![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Balls to the Wall
May. 22nd, 2013 02:02 amMy job was simple enough for as long as it was mine to perform it. I had found myself filed away in the remote corner of a small office located just north of the Perimeter. My sole task was punching hardcopies of mattress orders into a database. The hours were part time, the dress code business casual and the pay enough to keep me off the streets but not out of trouble.
Three Monday's deep into the gig and before I could clock in, I was informed by my shift leader that the office manager wanted to talk to me. Never a good sign when they want talk to you off the clock. It usually means you're about to get fired, laid off, downsized, outsourced or even worse, forced to make small talk with the human mannequins at some dreary office function or another.
I arrived at his cubed hovel on the other side of the office and with three knocks on an open door, the manager waved me in. He had a name like Lou or Joe or something equally forgettable to match the man it had christened. He had a mouse face on a head too long for it. He had a toupee that resembled a hibernating field rodent and mint bubblegum flavored coffee breath. He had on wino grade aftershave and a suit the Salvation Army would turn down. He had my file in one boney little hand and with the other motioned for me to take a seat. I did and began counting the seconds until I was back at the bus stop smoking a much needed cigarette over the want ads.
"Jack...," he looked at me with confusion, trying to reconcile their paperwork version of me to the man before him, "er, how do you say your last name?"
"Reluctantly some days." I shrugged, then thought about it and added. "Proudly on others."
He opened his mouth to speak but immediately shut it. I watched as his brain registered my answer painfully slow through a series of blinks and nervous lip licks. Finally he figured it out and tried again: "I meant how do you pronounce it."
"Biblically." I smiled. "Like the lady in the Bible."
He stared at me. I stared back.
"Very well, Jack." He cleared his throat and flipped a single page up over a manila folder, "It seems we have some concerns regarding your drug screen."
"Oh?" I was only moderately surprised. I had taken the precaution of having gone straight edge for two weeks prior to the applying for the job, drinking two gallons of water a day and even downed a bottle of 'Free Flow Urine Cloak' bought at a local gas station right before the test. Still, there was only so much hiding you can do with a twenty year weed habit in fourteen days. And keep in mind a good eighteen of those years were spent literally on quality skunk at that.
Lou, or Bob, or Don or whoever the fuck he is reads through the paper once again, though clearly knowing already what it says. "Now while you didn't test positive for any illegal narcotics..."
"You mean that stuff the kids call 'The Drugs' ?" I asked mock earnest and deadpan all in order to mask the shock.
"... ahhh, yes, you didn't show positive for 'the drugs'."
"All the drugs?" I asked.
"All the drugs, Jack."
"That's a lot of drugs." I smiled and winked in that way sitcom characters do after they invoke their catch-phrase. In my ear there followed that applause you only heard when Happy Days was filmed before a live studio audience.
Tom, Dick or Whoever the Fuck he is looked around the room confused at some distant commotion and cautiously continued. "Yes, well, what did concern us was something reported to us during the actual, er, that is to say, in the process of your screening our veracity agent noticed, well, something worthy of our attentions shall we say."
I nodded remorsefully knowing full well where this was this going. "I sincerely apologize for that and can assure you that I believe wholeheartedly in a sexual harassment-free workplace . However, I should point out that much of the reported tumescence can be attributed to the young lady who filed out my paperwork just before I submitted my, well, sample I guess."
"Wait, what?" He blinked and licked his lips even faster. If you ever wondered what a ferret looked like eating peanut butter there was your answer. Finally he composed himself. "No, that wasn't the issue."
"Then...?"
"May I be Frank?"
I checked his nameplate on the desk and it said otherwise. However once I looked back up I had immediately forgotten the name I had read and concurred with a 'why not?' of a shrug.
"It's the size of your balls, Jack."
"Come again?"
"The size of your balls." He repeated matter-of-factly and opened his palm face up to weigh an invisible mass."Their too big."
I studied my lap for a moment and looked the man back in the eyes unable to tell if he was fucking with me or not. "I'm afraid you've lost me."
"It's quite simple really." He laid my file down and folded his hands. "You see this is a place of business and in order to achieve maximum profitability we need employees who are go-getters and team-players. Employees who ready and willing to take charge. Employees who are willing to go the extra mile, stay the extra hour, hustle for that promotion and stand out. None of which is possible in our experience if their balls are too big."
I stared at him with mouth hanging open waiting in vain for the sufficient words with which to express my utter disbelief.
"Balls are the greatest obstacle a man will stumble over on the road to success," he leaned in closer and added with a conspiratorial whisper, "and for many a woman as well, Jack. In fact they tend to have more than most."
He leaned back and looked around the room before resuming back to his more conversational drone. "Now we do have options, Jack. Your medical plan does cover full scrotum reduction procedures as you'll see here under the section I highlighted."
He slid a piece of paper towards me that I ignored. "Yes, balls have killed more careers, marriages and I daresay entire civilizations if left unchecked. Now if you just sign here, we can get you into surgery by tomorrow and after a non-paid sick day you'll be allowed to resume work immediately."
"What if I like the size of my balls?" I gave them a good reassuring squeeze and continued. "I mean I've never heard any complaints before."
"Then I'm afraid we're going to have to allow you to pursue other opportunities elsewhere."
"Isn't that discrimination?" I snorted. "Terminating a man because you don't like the heft of his nuts."
"Not at all. Employees of all races, religions, sexual orientation and even gender are allowed to have their nuts surgically downgraded to what we like to call 'economy size'. And keep in mind since this is a right to work state, we are free and at liberty to not employ those unwilling to help make the work environment as productive as it can be."
"And you?"
"What about me, Jack?"
"Did you, uh, you know... make the cut so to speak?"
"Oh no," He smiled and reclined in his chair, "You don't get to sit where I am without having the biggest pair in the room. Here, look. "
Jack, or Mark, or Mike or What Have You, stood up to tug back and reach under...
... the collar of his shirt where he produced a gold chain from which several pairs of 14kt dipped nut-sacks that hung plump and heavy around the neck.
I nodded. I stood up. I extended my hand towards him professionally and made my way back out. Past my cube. Past the time clock. Past even the elevator, deciding to bound down the stairs in sets of five or seven, until I stumbled out into the light firing up a Camel.
Well, I was back to being strapped and on the job hunt. The paycheck on my last two weeks there would buy me a few days at best. My lady wasn't going to be happy about the news, nor was the landlord or the power company or my dealer who had just fronted me a sack last night. I made my to the bus stop to catch the next 124 to Fuckedville, USA.
It didn't matter. For now the balls were still in my court and with them any play seemed possible.
Three Monday's deep into the gig and before I could clock in, I was informed by my shift leader that the office manager wanted to talk to me. Never a good sign when they want talk to you off the clock. It usually means you're about to get fired, laid off, downsized, outsourced or even worse, forced to make small talk with the human mannequins at some dreary office function or another.
I arrived at his cubed hovel on the other side of the office and with three knocks on an open door, the manager waved me in. He had a name like Lou or Joe or something equally forgettable to match the man it had christened. He had a mouse face on a head too long for it. He had a toupee that resembled a hibernating field rodent and mint bubblegum flavored coffee breath. He had on wino grade aftershave and a suit the Salvation Army would turn down. He had my file in one boney little hand and with the other motioned for me to take a seat. I did and began counting the seconds until I was back at the bus stop smoking a much needed cigarette over the want ads.
"Jack...," he looked at me with confusion, trying to reconcile their paperwork version of me to the man before him, "er, how do you say your last name?"
"Reluctantly some days." I shrugged, then thought about it and added. "Proudly on others."
He opened his mouth to speak but immediately shut it. I watched as his brain registered my answer painfully slow through a series of blinks and nervous lip licks. Finally he figured it out and tried again: "I meant how do you pronounce it."
"Biblically." I smiled. "Like the lady in the Bible."
He stared at me. I stared back.
"Very well, Jack." He cleared his throat and flipped a single page up over a manila folder, "It seems we have some concerns regarding your drug screen."
"Oh?" I was only moderately surprised. I had taken the precaution of having gone straight edge for two weeks prior to the applying for the job, drinking two gallons of water a day and even downed a bottle of 'Free Flow Urine Cloak' bought at a local gas station right before the test. Still, there was only so much hiding you can do with a twenty year weed habit in fourteen days. And keep in mind a good eighteen of those years were spent literally on quality skunk at that.
Lou, or Bob, or Don or whoever the fuck he is reads through the paper once again, though clearly knowing already what it says. "Now while you didn't test positive for any illegal narcotics..."
