The Girl Who Hates Me Strikes Again
Julie, the girl who hates me, talks to me now. She does it grudgingly and disdainfully, but she talks to me. Something weird happened a few days ago, though. I was working the front, and she was the only other student worker around, so she came up to me, looked right at me, and said, very slowly because I’m retarded, “I have to leave for a few minutes. If anyone calls the back looking for Julie or Leigh, that’s me. Tell them I had to run an errand and I’ll be right back. It’s very important.”
“Der…yeah,” I said stupidly, because at the exact moment she looked at me, I looked at her, and suddenly I’d fallen in love with her. She has these magical, beautiful eyes that apparently have some sort of hoodoo attached to them that makes people fall in love with her. Or maybe it’s just me.
So, even as I balance the crush on my attractive blonde friend with the potential legitimate asking-out of somebody who seems interested in me, I’ve added the love of a girl who utterly dislikes me. I’m an idiot.
I decided, after drinking in the sweet ambrosia of her magic eyes, that I needed to do as much as humanly possible to impress her. If nothing else, I had to convince her that I’m not fully mentally retarded. Borderline autistic, maybe; socially retarded, definitely; but I’m not some drooling idiot, though I am an idiot and I do tend to drool in my sleep.
Still, Julie must never know it. She must be bowled over by my minor intellect and my capacity for remembering shit nobody else on the planet cares about, such as the full name and rank of The Love Boat’s “Gopher.”*
So, on Tuesday, the last working day before the too-short holiday break, I received a phone call at the front desk.
“What room is this?” the caller asked.
I gave the number.
“Transfer me to 301,” she said.
“Uh, sure thing,” I said, reaching for the phone book in the middle drawer. I haven’t really been working there long enough to memorize, uh, anything, least of all the extension or office that’s in 301. I know where the room is, because I go there every other Monday to pick up my paycheck, but I didn’t know what office I was in.
At any rate, it took so long to look up this phone number that the hold line started to ring again, and I didn’t pick it up because I’m extremely lazy, and so the caller was disconnected.
“Phew,” I thought. “Maybe she, fed up with my incompetence, will look up the damn number herself.”
No such luck. The same number called back immediately.
“Sorry,” I said, “we got disconnected.”
“Is this Stan?” the caller asked.
“Uh,” I said.
“This is Julie,” she continued.
“Oh, hey,” I said, thinking, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”
“What happened?” she asked.
“I was just looking up 301, but I can’t find it in the book,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
She sighed. “It’s the Dean of Students office.”
I started looking again.
“Can you transfer me over to Sally?” she asked while I looked.
“She’s not in today,” I responded.
“How about Shelli?” she asked irritably.
“She’s in, but she went to a meeting. She’ll be back in an hour,” I said.
“Great,” she muttered. “Do you know anything about the paychecks for today?”
“No,” I said.
“Of course not,” she muttered under her breath. Apparently, she didn’t realize that when your mouth is half an inch from a microphone, the person on the other end can generally hear it.
“We get paid today?” I asked.
“I don’t know. That’s why I want you to connect me to 301,” she said.
“Oh, right,” I said, and right about then I had found the number, so I told her to hold on and transferred her over.
I felt sort of humiliated and irritated by my complete and utter incompetence at my job. Truth be told, I do things like letting people on hold disconnect all the time when I don’t feel like dealing with it. I’m not the most responsible or diligent worker on the planet, but usually I don’t get called on it because the person on the other end of the phone has no clue who I am.
Usually, they don’t call back at all. If they do, as soon as they hear my voice, they sigh heavily and hang up. But not Julie, who knows me personally and now probably understands the full extent of my poor job skills. But she won’t perceive it as general laziness or my discompassionate attitude. She’ll see it as mental retardation causing complete incompetence.
I’ve failed at convincing her I’m even marginally intelligent. I think the harder I try, the more I’m sure to fail, and I’m such an idiot I’ll keep trying until I end up dead. Which is sure to make for some hilarious future entries.
*Yeoman-Purser Burl Smith [Back]
Posted by Stan on December 27, 2003 12:16 PM | Permalink | “I’m a Living Joke!” - Horror Stories from the Workplace | Digg It
Post a Comment
Powered by Ajax Comments
Comments (1)
Are they really that visible with their annoyance at you? sheesh, you just started the damn job, it’s not as if they have any real cause to look down on you, they are in the same friggin job.
Next time it happens, just reach in the condom jar and grab a handful, then hand it to whatever woman acted like a bitch and say, “work out your annoyances and frustrations in a more meaningful way for once instead of on me, unless you feel that might be your best chance for a moment of sexual euphoria.”.
Better start using a tin foil wrapped cucumber in your ensemble again just in case this happens, so when they look you up and down in disgust you will be able to nod your head with a self satisfied grin as their louds gasps fill the air when they notice your enhanced “package”.
Posted by steven speilbergo | December 27, 2003 1:36 PM | Reply