First-Rate Fix

It should have been obvious when I landed the job that problems were slated to arise. It was inevitable. The first clue presented itself at the interview.

Now, math has never been my forté. Sure, I aced trig and calculus in high school. Aced world economics at university. But these were eraser-chewing experiences which demanded ponderous effort. Throw me a math question which demands a quick answer and I'm lost.

The district manager, Mr. Broadhurst, who handled the interview, was a bulky caricature of King Kong. The tweedy suit he wore would have looked better on the ape, and the cigar he smoked filled the room with a pungent aroma which set me to sneezing. My eyes watered.

It was a sneak attack to ask me a simple math question while I was busy, surreptitiously, trying to find Kleenix for the nose problem which generally follows a series of sneezes.

My answer, though, gave him pause. A child could have deduced that when Broadhurst's pebble-sized eyes suddenly enlarged to the diameter of tripple-egged omelets.

His bullhorned voice would have chased freighters out of a harbor. "Is that your answer?"

Between the sniffles, which I hoped would delay the nose dribbles, and several more sneezes, it was hard to focus on an answer. Finally, I managed to squeek, "Without pencil and paper, Sir, it was the best I could do. If you'll give me a minute, I'm sure I can extrapolate those numbers further."

"Not necessary," he barked. "You've already X-TRAP-O-LATED a simple answer into a complex solution. I've never had an applicant answer the question before, then proceed to outline all the possible variances. You're hired."

Darn. I wish I'd known I was doing that. Could have saved myself from a sneeze or two.

The following events, clearly illustrate how a series of miscommunications can alter a mortal's job performance.

As Broadhurst escorted me to my new office, his arm waved expansively towards a hulking machine which occupied three-quarters of the room. "Besides, you're the only applicant who knew how to operate a teletype machine."

A teletype machine? What the heck is that?

Darn, if those application forms won't get a body into trouble! I mean, if you accidently checked the boxes in front of tele and type, you'd expect a talking typewriter, wouldn't you?

"Er . . . it looks new, Sir."

Broadhurst positively beamed. "It is new. They delivered it this morning."

"Uh . . . did it come with a book of instructions, Sir?"

There was clearcut suspicion in Broadhurst's eyes as they swept over me from hairdo to sandlestraps. "Why would you need an instruction book?"

"Er . . . the . . . um . . . ah . . . one I'm used to was a dinosaur, Sir. Antiquated. A brand-spanking new puppy like this one has updated functions, doesn't it? It would be easier to make the transition from old to new if I study the manual overnight. They didn't shortchange you and forget to include a manual, did they Sir . . . ?"

Broadhurst strode over to the machine, slipped the booklet out of its shiny plastic envelope, and slapped it into my outstretched hand.

"See you first thing in the morning." Every word sounded sharp and scissored.

Now, a five thousand, seven-hundred-and-twenty-three page manual isn't that difficult to memorize overnight, but you sure have to prop the old eyelids open with forklifts the next day.

As it turned out, the eyelid-forklift-prop would be a necessary fixture in the routine for months to come. That overzealous graphite pencil — the one which marked all those empty squares on the application form — caused me a lot of overtime. Wish it hadn't overstated my abilities.

After six months, I was exhausted. Decided to turn in my resignation. Perhaps, if I worded it properly, Broadhurst would fire me.

A typed letter, slipped onto Broadhurst's desk while he was out to lunch, should have done the trick, right?

But no, it was inevitable that problems were slated to arise.

First, I smelled the cigar smoke. Then, I noticed my carefully-worded resignation dancing madly in midair. Next, I heard the boomerang voice say: "Come into my office and we'll discuss this."

What's to discuss? I wondered as my sudden sneezes squirreled meekly behind Broadhurst's retreating silhouette . . . down the hallway . . . past his secretary, Greta . . . and into his office.

Though every word of that marathon fifteen-minute chat remains crisp in memory, suffice it to say, my tongue copied the scurrilous activities which that graphite pencil had employed when it overstated my abilities.

I walked out of Broadhurst's office dazed and shaken.

Greta was still at her desk, busily shuffling papers from the out-basket to the one marked in, and rearranging precariously stacked files. Her nervous industry served to disguise avid curiosity. "Good news?"

My chin rotated in a circle. It tried to nod yes, then no, simultaneously. "Guess so."

"What happened?"

"Got a five-hundred dollar bonus and a three-dollar-an-hour raise."

"But that is good news!" Greta's wide smile revealed a smidgeon of Canary-Red lipstick smudged across the metal bridge on her false tooth.

"Not if you're trying to get fired so you can collect unemployment," I replied tonelessly.

Darn it. Doing a job well if you're going to do it at all has its disadvantages.
First-Rate Fix © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan