Spaghetti, Borgia Style
When Violet got in the car, she was shaking with rage. “Well...” she managed and then just strapped her seat belt over and (falteringly) clicked it in place. I could see she was near tears--tears of rage the more bitter for the helplessness involved. The corporation had moved again in its mysterious ways, its wonders to perform. What now, I thought as he put the little car in gear.
“They fired me. From the monitoring job.”
It was the only thing she had except the phones--the damned phones...which became, eventually, personalized. (These personalities were like the devil deities of old.) The company had made the infinitely wise decision to combine order-taking with customer service--on two companies. More than that, of course, it involved two different access modes and procedures (GUIs, for the enlightened).
So one might patiently shepherd the willing and able customer (with, market research assured us, one and a half degrees, which--just as legend had it--meant complete blithering stupidity outside one's specialty, on a good day) through the difficulties of supplying names and addresses for gifts to go to, and then of course selecting the gifts. This rarely goes smoothly. Problems vary between the deaf (a common occurrence); the aged, lonely and rambling--AADD in different form maybe; those incapable of the step of identifying the recipient; those impatient at the beginning of the order (and generally with not the slightest idea of what they wanted--from beginning to end)...and that last and hardest step, supplying a credit card number (and expiration date, a step baffling for many). In a maximum of 3.5 minutes.
Perhaps, luckily, it might be next a dis-satisfied customer. An order number is a rarity. A clear description of the recipient (the name, that is) is a distinct possibility. A slightly lesser probability is a clear description of (a) the gift and (b) the problem. Eliciting (c) what would the customer like can be difficult.
Bear in mind one is to save money. Refund percentages, replace parts. Send handwritten cards instead (bear in mind the time for this is charged against you as non-productive). And sell more. Make sure to sell more.
Never become impatient. Never take abuse personally. When you have to take something down by hand, accept it as one of nature's vagaries. The gods willed it. Be happy about it. Be fucking ecstatic because you shouldn't have to write anything, you do have to, you are...and you're getting blamed for it.
Oddly enough she was upset.
“I can't take it, Sam.”
I searched mentally for something to console her, while thinking of her blowup over being monitored on the phone. Better than that, it hadn't been the response but the wording thereof. “I'm sorry” I said, knowing it worse than inadequate.
“You know. Drive me to the end of town. I'll walk back. You know, it was the blowup after that monitoring session.” That effectively ended all conversation. I simply couldn't think of what to say.
“Okay.” She slammed the door hard; I didn't blame her. After all, it was the same place that had disabled me.
It started with the dreaming. I'd be asleep, Violet said, and there I'd be, talking on the phone with a customer in my usual patient, polite implacable way. But the customer wasn't listening. And I'd have a seizure sometimes, or sleepwalk or maybe wake and sit sleepless and shivering in the living room. I was hearing voices, too. I needed to be at work--adapting to an impossible environment, satisfying everyone (and I did, for a long time)--but once there I couldn't stand it. It was a searing pain of the soul to be there, and an aching void (because the agony wasn't there to be pursued--the impossible done and better yet unappreciated) filled with those echoing, demanding voices, whispers...memories of past customers...they fired me, of course. Social Security figured I was pulling something and sent me in for electroshock therapy--that's the reason for the twitch. Finally gave it to me after it turned out my back was broken; I hadn't even noticed, in the pain of my soul.
I bled for her. And there was nothing I could do to comfort her. Nothing. I drove home and sat pondering. It was so unfair, and so characteristic of Wyer Brothers.
I went in and rolled a cigarette...considered, set the cigarette down and had a toke of pot first. Chronic pain isn't fun. I recaptured the cigarette and went outside, ignoring the various teenagers as best I could. (The 100 decibel raucous ones are the hardest to not notice, and they've kept the law against shooting them out of season in force.)
Wait a minute, I said to myself. Roger had an uncle who was a certified...whatever: killed bugs and varmints. And died of inhaling some spray. They said he turned blue, whistled and flopped like a fish. He regained normal color, said “Wow, what a high” and died...anyway, Roger got his stuff.
I called him. Yeah, Roger thought so. I could come over tomorrow and we'd look.
Violet got back, and I comforted her as well as I could, though I was rather cautious after she kneed me in the nuts and head-butted me...she made it clear she resented the caution. “After all,” she said, “I did say I was feeling a lot of angst. So I did warn you.”
“I was rubbing your shoulders at the time. Fuck you.” She feinted toward me, and I made sure there was an easy chair between us.
“See? You don't trust me.”
What could I say? I made a break for it--she was between me and the pot--she only managed a shoulder block into my ribs. I retired to my room for the night. I could eat tomorrow.
“Coward” she hissed. She was right.
II.
After a long search, we found it--quite well-labeled. I could have sworn there was a smell of almonds, even with it capped. I'd brought the (Wyer Bros.) candies over, and the syringe the vet had given us for Anton, Violet's pet hamster. Well, one of them. She had a gift for hamsters...and, for that matter, cooking, gardening and of course home decor. At 125 pounds, with a ravishing face framed by kempt tresses of mahogany hair, she looked incapable of anger: violence would seem unbelievable. I was actually relieved she hadn't body-slammed the ones who ousted her.
The holes couldn't be noticed, and the wrapper was intact. At the bottom--for forensic's sake--I put, “Violet knew nothing of this. This is all my doing. Sam D.”
I drafted a note for Violet to go with the chocolates for the two who'd rewarded her with an entry back into the fulltime world of phones and irate and confused customers. It was conciliatory. It was humiliating. And since I'd written it, she could stomach signing it.
I'm awaiting...well, something. The cops, I would think. There. The phone. It's Wyer Bros and they want me to come in right now.
--Later--
It seems there's a Borgia tradition in the company. They welcomed me back--were well aware that I could only work a few hours a week--and I'm in charge of the department. My first act, of course, was to fire Violet. Too much of a rebel factor.
She did send me some brownies, though, and an awfully nice letter. I almost regret having set the company hit team on her. She'll be dead by sunset. It seems unfair to eat the brownies--but they're my favorites. Just one--I'll throw the rest away, out of respect. But almond brownies.
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Glenn
6:59:12 PM 
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