It's almost 5 am. I'm at work. For some odd reason, I've decided to start a thread where we can all vent about work. I don't know if this thread exists elsewhere. If it does, sorry for wasting the space.
Below is a report that I've just finished writing for my boss. Please forgive the writing if it seems confused. I'm very tired.
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February 16, 2005
At 3:15 am, Bill Wren, the gnarly-looking dude renting Room 203, came down to the Front Desk. He said he was locked out of his room. Cheerfully, I asked to see his I.D. so I could make him a new room key. But it wasn’t that simple. Turns out he’d been deadbolted out by the “other person” in the room. I got him to admit to me that this was his girlfriend of six months, Theresa Davis. They’d been fighting, he said, and he just wanted her to leave.
I told Bill to wait at the front desk so I could go up alone and talk to her. That’s what I did. Soon enough, I was knocking on 203’s door. After I explained to the hoarse woman who answered that I was Jeffrey from the Front Desk, she removed the deadbolt and let me in—and, boy, she looked exactly like the type of girlfriend that a guy like Bill Wren could get. (The caliber of girl I’ll be dating in another fifteen years, I’m sure.)
She immediately began telling me how she wouldn’t leave, that she had no car, that she had a huge backpack, and she wasn’t going to lug it through the rain. I explained that the person who rented the room insisted that she leave. She still refused to go.
“Do you live around here?” I asked.
“Yea, I live right down—”
“Well maybe we can ask Bill to give you a ride home.”
“I’m not going to ride with him. He’s been fucking abusing me. Look at this. Look.” She showed me the phone receiver. The cord was missing. “He took the fucking cord and stuffed it in the safe so I couldn’t call for help.”
“Okay then,” I said. “If he’s abusing you, we’ll call the police. Come down with me to the Front Desk and we’ll call—”
“I ain’t fucking leaving this room. I’m a guest.”
“You don’t understand. He’s the one who rented the room.”
“You don’t understand, we rented it together.”
“No, YOU don’t understand,” I said. “The room is in his name. You have to leave. Now come with me to the Front Desk. You will be safe with me, we’ll call the police.”
“I ain’t leaving.”
“You are leaving. If this is a case of abuse, we’ll call the police together.”
“Fuck it, I’ll call my own police, I’ll handle it my way.” She sat down on the bed and acted as if she were picking up a phone—maybe a cell phone—but if there was one, I didn’t see it. “I ain’t fucking leaving. This is my room.”
“You don’t understand, ma’am.”
“No, you don’t understand. He promised me that if we came here, he’d give me a ride home. My kids—”
“No, YOU don’t understand. One way or another, you’re leaving this room. If I have to call the police, I’ll do so, but you’re leaving, end of story.”
She saw my point. “Fine, fuck it, lemme get my stuff. Wait out there.”
“Ma’am, I can’t let you lock the deadbolt again. I’m staying here while you collect your belongings.”
“You can wait in the doorway.”
“Fine,” I said. Whatever it took. She probably needed to gather up her drugs in private, so I moved to the door, out of sight. I opened it.
Guess who was standing there eavesdropping? Bill. I stepped halfway into the hall, keeping the door ajar with my butt, and forced Bill to step back.
“What’s she saying about me?” he said.
My heart was in my throat by this point. My adrenaline was racing. My fingers were glue. I said, “Sir, go wait at the Front Desk.”
“What’s she saying? Is she saying I’m abusing her?”
“Sir, she’s getting her stuff now. Go wait at the Front Desk.”
“But what did she say?”
“She’s leaving! Sir. Now go wait at the Front Desk before I ask you to leave.”
Bill was a pro. He put on a dazed, offended act as he turned away and started walking down the hall. “Ask me to leave?” he said. I swear, I think he murmured “Sheesh” as he exited the building. Whatever, dude.
Anyway, the door swung open and Theresa pushed past me, a mountain-sized backpack weighing down on her tiny white trash body. I had to skip to keep up with her. Guess she changed her mind, because she rushed into the lobby. I was jogging now, because I didn’t want those two alone together. I’d meant to be there to intervene.
Bill wasn’t around. Big surprise. He probably assumed that I was planning on sending the cops after him.
Theresa asked to use the Front Desk phone. I let her call for a ride, but the person wasn’t home, apparently.
