A is for Alcoholic
Jen’s last day at work was on Friday. However, she hadn’t turned up most of last week because she was sick. Genuinely sick. This doesn’t tend to look good in your last week of your job. When she arrived on Friday morning, she was basically escorted off the premises because my boss thought she was just taking time off. So now she’s gone.
I noticed there was a suspicious group of people hovering around Jen’s desk, vulture-like, on Friday morning. As soon as she set foot in the elevator and left the premises, the mob suddenly flew into a flurry of action. And as soon as I realised what was going on - I did too.
It’s the infamous Ex-Employee Stationary Scavenge. Anyone who’s worked in an office before will know what a battle it can be to get all the good stationary. As soon as Jen disappeared, so did her chair (chairs with armrests are sought after), most of her stationary, her cool purple folder-holder (actually, I stole that), her 17″ computer monitor; her computer speakers (I stole these too), and her tampons she’d left in her desk drawer. I hope a female took them.
Depending on where you work, the Ex-Employee Stationary Scavenge can vary in levels of fierceness. I used to work for a government department who were very tight when it came to purchasing stationary (we were usually dismissed with ‘Oh, buy it yourself and claim it as a tax deduction’). When someone left that workplace, the Scavenge involved hair-pulling and scratching. I clearly remember trying to trip someone over so I could get a mere ring-binder folder.
So… now Jen’s gone, and I’m doing the job on my own. It’s a hell of a lot of work for one person to do… definitely a two person job. We’re getting someone else in a few weeks though. Unfortunately I have to train them up, but maybe I could teach them all the wrong things and make myself look really good.
I noticed that most of the people who scavenged Jen’s stuff were salespeople. I’ve always been a bit suspect about the salespeople at my work. They’re usually the slyest people in the working area. They also make a lot of snide remarks about you. I think they’re so concerned about ‘getting ahead’ in the company they resort to insults. Personally, I could never be a salesperson. I don’t think I’d be very good at being an arsehole to make a living.
*****
I recieved another tax group certificate in the mail from the uni I used to work at last year. It was authorised by the woman who used to run our head campus in Queensland. Although I worked at the Melbourne campus, the Queensland staff would often visit us to check up on what we were doing.
I think the main difference between our office and theirs, was that we spent the majority of our time doing work. I once visited the Queensland campus, and I couldn’t get my head around how little an amount of work was actually done. In fact, they set aside time for not doing work. At 3pm every day, someone would yell out ‘Paper Basketball’ or something, and they’d get a bin and put it in the middle of the room, then everyone would discard the day’s rubbish into it from a distance. They were a strange lot, really.
In fact, once when the woman who ran everything was visiting in Melbourne, one of the Queensland staff rang me and told me to tell the head woman to activate a ‘code red’. I wandered over to where the woman was sitting in our office, and advised her that a code red needed to be activated in Queensland.
A gleeful, childlike look overcame her face and she bounded off towards the vending machine. After jamming coins into it, she ripped a Cherry Ripe chocolate bar out of it, and came thundering back into the office. After forcing it into her face at high speed, she then neatly and precisely wrote ‘Code Red’ on a piece of paper and glued the Cherry Ripe wrapper to it. Then she faxed it to the Queensland office.
That, apparently, was a Code Red.
*****
I’ve noticed that every day when I get to work, things underneath my desk have been re-arranged. Initially I suspected the DJ Accountant was up to no good, but I’ve slowly come to the conclusion that the cleaners are taking an active interest in what I keep under my desk. Such an active interest, in fact, that they apparently inspect everything under my table with such thoroughness that important documents get torn up all by themselves, and things I need appear to have been vacuumed away. I feel like breaking into the cleaner’s closet and tearing their vacuum bags… or something.
I had a second episode of Running Away From The DJ Accountant last week. You may remember I previously nicked off on him at the train station, to get away from his annoying face. Well, on Friday he wanted to catch a taxi to the train station with me.
DJ Accountant: So whaddya say? (bounces around) You and me? In a taxi? Going to the train station?
Me: Um… (desperately trying to think of an excuse) I.. er, need to make a deposit in the ATM. Urgently.
DJ Accountant: Oh.
Me: Yeah. So I’ll have to walk to the nearest ATM, which is… (mock disappointment) oh, right down the end of the street.
DJ Accountant: Ah but there’s an ATM at the train station!
Me: Mmmrh.. (squirms)
DJ Accountant: So catch a taxi!
Me: Just catch a bus like normal people.
DJ Accountant: But I have a $50 note I need to break.
Me: (tries to scrounge up an excuse and can’t) Oh… alright.
But as we walked out of my work’s building, a bus pulled up right out the front.
Me: (sprints to bus and calls over shoulder) I’ll catch the bus!
Well, it was either hang around for a taxi, or jump on the bus. Apparently he had the last laugh because the taxi he caught he didn’t even have to pay for - some high-up execs from my work were waiting for a taxi too. But I would rather pay for the privilige of public transport if it means getting away from the DJ Accountant.
Slow Sally confided in me last week.
Slow Sally: (whispering over cubicle wall) Jeb? Psst!
Me: Yes?
Slow Sally: I know I don’t know you that well, but…
Me: (immediately on alert and not liking where this is headed) Yes??
Slow Sally: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure.
Slow Sally: I heard the DJ Accountant organising a drug deal on the phone…
Me: Well, he’s a DJ. He probably does that stuff.
Slow Sally: Yes, but it was for speed. I’m starting to think he’s on speed a lot of the time.
And you know what? This explains an awful lot. The Mail Girl has long suspected the DJ Accountant of being on some sort of substance. It also explains why he’s so bouncy and happy in the morning, and angry and aggressive towards the end of the day. So he’s now the DJ Accountant On Drugs. He’d be dumb enough to come to work stoned, too.
I used to get drunk at lunch when I was working at the uni last year, and my workmates would have to stop me from answering the phones, because I had a tendancy to speak my mind when people asked me why I thought the uni was better than the others (I didn’t think it was at all).
*****
Log of This Week’s Self-Induced Injuries:
1. I was running late for an early morning meeting at my work. I was sprinting through the basement level of the Queen Victoria Building, a shopping centre in Sydey which is insanely crowded in peak hour. I was quite pleased with the way I was dodging through the crowd and causing minimal pain to others. It was when I started leaping up stairs that things went a little bit wrong. I was continuing to dodge people and weave around them, when I reached the top of the stairs and hit my head on a bin. I sort of just rammed into it and headbutted it, because I wasn’t looking at where I was going. This sent me on a careering flight into a large crowd of people. I’ve noticed that I never seem to fall down stairs, only up them.
2. On that very same day, I was walking to another train station really quickly. I was wearing Adam’s big black shoes, because my work shoes are almost dead. Adam’s shoes have enormous heavy heels, and I wasn’t quite used to the gravity of them. This became evident when my leg flew out sideways and chunked into a young lady’s shin. She made a face at me that was halfway between unadulturated anger and tenative weeping. Due to the unexpected injury I had induced, my leg inadvertedly swung back towards me, and I kicked my own shin as well.
3. I was so attracted by the sight of the poster of a new issue of Rolling Stone in a newsagent’s window, that I walked into a pole. I believe my skull was the first part of my body to connect with it, closely followed by left arm and testicles. This would almost have been acceptable, were it not for the fact this pole was around three metres in diameter. My recovery wasn’t so flash, because I pretended it didn’t happen and started to walk into the newsagent, when I crashed into a glass sign on my direct right. What’s worse is that the glass had writing all over it, so I didn’t really have any excuse. Maybe I should have just yelled out ‘It’s okay, I’m blind in my right eye!’
*****
I haven’t been eating much at all lately. It’s not that I have any eating disorders or anything, I’m just not that hungry. The idea of eating just doesn’t appeal to me right now. Lately I’m having a museli bar for breakfast, maybe some chips for lunch and that’s about it. Perhaps a sandwich for dinner or something. I’m not exactly pleased about it, but I can’t seem to eat food right now. Strange. Perhaps this is what too much KFC does to a person.
A store down the road from us has recently installed a big new white sign. However, only about 50% of the sign is actually used. It’s crying out to be grafitti’d, and in the Western suburbs it’s a wonder it hasn’t been done already. Adam and I originally made bets on how long it would take before it gets vandalised - Adam guessed a fortnight, I guessed a month. Yet it’s well into it’s third month now. I almost feel like doing the community a favour and teaching them a lesson - I should spray something like ‘Bum’ on it really badly (ie holding the spraycan too close to the sign, so it dribbles everywhere). That’ll teach the local hooligans not to vandalise.
I wore my stretchy black shirt on Friday (you can pick the journallers who are gay, because they write about their clothes), and it seemed sort of… tight. Either the shirt has shrunk, or it’s detected it’s on a gay body and is homosexualising itself by transforming into a tight shirt.
