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jack_babalonThis is back when I worked at INTEGRATECH.
It was early one morning, so I decided to sleep in late. I had just clocked in a little before noon and had been at my desk for about ten minutes. My computer didn't accept an ID or a password but insisted I answer a question from a "The 80's" edition of Trivial Pursuit correctly. I finally was able to log in with the third guess: Alan Thicke.
My boss's face rises slowly over the wall to my cube and dangles a long dollar bill colored triplicate form in his hand to get my attention. First off I should be a little more specific, since technically speaking i'm so far down on the totem pole that my last annual review was conducted by a delivery man dropping off Chinese for some coworkers lunch. He kept shouting at me angrily: "What is your problem?" and "Why haven't we fired you?" and other questions I knew he really didn't want the answer to. It ended 45 minutes later with him chasing me out of the office, down the fire escape stairwell, past the sleeping security guard in the lobby with a Rifle magazine shielding the light out of his face and finally around the parking lot where the smokers placed bets on how long I could out run him. Still money wise it turned out to be one of my better reviews. I took some of that smoker action and threw the race in my favor.
Anyway, just to clarify, we'll call this boss my Department Activity Director Advisor or DADA for short.
"Jack" Dada whispers through a melodic accent that conjures romantic southeast asian summer nights spent in a Men Rooms that has its own wetbar, DJ along with a little disco ball instead of a lightbulb that streaks the stalls and urinals with rotating checkerboards of mirrored light.
"Yes" I swivel in my chair where only the top half of his head is visible. He does this often enough and unbeknownst to him I have push-pinned a sign I printed up that reads in red letters KILLROY WAS HERE! that hangs directly under his eyes.
"Why haven't you gotten your flu-shot?" he asks confused, "all the other workers are down there already."
"If all the other workers jumped off a roof should I join them?"
"Yes... didn't you get the memo?"
"Did you send it?"
"Yes"
"Then no"
He looks at me. I look at him. Back.Forth.Back.Forth. Closer and closer close ups. Until I shrug...
"Besides I can't get a flu shot, Mr.Dada ... its against my religion."
He wants to ask. He really, really does but he tugs back on the leash of his curiosity and settles on another question.
"What if you get sick?"
"Well that means my God, THOGORR the UNCLEAN, is angry with me for some transgression that our puny human minds cannot possibly comprehend... and I will most likely have to disembowel a small farm animal to sate his divine rage."
"Robert..." his sigh muffled by the wall between us.
"Seriously... thank Thogorr our medical plan here covers 60% of the cost of an animal sacrifice, so long of course as its a Preferred Animal Sacrifice and that the sacrifice is being offered to a Diety covered by the HMO's list of approved Divine Entity Providers..."
The eyes narrow over the dark metal trim lining the cubes wall. He leaves the release form hanging for a few seconds, waiting for me to smile, giggle, snicker or raise my eyebrows in some sort of call sign that would blow my cover, call my bluff or reveal me for the unrepentant bullshit artist I am.
I give him nothing.
Finally, the face goes from sunrise to sunset and sinks slowly under the gray wall of the cubicle. My phone rings. I man my headphones and swivel back to the computer screen with a fake smile as wide as it is creepy: "Thank you for INTEGRATECH, how can I help you have a Integtastic Day sir and/or ma'am?"
It was early one morning, so I decided to sleep in late. I had just clocked in a little before noon and had been at my desk for about ten minutes. My computer didn't accept an ID or a password but insisted I answer a question from a "The 80's" edition of Trivial Pursuit correctly. I finally was able to log in with the third guess: Alan Thicke.
My boss's face rises slowly over the wall to my cube and dangles a long dollar bill colored triplicate form in his hand to get my attention. First off I should be a little more specific, since technically speaking i'm so far down on the totem pole that my last annual review was conducted by a delivery man dropping off Chinese for some coworkers lunch. He kept shouting at me angrily: "What is your problem?" and "Why haven't we fired you?" and other questions I knew he really didn't want the answer to. It ended 45 minutes later with him chasing me out of the office, down the fire escape stairwell, past the sleeping security guard in the lobby with a Rifle magazine shielding the light out of his face and finally around the parking lot where the smokers placed bets on how long I could out run him. Still money wise it turned out to be one of my better reviews. I took some of that smoker action and threw the race in my favor.
Anyway, just to clarify, we'll call this boss my Department Activity Director Advisor or DADA for short.
"Jack" Dada whispers through a melodic accent that conjures romantic southeast asian summer nights spent in a Men Rooms that has its own wetbar, DJ along with a little disco ball instead of a lightbulb that streaks the stalls and urinals with rotating checkerboards of mirrored light.
"Yes" I swivel in my chair where only the top half of his head is visible. He does this often enough and unbeknownst to him I have push-pinned a sign I printed up that reads in red letters KILLROY WAS HERE! that hangs directly under his eyes.
"Why haven't you gotten your flu-shot?" he asks confused, "all the other workers are down there already."
"If all the other workers jumped off a roof should I join them?"
"Yes... didn't you get the memo?"
"Did you send it?"
"Yes"
"Then no"
He looks at me. I look at him. Back.Forth.Back.Forth. Closer and closer close ups. Until I shrug...
"Besides I can't get a flu shot, Mr.Dada ... its against my religion."
He wants to ask. He really, really does but he tugs back on the leash of his curiosity and settles on another question.
"What if you get sick?"
"Well that means my God, THOGORR the UNCLEAN, is angry with me for some transgression that our puny human minds cannot possibly comprehend... and I will most likely have to disembowel a small farm animal to sate his divine rage."
"Robert..." his sigh muffled by the wall between us.
"Seriously... thank Thogorr our medical plan here covers 60% of the cost of an animal sacrifice, so long of course as its a Preferred Animal Sacrifice and that the sacrifice is being offered to a Diety covered by the HMO's list of approved Divine Entity Providers..."
The eyes narrow over the dark metal trim lining the cubes wall. He leaves the release form hanging for a few seconds, waiting for me to smile, giggle, snicker or raise my eyebrows in some sort of call sign that would blow my cover, call my bluff or reveal me for the unrepentant bullshit artist I am.
I give him nothing.
Finally, the face goes from sunrise to sunset and sinks slowly under the gray wall of the cubicle. My phone rings. I man my headphones and swivel back to the computer screen with a fake smile as wide as it is creepy: "Thank you for INTEGRATECH, how can I help you have a Integtastic Day sir and/or ma'am?"
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no subject
on 2007-11-06 05:16 pm (UTC)i worked there! thank you - i don't think i will quit laughing about this all day.
no subject
on 2007-11-06 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-11-06 06:36 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-11-06 07:36 pm (UTC)