Frustrated, Theresa tried to make a second call, all the while telling me, “Bill’s going to pay for my cab, he’s going to pay.”
“And how do you intend to make him do that?” I said.
I don’t remember her response, exactly, but I didn’t like it. I replied, “Who are you calling now?”
I think she said her brother, or her son, or her nephew, or something like that. I didn’t want her to contact some big bruiser to come down here and fix Bill’s clock. I held the phone away from her.
“I’m not letting you bring violence into this hotel, ma’am.”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t do that. That’s not my way. But fucking Bill is going to pay for my fucking ride.”
I didn’t get it, was she planning on taking a cab, or was she calling for someone to come pick her up? Who knows? This woman kept interrupting herself to tell me all about her dysfunctional woes.
I said, “Ma’am, I don’t need to hear your life story. Just make your call.”
In the end, she didn’t make a second call. She did try to tell me how unfair all this was, that she was a guest, and that Bill abused her, blah-blah-blah.
“Ma’am,” I said, almost shouting now, “it doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” she said.
“Yea, to YOU. Not to this hotel. Not to me. My job is to get you out of here and to keep the property safe and quiet.”
At that, she stormed out of the lobby, trailing curse words behind her.
So I took a deep breath, sat down, and began writing this report. Then the phone rang. It was Bill, the coward.
“Is she gone?”
“Where are you?” I said.
“Nearby. Is she gone?”
“Yep, all gone. You can return to your room now.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Sir. Give me a break. Had I only seen direct evidence of his violence, I’d have kicked him out, too. But then I would have definitely had to call the police. I had more important things to do than to wait for the boys in blue. After all, the Fresh Prince of Bell-Air was coming on the TV.
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Work Stories
Being in a service business sucks, don't it!
Work Stories
OMG...i can't remember the last time I laughed that hard. That was amazing. So funny....
As this is a place to bitch about our jobs, I'll refrain from gushing about the amazing, fabulous new job I started on Monday at Zappos.com. I will say, though, we sell great shoes and you should totally check out the site and then call me so I can sell you some... :wink:
Work Stories
I'm so happy for you, Kristen. But I don't want your job to be too good. I'm hoping to fill this thread with horrible work stories. :lol:
Work Stories
Oh, i'm sure i'll have plenty to contribute pretty damn soon. I'm about to be supervisor 8) Tuesday's my first supevisor shift and they've made movie tickets next door $5 NOW... oh yay... what fun i shall have
i do have one particularly stupid story to share of the idiocy of customers, but cannot be stuffed writing it at this ver' momento, sorry, hehe
Work Stories
Follow-up on my Theresa Davis hotel skank story:
Greg and I watched Constantine last week, which meant taking the bus. On our way back, a short, blonde, plump lady climbed on-board. She was carrying a deer antler. She dropped it. My brother picked it up for her. What a guy.
The woman took an upfront seat. I was occupying those sideways oriented chairs, reserved for old people, which meant that this woman could see me very well as I lazily drifted in sleepiness. Every so often, I'd see that she was looking at me, but that didn't force my eyes open. I let the bus carry me along in a lulling world of happiness, as I listened to Greg and the bus driver talking, their voices at a distance of a million miles.
Not far from my neighborhood, the woman changed seats to sit next to me. I could tell by how the bolted-into-the-wall seat shifted when she hit the hard plastic.
"Does this bus go to Valley West?" she asked.
I peeked.
It was Theresa Bell.
My god, my god, she was after me! She was going to kill me! She was armed with antlers. She'd see where I lived!
I played it cool. I pretended not to notice her.
"Excuse me," she said, touching my arm. "Does this bus go to Valley West?"
My god, my god, what could I do? I could get off the bus early and run. I could point to Greg's room and say it was mine! I could wrestle her for those antlers.
I played it cool. I let Greg notice that I wasn't answering. He told the woman, "Yes, it stops in Valley West."
Quickly, I said, "Yes," too, and pretended to go back to sleep, as if I'd been helpful. I mean, come on! Anyone who lives in Arcata knows the bus system. You don't ask where Valley West is unless you live in Eureka, or Frisco, or Mars. This foul woman was trying to confront me.
I thought how cool it would be if, when the woman got off at her stop, I said, "Bye, Theresa." Really piss her off.
Her stop came and went.
