littered with liver spots perpetually flapping. Even the younger people who call in to ask questions about their benefits upset me. I work in benefits, and I’m not even sure what benefits I have. But I sure as fuck don’t care to the point I call about them. I have better shit to do with my life. In order to prepare Eddie for the phone calls, I compiled a tape of some of my best phone conversations and let him listen to them. This way he can determine how he should handle the same situations. This also freed me up a few hours during the day to run out and get a haircut while he was learning. Time management. See, we’re both learning.

I hope he doesn’t have too many questions. Monta e-mailed me this funny story he found online, and I want to read that before my afternoon break.

“First thing, when that man told you he was getting laid off right before Christmas, is it best practice not to show even a hint of sympathy?” Eddie says.

“Of course. You want to sound completely removed from the situation . . . like a robot, if you will. Do you remember exactly what I said?”

He looks at his notepad. “Yes, you said, ‘It’s probably going to be a lot less presents under the tree for your five kids.’”

I grin at myself. “Wow, I said that? Good for me. It kept him grounded, I bet. Put some levity on the situation.”

“Well, he started sobbing. Then, you got uncomfortable about him crying. And told him you have to wrap up the call because you were busy.”

“I’m sure I was. He needed to man up. Tears don’t pay bills. That’s pretty good. Can you write that down for me?” I say.