"You mean that stuff the kids call 'The Drugs' ?" I asked mock earnest and deadpan all in order to mask the shock.
"... ahhh, yes, you didn't show positive for 'the drugs'."
"All the drugs?" I asked.
"All the drugs, Jack."
"That's a lot of drugs." I smiled and winked in that way sitcom characters do after they invoke their catch-phrase. In my ear there followed that applause you only heard when Happy Days was filmed before a live studio audience.
Tom, Dick or Whoever the Fuck he is looked around the room confused at some distant commotion and cautiously continued. "Yes, well, what did concern us was something reported to us during the actual, er, that is to say, in the process of your screening our veracity agent noticed, well, something worthy of our attentions shall we say."
I nodded remorsefully knowing full well where this was this going. "I sincerely apologize for that and can assure you that I believe wholeheartedly in a sexual harassment-free workplace . However, I should point out that much of the reported tumescence can be attributed to the young lady who filed out my paperwork just before I submitted my, well, sample I guess."
"Wait, what?" He blinked and licked his lips even faster. If you ever wondered what a ferret looked like eating peanut butter there was your answer. Finally he composed himself. "No, that wasn't the issue."
"Then...?"
"May I be Frank?"
I checked his nameplate on the desk and it said otherwise. However once I looked back up I had immediately forgotten the name I had read and concurred with a 'why not?' of a shrug.
"It's the size of your balls, Jack."
"Come again?"
"The size of your balls." He repeated matter-of-factly and opened his palm face up to weigh an invisible mass."Their too big."
I studied my lap for a moment and looked the man back in the eyes unable to tell if he was fucking with me or not. "I'm afraid you've lost me."
"It's quite simple really." He laid my file down and folded his hands. "You see this is a place of business and in order to achieve maximum profitability we need employees who are go-getters and team-players. Employees who ready and willing to take charge. Employees who are willing to go the extra mile, stay the extra hour, hustle for that promotion and stand out. None of which is possible in our experience if their balls are too big."
I stared at him with mouth hanging open waiting in vain for the sufficient words with which to express my utter disbelief.
"Balls are the greatest obstacle a man will stumble over on the road to success," he leaned in closer and added with a conspiratorial whisper, "and for many a woman as well, Jack. In fact they tend to have more than most."
He leaned back and looked around the room before resuming back to his more conversational drone. "Now we do have options, Jack. Your medical plan does cover full scrotum reduction procedures as you'll see here under the section I highlighted."
He slid a piece of paper towards me that I ignored. "Yes, balls have killed more careers, marriages and I daresay entire civilizations if left unchecked. Now if you just sign here, we can get you into surgery by tomorrow and after a non-paid sick day you'll be allowed to resume work immediately."
"What if I like the size of my balls?" I gave them a good reassuring squeeze and continued. "I mean I've never heard any complaints before."
"Then I'm afraid we're going to have to allow you to pursue other opportunities elsewhere."
"Isn't that discrimination?" I snorted. "Terminating a man because you don't like the heft of his nuts."
"Not at all. Employees of all races, religions, sexual orientation and even gender are allowed to have their nuts surgically downgraded to what we like to call 'economy size'. And keep in mind since this is a right to work state, we are free and at liberty to not employ those unwilling to help make the work environment as productive as it can be."
"And you?"
"What about me, Jack?"
"Did you, uh, you know... make the cut so to speak?"
"Oh no," He smiled and reclined in his chair, "You don't get to sit where I am without having the biggest pair in the room. Here, look. "
Jack, or Mark, or Mike or What Have You, stood up to tug back and reach under...
... the collar of his shirt where he produced a gold chain from which several pairs of 14kt dipped nut-sacks that hung plump and heavy around the neck.
I nodded. I stood up. I extended my hand towards him professionally and made my way back out. Past my cube. Past the time clock. Past even the elevator, deciding to bound down the stairs in sets of five or seven, until I stumbled out into the light firing up a Camel.
Well, I was back to being strapped and on the job hunt. The paycheck on my last two weeks there would buy me a few days at best. My lady wasn't going to be happy about the news, nor was the landlord or the power company or my dealer who had just fronted me a sack last night. I made my to the bus stop to catch the next 124 to Fuckedville, USA.
It didn't matter. For now the balls were still in my court and with them any play seemed possible.