The trek through Valley West had be worried. I knew Teresa lived on the other side of the highway, so why she didn't get off when she had the chance? She was riding to my neighborhood. . .to get me. I peeped at her once. She was looking at me, all right. I turned my head and feigned obliviousness. This was bad.
Near the McDonald's, which is two stops before mine, I interrupted my brother's conversation with the bus driver. I leaned closely and whispered, "Let's get off here. Trust me."
Greg nodded all coy-like, suddenly Mr. Secret Agent man. I was his cowardly companion and the chronicler of his tales, Dr. Dink.
As the bus slowed, I sat for a moment, measuring Theresa's intentions. When I got up to leave, she got up. I ushered Greg along. We stepped off the bus, hit the pavement, and crossed two, hardly busy lanes of traffic to make our harrowing escape.
I glanced back when we reached the Carl's Junior. Theresa was still on the bus talking to the driver. Probably killing time. You can't tail someone if you follow too closely. She was a pro at this.
Greg and I walked briskly, and before long we'd reached the safety of home.
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I talked to Karie on the phone later that night. Boy, I was telling her a whopper of a tale! Greg and I were secret agents, on the run from a short, blonde, plump henchman whose martial arts ability was nothing compared to her mad skill with the deadly Deeru Antlers of Southern Humboldt.
Karie interrupted me, as usual, as she always knows how to ruin a story. "Antlers?" she said.
"Yea-yea, you should have seen them."
"And she was blonde? Long blonde hair?"
Wait a minute. "Yea, I said. How did you know?"
Karie started laughing. "Long blonde hair and carrying deer antlers. That's Sheryl. I work with her."
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February 22, 2005
4:00 PM
Dr. Dink Reporting
"Yea, I'm from da streets. I seen it all: rapes, moider, people who don't pay deir cab fare. But this case. . .somethin' about it got to me. Maybe it was just dat the dame got away. She'd live to ride da bus again. Maybe it was dat da Captain is makin' me write dis report. Maybe it's dat I don't like writin' incomplete reports. Maybe I'll just file dis one under another case of mistaken identity and forget about it. Maybe I'll see her again, I dunno. But when I do, I'm gonna whistle. Others know her as Sheryl, but she and I know: her name is Theresa. She's always Theresa to me."
Okay, so my girlfriend's co-worker lives in Eureka and LOOKS like Theresa Davis. Thank God I was never asked to pick her out of a police lineup. Sherl probably thought she recognized me; that's why she kept trying to get me to talk. So it was a big silly misunderstanding. It could have happened to anybody. I ask you:
Is it normal getting on a bus carrying an antler?
I think not.
Work Stories
I think you're just a weirdness magnet, Sid. :D
Work Stories
Here's a short one. It's now 10:15 a.m. I just woke up after getting to bed at 5 a.m. I came downstairs to find Greg, still in his work clothes (he works graveyards like me), at the computer. My eyes hadn't quite opened yet. I said, "Morning," and moved into the kitchen to make toast. I thought it odd that Greg didn't say good morning back, so I returned to the living room. He was sitting in his computer chair, hand on his mouse, a web page loaded. . .
And snoring away.
[I did some dishes. That woke him up. He went upstairs, and now I have his computer. Yay me]
Work Stories
Not really a work story per se, but....
As some of you are no doubt aware, we've closed twice now due to snow. The first time was interesting. I left the house at 5:15. No snow. After getting coffee at 7-11 (hey, it promised to be a long day), it started. So my first thought, naturally, was this:
"We know how the University is. They like to make all the money they can, and we aren't playing Duke tonight. Maybe they'll close at 1 or 2pm, if stuff actually sticks."
Got to work at 5:40. Made coffee for everyone else. I then proceeded, as usual, to print the overdue notices and the first copy of the recalls.
At which point, the University closed.
Which meant, basically, that I got to walk an hour in the cold for nothing.
Work Stories
That is a bitch. It's similar to the last time I came into work to find another clerk ready to take over. I'd screwed up my schedule. So I had to go home and come back eight hours later. Just being at work for a few minutes is the same as not having time off.
Work Stories
A scrawny, unkempt guy walked into the lobby the other morning, during continental breakfast hours. He pulled his luggage on wheels behind him, set them by the couch. Looked like he was about to check out of the hotel. But instead, he sat at the payphone and called our central reservations. He began bitching the reservation clerk out for something or other. Don't know what. Don't care. He was a rude little man.
