Back at Work
So, yeah, I worked yesterday and today, and I’ll be working tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday. Saturday, I’m going out with Gina. Sunday, suicide.
Seriously, I like some things about my job. I like the fact that I don’t have to do very much, and when I do, I am mostly given simple tasks. I don’t like the fact that I generally feel excluded from the bulk of the work because Jenna thinks I’m retarded. Or maybe I do, since it gets me out of doing more worthless crap. I dunno…I know I’m not the brightest guy on the planet, but I’m not nearly as dumb as Jenna seems to think I am.
I like the fact that the people are generally nice. I don’t like that I think they all secretly dislike me. Seriously, they may like me; they may dislike me; most likely, they’re totally indifferent and don’t give me a second thought when I’m not in their field of vision. What I’m saying is, I think they dislike me, and that I have the thought bugs me.
I like the fact that I read about 100 pages today. I don’t like the fact that I was asked to man the front desk for the last hour and a half, but I was not allowed to read, use the Internet, play my Game Boy, or do anything generally interesting. See, the U-Passes all came in, and they’re “like cash,” so I cannot take my eyes off them at any point in time. This is bothersome to me because, if I’m reading, I may not be staring right at the U-Passes, but chances are if someone comes in and grabs a box, I’ll notice and give chase. Okay, I won’t give chase, but I’ll probably yell things at the thief.
On the other hand, not being allowed to do anything, with the soul-sucking glare of fluorescent lights overhead, all I want to do is sleep. I drank 52 ounces of coffee, and I still could barely stay awake for those 90 minutes.
That is, until the calls started.
One of the things we’re doing to lend credibility to the office of Student Activities is something for black history month, which I think is called Black Images in Film. I dunno, that sounds too redundant to be what it’s actually called, but knowing this office, I’m probably correct. Anyway, one of the things that was planned is a screening/reception for the upcoming Barbershop 2, hosted by its producers. I would’ve gone, but it costs $100 (yay for charity benefits!) and I couldn’t get a freebie since nobody in the office likes me.
Needless to say, people are very interested in this event. It’s a high-profile movie that will probably tackle issues at some point, and it was film in Chicago, so everybody gets excited about that. But why do they call me?
The first caller informed me that he lives on the south side and proceeded to tell me much of his life story before recounting the epic struggle to get information about this event. See, he had some sculptures or something that were used in the movie, so he felt entitled to go to this screening for free. Which is all well and good, but my general thought is that if he was entitled to go for free, somebody from the production company would have contacted him. Plus, I have no real power, so what am I supposed to tell him.
I asked Jenna, who talked to him herself and explained that nobody cares about his life, so he can either pay $100 or stay home. Sometimes I’m glad she’s around.
A little while later, some guy from one of Jenna’s classes waltzed into the office. She gave him a U-Pass, and then he went into her office and they proceeded to flirt with each other for over an hour. It was a horrible, horrible time for yours truly. Without the ability to concentrate on anything, I was forced to listen to the details of their conversation. I heard about how this guy impregnated a girl and then bailed on her (always something you want to tell somebody you’re interested in one-night-standing with), and I learned some disturbingly intimate things about Jenna’s marriage that make me never, ever want to look her in the eye again.
Seriously, folks, if you have your own office, and you’re going to talk about anything that personal, do the peons a favor and close the door. We don’t like the nightmares.
This leads me to the second call. Some guy from one of the local, generally unread newspapers (I want to say the Chicago Frontier, but that sounds wrong) called up and very arrogantly informed me that he is a member of the press and therefore should be allowed to attend the Barbershop 2 event. Which, again, is fine with me, but I have no authority.
Still, it leads me to wonder. You’re John Q. Reporter, and you want to attend a pre-release screening and reception of what’s sure to be a popular movie so you can have some sort of scoop. Is it really smart to call an office that does little more than promote the screening two hours before it starts? I dunno, maybe he didn’t hear about it until just then, but it seems a little ridiculous, especially in light of the fact that he didn’t even know what theatre it was being shown at.
So, I explained to this guy that anybody who could do anything to help him was already at the theatre preparing for the event. He was flabbergasted, so I put him on hold and told Jenna. She told me to put him through Sally’s office, even though Sally was at Pipers Alley. I thought of asking Jenna what I should do when he calls back five minutes later, but I kept my mouth shut.
Five minutes later, the reporter called back, went through his whole spiel a second time, and I told him I had already connected him with the only person who could do anything for him. He didn’t like that and demanded to speak with somebody in authority. So I got snippy and said, “Well, then, why don’t you just go down to the movie theatre?”
“Where’s it playing?” the reporter asked.
“Pipers Alley,” I responded.
“Pipers Alley?” he asked, stunned, as if he had never heard of the place. This was odd, because it is one of the more well-known movie theatres in Chicago, and I would think that a reporter interested in a movie screening would probably have heard of some movie theatres before.
At any rate, he hung up with me, all huffy and irritating, and I was pleased. Until I realized I could still hear what Jenna and the future victim of her “open marriage” were discussing.
I think maybe I’ll cancel my plans for Sunday and try to find a new job.
Posted by Stan on February 3, 2004 10:36 PM | Permalink | “I’m a Living Joke!” - Horror Stories from the Workplace | Digg It
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