Monday, July 24, 2006

Hard Work

What I do for a living isn't really that complicated. Matter of fact, it permits rather a lot of personal time to do what life demands so I can't really complain but...I shall, anyway.

You see it's the people I work with that make it such a pain in the ass. I am surrounded by...characters. At least I give them character names so as to ease the pain of dealing with them. A code of sorts.

There's Hound Dog, so named because of the jowls that ruin her otherwise very attractive self. She's nice enough and older but very active so that she has a sense of fashion and such but she's a short-timer. A few more years and she'll be retiring so she has a rather casual manner about her workstyle. She is the least offensive of the group.

There is Sucker - she received the moniker because she constantly sucks on her bridge or whatever dental implement or deformity demands that she perform the sucking task every few minutes. She is one of the selectively religious. Each morning finds her sitting her bulk down with a "Thank you Jesus!" and further applications of thankfulness throughout the day when some mundane task (such as rising from the chair and walking to the kitchen) has been successfully completed. I suspect Jesus is quite sick of it by now and addresses this by consistently giving her bad hair days. We have a rather terse relationship ever since her avid liberal stance took on the nature of a personal attack. A discussion with HR has since calmed that down and she mostly keeps to herself. Of course, she is consistently 15-30 mins late each day and takes time off and sets outside appointments without care for the rest of the "team". I really do hate that...

And then...The Talker. She's quite the character. She finds in me a compatriot while I try very hard to not engage her. This is because the slightest sentence or agreement will launch a 20 minute discussion. Those 20 minutes will likely be filled with stories that she has related at least 12 previous times. Her worst habit is stating aloud every IM she types when she is piqued by a request from the person on the other side of the IM conversation. Her really worst habit is playing a computer game that demands she click her mouse 3xsecond. Mind you, this is a game likely intended for children in the 5-10 year category. She plays this while the florescent lights glare off her framed certificate from the NSA. Yes, that NSA. What a waste of an intellect. One can only imagine what she might learn if she concentrated as hard on other subjects as she does on that game. And those clicks? They can continue for upward of 3 hours. I imagine in my mind gently unhooking my keyboard and taking a bat-like swing at her head with it. For some reason, her clicking brings me to the edge of violence. Perhaps this could be used abroad in our interrogation process. She, too, has a casual concept of what On Time means. And, having kids, manages to find an excuse every morning whilst blaming them. What a waste of breath.

Surrounding me in the environment are others who are mildly insipid that they merely grate on the nerves. I do not hold myself out as some sort of example of The Perfect Worker Bee. However, I do at least know how to do my job. That would be a nice place to start. And that whole On Time thing. Just this morning I woke nearly 45 mins late and yet managed to get here on time - ugly, perhaps, and in less than minty fresh condition but Present and Accounted For.

Of course, I try very hard to remain in good graces...I want a lot from this place. I am asking for the impossible and just may get it. And only because I am a good worker bee. I take these characters and their shenanigans and swallow my retorts, belay my impulse to pummeling. I take little complaint to the Masters and try to be useful to them. And I am perhaps the most eloquent of the peons. My own smallish intellect evident in the few compositions necessary to the work, clear in my conversations and dry wit.

But I still feel like everyone can see me as I once was - walking away from the 10th grade, flipping off the school, and into a life where being shot at was a job hazard and the ingestion of massive doses of 714's was the only way to make life tolerable. As though there is a giant sandwich board sign with Loser/Faker noted on it.

If they only knew me then...baby, I'd have slit your throat and walked away laughing. I'd have regretted it later, when the meds wore off and the blood was sticky. But I'd have done it. God...so far have I come...

1 comment:

MâHâßuß ßHuiyân said...
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