After hanging up the phone, he approached me. Okay, I thought, here we go. But he wasn't rude. He was friendly. Too friendly. He began talking my ear off while I was trying to get my work done.
Now, I couldn't be rude to the man. He was a customer. But I wasn't going to lie to him either (AND HOW EASY IT WOULD HAVE BEEN TO HAVE JUST LIED; BUT YOU KNOW MY RULE). So I didn't fall back on the ol' "Oh! I have a phone call I have to make" ploy. I continued counting my till, nodding at everything he said.
He kept trying to get me to read books he liked. He quoted grand, lofty titles, stuff that Adam might read, but I doubt this guy had read a single one of them. He kept trying to get me to say I'd read one. Of course, I couldn't lie. So I said, "I doubt I'll bother. Everyone has different tastes."
He wouldn't leave me alone. It was almost 7:00 a.m. My boss would be coming in to relieve me. I didn't want her to get an earful of this guy. In a fit of heroics, it occurred to me that I could set a wakeup call to go off in the back office. Then Lydia, my boss, would have an excuse to leave the front desk, if he were bugging her to no end.
Lydia walked in to relieve me. I whispered a warning about the guy, who was already closing in like a great white shark.
Lydia wasn't impressed. She looked at me like I were a hunk of bloody chum, floating in the water. She whispered back, "I know this guy. He's homeless."
8O
Work Stories
I got this call at 1:30 a.m. I answered, “Quality Inn Arcata, Jeffrey speaking, how may I help you?”
“Yes, Jeffrey, this is Eku from [Name of Travel Agent Company]. How are you today?”
“I am fine, thanks. What’s up?”
“Yes, I am fine,” she said, clearly working on some higher level of communication, high up in the clouds.
“So what can I do for you?” I said.
She faltered, then replied, “You have guest in hotel of name Murro. M-U-R-R-O.”
I checked my computer. He wasn’t in-house. So I checked my no-show list, next, and there he was, Larry Murro. He never arrived to claim his room. His reservation was waiting.
“I’m sorry,” I told the travel agent, whose syrupy accent placed her in—God, I dunno—Mandura, India or some such place. “This guest didn’t show up.”
“Yes, so I would be speaking with Mr. Murro.”
“No, he’s not in-house.”
“I see. So I would be patched through on the telephone.”
Gawd. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but he’s not in-house. I can’t patch you through. He didn’t show up.”
“I would be speaking with Mr. Murro. First name: Larry. M-U-R—”
“-R-O,” I said. “Larry. But he’s not here. I can’t patch you through to a man who’s not in-house. He never showed up. He’s a no-show.”
Silence. Then: “I would be speaking with—”
“He’s not in this hotel, ma’am. Not here.”
“Yes,” she said. “Would you place on hold?”
“On hold? You want me to place you on hold?”
“Would you place on hold?”
“Why would I place you on hold. I don’t understand.”
I realized she wanted to place me on hold. She was talking to Larry Murro on the other line.
“Yes, yes,” I said, “absolutely, you may place me on hold.”
My ear filled with elevator music. After a minute, Eku returned.
“Jeffrey? I would be speaking with Larry Murro on other line. He would be guest in your hotel. He find wrong hotel. I sending him to you.”
“Fine, great,” I said, “I’d appreciate that.”
“So he coming.”
“Wonderful. Anything else I can do for you?”
“No.”
“Well, thank you for calling, Eku.”
“Yes,” she said, “thank you for calling,” and hung up.
AAAAARGH. I know that modern humans are supposed to be tolerant and all, but please! Either speak English or don’t call. Eku had interrupted my cigarette break (a good thing, I suppose, huh?).
It’s like the other day when I was at home. The phone rang. My brother picked it up. Silence reigned for at least thirty seconds before he handed it over. I cringed inside. I knew it was going to be a telemarketer. I should have just lied and said I wasn’t Jeff Haines, but. . .well, I don’t lie anymore, if I can help it. (And it ain’t easy!)
The accosting voice said, “Mr. Jeffrey Haines, something something something.” We’re talking an accent right out of Buddha’s butt. “Something something something something.”
I said, “Excuse me?”
“Mr. Jeffrey Haines.”
“I’m Jeffrey. What’s up?”