*****
Stuff That I Would Like to Declare that I Hate:
1. Shaved ice
I have an almost obsessive habit of making sure our icecube supply is always reasonable. This involves me making ice at least twice daily, usually in the early morning and at night. I’d just put on my Anarchy Ring and started to shake the ice out of the ice tray, when a sliver of ice shot out and lodged itself under my ring. Now, I know ice is cold, but in the early hours it’s even colder. What’s worse is that I couldn’t initially get the ice out, because it sort of acted as a chock to stop the ring being removed.
2. Concrete ‘art’ installations
Commonly found at universities built during the early to mid-1980’s. Usually complimented by rusting iron ‘interpretations’ of opression. May feature an unveiling plaque from an old state premier. (Except if you’re at RMIT in Melbourne, in which case create giant versions of primary school art ‘n’ craft projects)
*****
Memo to All Australian Filmmakers:
Attention:
From this date onwards, all Australian movies must feature either:
a) Guy Pearce;
b) Ben Mendehlson; or
c) Heath Ledger (no longer applicable due to recent transition to Hollywood)
*****
Torana visited us on the weekend, and brought around mousemats from his work. I think they’re rejects, because they’re novelty mousemats that are filled with water, and have little things floating around in them. Except mine didn’t have any water in it - it had leaked. Adam’s has got a giant water bubble in the middle that doesn’t go away. He must just see us as opportunities to offload factory seconds marketing material in exchange for beer.
Have you ever not eaten something for all your life, simply for the fact that you’ve never tried it because you don’t think you’d really like it? Perfect example of this is watermelon - I didn’t touch it at all until a few years ago. Same with strawberries. I’ve recently re-discovered sauce, dumb as this may sound. I used to be quite sparing with my sauce and only have it when peer-pressured to, but the other night I VOLUNTARILY poured sauce all over some chips. Mmm, sauce. I embrace thee. And soy sauce, you’re up next.
*****
I’m slowly coming to realise that the left side of my body is far superior to my right side. The major drawback to the right side of my body is the blindness in my right eye. But I also seem to have slightly less better hearing in my right ear than my left, plus I’m left handed. Also, my left testicle hangs slightly lower than my right one, which I used to think was a deformity; but have since been informed is common.
Well, you know… they say you’re supposed to learn something new every day. I just did you a favour.
*****
Seeing as Jen’s left, I now have to work her shift as well - eurgh, longer hours. This means getting up at obscene hours like 5.30am. Admittedly, I do get to see the sun rise every morning, which is kinda good. It’s probably really bad that I can’t even remember the last time I saw a sunrise. When I walked outside yesterday morning I couldn’t figure out why everything looked so weird, when I realised it was because I hadn’t seen a sunrise for so long.
I found the phoenetic alphabet on the internet and printed it up to use at work. (You know, when you’re spelling things out and you say ‘a for alpha, r for romeo’ etc). I was very eager to use the phonetic alphabet, so when I was spelling out order codes over the phone to customers at work, I was going into phoenetic overload.
Me: So the order code for that product is AEEREW. That’s a for alpha, e for echo, e for echo, r for romeo, e for echo, w for whiskey.
Woman on phone: W for what?!
Me: Whiskey.
Woman on phone: So you like your alcohol, eh?
Me: This is the standard phoentic alphabet!
Woman on phone: Yeah right!
But it IS!
*****
I found out yesterday I’m not getting outsourced after all. I’ll still get a new workmate to train, but it won’t be at a funky new location. I’m staying put, apparently.
I’m not so sure I enjoy the job I’m at, but blergh, it pays the bills. I still don’t really know what job I want. Something with creativity involved would be nice; I always seem to be stuck answering phones no matter where I go.
The only thing I’m really genuinely good at is typing - I can type 100 words a minute. If only the computer keyboard was a musical instrument - fuck, I’d be on the top of the charts in no time.
I can’t really think of any jobs that require fast typing speeds besides office admin, though. But perhaps…
Me: Welcome to KFC, what would you like?
Customer: I’ll have a chicken fillet burger, regular fries, and -
Me: And a regular Pepsi!
Customer: Um.. yes.
Me: See, I’d already typed in what you ordered - before you said it!
Customer: Uh… (looks around) Yeah.
Me: That’s just how bloody fast I can type!
The company I work for is holding a big nation-wide meeting soon. I’m trying to convince people I need to come along, simply because it will involve a free plane trip and I can bludge for a few days. It’s being held in Canberra.
I would never want to drive to Canberra, simply because Canberra’s road system is hypnotising. All the roads go around in circles, and if you don’t escape the spiral in time, you end up at Parliament House. No matter what road you were on in the first place.
Then there’s Brisbane. In my experience, Brisbane is full of roads that you just can’t turn off from. I remember my parents driving around Brisbane on holidays desperately trying to exit from a highway we were on.
The Gold Coast? Why, they simply haven’t introduced U-turns into the transit system. Then again, they’re all a bit behind up there.
Sydney is similar to Brisbane in that you always seem to end up on roads you can’t escape from, but you never travel at more than 20 kilometres per hour. Melbourne is fairly easy to navigate, but you always face the danger of colliding with a tram.
Then there’s country towns like Geelong. You’re lucky if you can find a sealed road in the first place.
Oh, not really. I originally come from the Geelong area (which is a very developed town, thank you very much); but it amazes me how many metropolitanites assume every town outside of the state capitals is just full of dirt roads and little else. (Unless, of course, you’re talking about Echuca, which may well have sealed roads, but doesn’t deserve them for being a craphole).
*****
I was at KFC for lunch (oh, so sue me), eating chips; when…
KFC girl: Oh God. Sorry!
Me: What’s wrong?
KFC girl: Um…
Me: Hmm?
KFC girl: (motions downwards with her head)
Me: Ohhh. (I see she’s spilt mayonaisse over my shoe)
KFC girl: I’m so sorry about that.
Me: (mock anger) Grr, so you should be. Now get me some free food.
KFC girl: Oh, oh… I’m sorry, let me get my supervisor…
Me: I was only joking.
KFC girl: Oh.
Me: Sorry.
KFC girl: That’s okay. I can get my supervisor anyway.
Me: It’s alright. I’ll have some free food if that’s what you were getting her for, though.
KFC girl: Well… I was going to, but you’re not angry.
Me: But if you don’t give me something for free, I might get angry. You never know.
KFC girl: But you won’t. And anyway, you wouldn’t have noticed if I didn’t apologise.
Me: Bah.
*****
I noticed there’s a newsagent near my workplace that has recently been dabbling in confectionary sales that extend past the standard breath mint/chocolate bar newsagent offerings. They’ve actually begun to sell lollies out of jars - you know, how you ask for a dollar of those chocolates, and a dollar of those jelly babies… etc. I think they should decide on whether they’re a newsagent or a confectionary outlet, because there’s far too many weirdo combined stores around. Especially in mid-sized country towns.
My favourite kind of businesses are the ones that build on an old petrol station site. They try so hard to mask the fact that the covered area used to house petrol bowsers, but it’s almost impossible to pull off. Nurseries commonly buy old petrol stations, but I’ve even seen an antique store try to convert an old Shell service station. Never quite seems to work, though.
*****
Train driver on my Friday night train: (announces over speaker) Mmmm… clean, clean, clean, clean… it’s sooooo clean. (muffled noises) Ahem! Er… stand clear, train doors closing.
On my bus trip last night, I sat next to a young lady reading that Harry Potter book.
Me: (in an attempt to make conversation, as if it will make up for the cramped seating space) So, uh… Harry Potter, hmm?
Young lady: (looks at me as if I’ve said ‘So, uh… I’m potty, hmm?’ and vacates seat)
Me: Oh.
Young lady: (sits herself next to another girl down the aisle)
The other girl: (quickly stands up angrily, pretends to study an aftershave advertisement and scowls at me down the aisle - as if I was responsible for starting this whole seat-vacating domino effect)
When I got on the bus, I bought my ticket from the driver, but pulled the ticket out of the machine myself. He gave me a strange look, but let it go. I thought I was just being helpful. However, at the next bus stop:
Bus driver: (stands up and calls down the aisle) All the people who got on at the last bus stop, mumble mumble mumble mumble.
It was at that point that everyone who got on at the last bus stop started murmuring as if something was really wrong. I think the driver said something about tickets, but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to pull the ticket out myself. Did he see me pull the ticket out? Maybe there’s more to the ticket machine than I suspected. Maybe there’s a months-long TAFE course in ticketing that I should have taken before I even thought of touching the ticket machine.
At this point, someone who got on at the last stop throws a dirty look back at me, as if I’m in trouble. The people at the next bus stop all climb onto the bus, and one of them sits next to me, and I want to tell him that I think I’ve committed a bus crime. I need to get these things off my chest, you see. But I’m not even sure if I committed the crime or not. Isn’t this the start of insanity, or is that when you question your sanity itself?
I realised that I had been tearing the ticket apart in my hands because I was worried. This made me look even more suspicious and some people across the aisle started staring at me as if I’d done something wrong. Who could have thought tickets could be so difficult?
When I disembarked from the bus, the driver snorted at me. Next time, I get a weekly ticket.