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VALENTINE'S DAY The day of reckoning arrived with the rush of Dopplered diesel exhaust from the Santa Monica Blue Bus #1. I had wisely been choosing to ride the bus into Westwood instead of tempting its deplorable parking situation. The bus charged an economical 50 cents each way, as opposed to, assuming you could find a space, $1.50 for two hours at a meter and the very real possibility of a meter maid reeking of corrupt impotence providing you with very tidy additional $30. Equally impotent were my attempts at meeting new and interesting peoplethe bus is not the place for it. It is a vehicle of mindful wandering, of zoning out in the most relaxed fashion possible, and for the strict observation usually reserved for strip clubs and atomic bomb testing grounds. The pleasure of public transportation would inevitably give way to grievances, however, as no good deed goes unpunished. After being put to work under the hot lights of our "customer service" department, most of which consisted of the raver kids, minus Stephen who somehow managed to sneak into the backroom, and me, I stood out in the rain by the Subway waiting for the fucking bus, two of which I'd seen drive past in the other direction 20 minutes ago. Two more #1s went by. The one good thing about the bus stop was that Rite Aid, legal supplier of both Goldberg's Original Peanut Chews (I stress the Original, because they made new ones that come in a light blue package that aren't nearly as good as the ones that come in the brown package) and Jack Daniels Whiskey, both of which I had under my sweatshirt, was on the way from work. The Peanut Chews were beginning to melt in my pocket. A small crowd was gathering, clogging the Valentine's sidewalk traffic. A LA Metro went past and then came back around again, picked up passengers and sped off in a huff. Still, we waited I'd just spent the last four hours deflecting queries from customers who were rapidly losing their patience for our brand of evasive action. One poor lady from Oklahoma provided some much needed comedy relief as she attempted to order roses around 6 p.m., placing her in the area of 8 p.m. CST. The phones were ringing constantly and I gingerly pecked at the buttons to avoid answering any of the calls. I got up to use the bathroom at least ten times, and as usual, the only bathroom in the labyrinth of office hallways was inevitably locked. So then I'd be forced to void the pressure in my bladder by crossing the street and sneaking into the Starbucks bathroom. And when I returned the same flashing lights were still flashing away and the pile of yellow slips of paper was overflowing onto the floor. I really have to hand it to Greg, though. For all the furious callers I had to handle, I can't imagine what they had to say to him when I washed my hands of responsibility by forwarding the calls to Greg. The guy really has some balls, contrary to the initial impression of a hands-wringing pushover I had of him before. Watching him handle irate customers with the delicate deftness of an Olympic gold medal fencer and making it through the call in one piece garnered him enough respect for me to forgive him for asking me if I knew karate during one of my frequent trips toward the locked-down bathroom. |
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By the time I was down to my last peanut chew, the buses came. And not just one #1, but three
roaring down the right hand lane of Westwood Boulevard. Bus drivers share that leisurely
timetable that only the autocracy of bus drivers affordsort of like hanging out by the
water fountain in corporate offices. And even though we grew more wet with rain, depressed and
alone, and more and more miserable with every lengthy minute ticking away, we were still at the
mercy of the bus driver, and a submissive tone was necessary to receive as compensation those ten
minutes of complete vegetation under softly humming fluorescent lights, which is all we wanted anyway. Later that night while drinking a very strong whiskey and Coke I was suckered into working an extra shift on Thursday. I tried my hardest to squirm my way out of it, but the same defective cognitive faculty which somehow allows me to say no to sex and vast other arrays of personal enjoyment and fulfillment no matter how desperately I want it, forces me to say yes to all employers regardless of how close I am to slashing my wrists, all the while the little man inside me is screaming, WHY? WHY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO YOURSELF? I said I would come in for two hours in the morning, all the while planning to give myself a matching set of black eyes as soon as I returned the phone to its cradle. BACK TO THE FRONT 7:30 a.m. I am rarely ever up and going at this hour, but it felt really good to be out on a bright, clear morning in Westwood with a pack of Peanut Chews in my hand. I was expecting the office to be slow and laid back, reeling extra hard from the whirlwind of the previous day. But no, there was still a huge stack of yellow slips and incessantly ringing phones awaiting me. I really had no desire to be there, and as I fit the hands-free headset around my head, I slowly plotted my escape. Two hours, only two hours and I already didnšt think that I would make it. I also had no desire to talk to the same people I had spoken to last night, facetiously telling them customer service representatives would return their call in an "hour or so;" anything to get them off the phone and my ass. Now the circle had me square in the crosshairs, and I, fearing some sort of early morning retribution for yesterday's lies, poked at the pick-up buttons more than usual, and cringed every time I accidentally got a customer on the line. Several times I actually caught myself pretending to talk to a pleasant customer on the phone, rewriting the previous customer's contact information on a new piece of paper, and saying "Uh-huh, I understand sir. Can I get a telephone number where we can reach you?" I was getting antsy, my hands were sweaty. The bathroom, as usual, was locked. So far I had successfully managed to avoid the glazed-over eyes of anyone in any sort of power, and my stupid conscience was telling me not to screw Greg over, even though he hadn't noticed I was there. An hour-and-a-half passed. I couldn't make it. I decided to compromise, to reconcile my decision to leave early with the promises I made yesterday: I marked, honestly and painfully, the true number of hours I worked that day. I zipped up my sweatshirt and made for the door. Another crappy Valentine's holiday was finally through, and as I dropped my 50 cents into the empty Blue Bus I came to the definitive conclusion that last year's Valentine's was the result of some sort of cosmic jar, a sudden shock to the balance of the universe, and I will be spending all future holidays in a manner such as this. But I felt good cutting out early, and the mid-morning sun shone through the dirty glass as I watched the pedestrians fall away in a blur. |