I’d love to give a transcription of the tragedy that passed for a conversation. I can’t. I could barely understand the man. Let’s just call him Apu. Apparently, Apu worked for my credit card company.
Apu went on and on, reading from cue cards. Every once and a while he’d clearly state the words “seven thousand dollars” and “out of work,” and that got my heart beating.
“I’m not out of work,” I said.
Silence. Apu must have been checking his flow-chart for the proper response, a response that, when delivered, sounded like gibberish. I kept replying, “I don’t understand,” and “Excuse me?” and “Come again.” Finally, Apu deemed the communication barrier insuperable.
He said, “Please hold. I get my supervisor.”
Great. Great, you do that. Finally, someone who can speak English. Someone who can explain to me all about me being out of work and $7000.00 on my credit card!
The phone clicked. Apu’s supervisor took up the line. Right on! I was so relieved.
She said, “Mr. Jeffrey Haines.”
I said, “Yes!” just so, so happy. “Yes, I am Jeffrey Haines.
“Mr. Haines,” she said, “something something something something. . .”
AAAAAARGH.
Work Stories
At long last, I got another job - part-time receptionist at Lynn Animal Hospital. Also, I appear to be the most serious person. Well, sort of; at least, at the moment, the least sarky. But that's probably because I haven't become comfortable enough to let the sarkiness out.
Some choice remarks have already been made.
Listed mom as a refrence on my application - which Dr. Carmen never got to read until my interview. His one remark on the application?
"For years known for your mom, you should have written `3`."
Much fun already ensues. "You must be Adam," some of the girls say on first meeting me. Naturally, I stand out. Aside from Carmen and Zeimer, I'm the only guy there. Seriously.
I've been assured that I will accumulate lots of fun stories to tell. Because apparantly, we get some crazy people. Like the gentleman who wanted to know if the flea killer he gives to cats will work on him.
On an unrelated note, a crazy prof story: I ran into Dr. Manekin on the way home. He was walking to campus. The following is the greeting which I got: "He's alive! He's not a ghost!"
Work Stories
Working at Pac Sun you get a few good stories out of it, if not some decent discounted clothes. Anyways...
So one night it's myself, my manager Stephen (who's an older version of me basically) and this one hot chick Meghan working. It's a slow night, as are most weeknights at the mall.
Enter the mall rats. I shit you not, they were right out of the fucking movie. It was as if Kevin Smith had found these guys and paid them to dress like Jay and Silent Bob and just walk around Potomac Mills.
So they come into our store, all of us know fully well that they're not going to buy anything, so Stephen who's up front says hi as per our store rules and lets them be about their way. Silent Bob goes off to look at the tees, so I have to tell him about our special, 3 for $29.99, he just nods and goes about his business. Jay, makes a bee line for Meghan at the register and starts up a conversation about the jewelry in the case. I know damn well what he's doing, because I did it all the time. I'll just say she's very well endowed...in all the right places and leave it at that.
This kid starts askin for her number and shit, and I'm close enough to hear it, because I had to be near the register and the front and still see the back because Stephen went in the back room for a sec. I'm eyeballin this dweeb (who by the way has a serious case of buck teeth, I'm talkin Bugs Fuckin' Bunny here) and waitin for Meghan to just slap the punk and tell him to get the hell out. She just politely says no, but he keeps insisting, and breaks it off to say she has to go to the back, walks by me, and tells me to take care of this guy.
I had been workin out four-five times a week and I had been absolutely waiting to use my force on somebody. So I come up behind Jay and put my hand down on his shoulder kinda hard and tell him "Look pal, if you want to come in here and shop for clothes, that's fine, but if all you're gonna do is ogle one of my fellow employees and hit on her, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." So him and Silent Bob leave. I go back to sensorin' and hangin' my box of clothes thinking the matter was over.
Nope. They come back. I give Stephen a look that says "Please let me throw one of them out, literally, please, pleaaaase let me do this." Unfortunately I don't get to do it, and Stephen tells him the same thing that I did, except he adds in the dreaded threat of mall security! Oooooh...scary! They leave again.
Guess what? Yeah, they come back again near closing time. I'm about ready to go :2gunfire: and :snipersmile: on their asses. I grab Jay and Silent Bob by the back of their shirts and move them toward the door and say, "You come here again, and you won't have mall security to deal with, you'll have me to deal with, so git!" I throw them out and pull down the gate so we can begin cleaning.
