A Stream of Consciousness Part 2

Knowing these truths to be self-evident, I decided to take it upon myself to revise…I mean “document” history, and tell it like it is.  I started this project like I would start any other, compulsively and randomly.  I figured the easiest topics to explore, were the crazy, random, and unreal events and circumstances I found myself going through day in and day out.  Being free of bitterness made life an easy and fun topic, but would it be enough to write about?  I mulled the idea around for about 3/10ths of a second, and then concluded the following:

      

A)     Getting to write about history according to the way I WISHED it happened is fun and easy, and only my ex-girlfriends, bosses, teachers, and about 64,438 other people will suffer.  Sounds manageable.

B)      Kissing the Blarney Stone at 14 blessed me with the ole Irish “Gift of Gab” or the gift of “bull-shitting)” which is, after all, the universal language in life that everyone can understand.

C)      I would burn in hell if I continued to squander my talents on pot smoking and playing video games.

                My first attempt of conceiving a literary opus of genius was down right retarded.  Unlike oral communication, which can be blurted out yet remain corrected through other sound mechanisms, written communication requires a bit of forethought.  One day, while I was at a generic office sweatshop just testing the waters on my “Stay or Bail” day, it became clear to me, that not enough people understand the true nasty boiler room politics of these call centers, because if they did, someone might just intervene.

Employed as a 1099 (thus making me my own employer, and my boss my client) I noticed right away that the title, “independent contractor” was just a fictitious office moniker, as I could sense that just leaving your seat could be the spark to ignite a demeaning and dramatic dialog about call statistics, kick backs, and dialer efficacy that you are now not a part of because you stood up.  My manager (lets call him Fuck Face) was tearing into this poor little (I really mean big and fat) sales girl.  Calling her stupid and making fun of the way she smelled, like hamster feed.  Tearing into her self image; like vultures tearing into carrion; marines tearing into Asian chicks; or homeless tweakers tearing in the garbage on pickup day, he tore her, a new asshole. 

I didn’t recall the job description mentioning anything about emotional abuse, public belittlement, or defamation of character…In fact; I think the job description said something like “Great team environment.  Free drinks in the break room, team players make money hand over fist, best management in Orange County, fun work environment.”

When Fuck Face interviewed me hours ago, he seemed liked a cool guy.  He went over the rules, the pay, and the procedure.  It seemed like any typical office scenario, so bland to the core I believe I started to nod out.  I went to the dialer, but within the hour, it was very clear to me that only 8.838% of my co-workers were pretending to be marginally happy, management offered no coaching, no solutions, no mediation, and no one cared.  Commission only and you’ll figure it out.

It was crystal clear to me that I was to remain tethered to my computer at all times. The chain gang of marketing; 25 to life of hard labor here.  Stay seated, look busy no matter what.  If I had to take a shit, my options were to poop in the waste basket OR drag the computer and the entire fucking sales team down the hall with me, so we can all cold call from the shitter in the handicap person’s living room.  It might have been appropriate now that I think about it.  It seemed odd to me, why would my pursuit of aimless wondering conflict with a cheap office’s “no payment policy”.  I suddenly felt woozy and short of breath, as this rotten paradox became too obvious to ignore.  Pondering the Irony of the Universe, and one of life’s cruel twisted clichés presented to me, I suddenly felt like I was in some kind of LSD inspired carton, and the truth set in…and I could smell the fear!!!

Continue Reading : A Stream of Consciousness (Part 3)