They're waiting outside. They're either mentally retarded...or...yeah, they're just mentally retarded. I yell out, "I'm callin mall security right now!" and I do, but they can't do anything about it. So I goes up to the gate and says "Guess what bub? Today's my lucky day. Mall security can't come down and deal with you guys, so I get to have some fun." I quickly reach down to open the gate and have it halfway up, but they're already gone, so I just close the gate back up and get back to work. Stephen asks me, "Enjoy that?" "Oh yeah, like Crichton messin with Scorpy enjoyment." Course I get a big thank you from Meghan out that, so that absolutely made my night.
Thus ends the story of the annoying mall rats.
Work Stories
Haha, everytime you mentioned "Meghan", I was like "what?", especially since I spell it in the same way.
Sounds like you had fuuuun :P
Work Stories
It's Wednesday. I can't sleep. And I'm having a terrible asthma attack. So, fun story time!
---------------------
Yesterday, I'm sitting in reception. Just doing what I usually do - sign the guy in at the desk, hand his chart to a tech, then I go back to preparing the charts for the next day. Everything went according to plan until I hear Danielle and Nina laughing.
Henry, the dog, came in - and walked around - off-leash. He was not only hanging out in the reception area, but now decided to greet me. Henry proceeded to run between the three of us until such time as Dr. Zeimer called him back.
Then there was the little black and tan Chihuahua who was overly protective of his mother. Nina waved to him. He yelled at her.
Work Stories
Well, about an hour yesterday got to be hectic. It all starts with an animal who needs a refill of Denosyl. Fortunately, Dr. Carman was standing right next to me at the time - it was Dr. Kressler who last saw the animal in question, and she wasn't in, so I could get him to OK the refill. That gets taken care of. I start the routing slip and invoice, print labels.
Then the X-Ray arrives; which means that I can't get the medicine, because I think it's in the place where Dr. C is going to have to go to develop said X-Rays.
At which point, he gets another call. This time from a lady looking for lab results. So I go back there to hunt, and Carman is looking a little annoyed - he asks what's up, I tell him, he gives me a few places where they could be hidding. But he doesn't have time to speak to her then; it's kind of hard to when you're putting on lead vests, and strapping a cat to an X-Ray machine.
His next appointment made a call even harder to take. A bird. Dr. Carman hates exotics. He's also the only one who does them. It just happens that this bird needed a wing clip and nail trim.
The phone rings in the middle of this bird yelling loud enough to be heard in the waiting room. Guess the bird didn't like to be held.
It's someone calling for her Heartworm results. She assumed everything came back negative, because nobody called her back. It's not really our job to call you back, though I didn't mention that. So I pull it: we now do a 3DX for the HW. Tests for HW, Lyme, and Ehrlicia.
It was positive for Lyme. This means: the doc who saw the animal will want to talk to her. Just my luck, and his, it's Dr. Carman.
So I go to talk to Ziemer to get his advice - he might be able to offer more. "That's Dr. Carman's case, so he'll have to talk to her, but he's in with the bird right now. Just tell her that it came back positive for Lyme, but it's nothing to get too excited about, and we normally give antibiotics for about 3 weeks and that usually takes care of it. But she'll have to wait for Dr Carman to call her back, or call back on Friday since that's the next time he's in."
So, I pass it on, and do like I planned on doing: wait for the bird to shut up, and go see Carman. Unless it's his wife, I know he won't be much help when a bird is sqwaking. And that if it's his wife, we always, always interupt him. Even in surgury.
Next development: Carman is out, and I start to fill him in. His reply? "I actually already talked to her about it. I fill in all of the clients about it at the appointment, but she was kind of drunk at the time."
At which point I get up front, and Dr. Ziemer immediately catches me. "Hey Adam, you put the blood out yet?"
"Not yet."
"Oh good. I just wanted to let you know that I put another vial in the fridge." (Which is why I normally wait until the last appointment to do that).
And of course, all through this, I have a guy on and off hold. Who lost his connection twice - and the time that I did get to go back to him, I pick up on line 2, ask if he can hold; go back to line 1, find a dialtone. Fuck. So I quickly fill out the paperwork for the woman buying food in front of me.
The phone rings. Line 1.
Pick up. Can you hold? Sure.
Line 2: empty.
Line 1: Thanks for holding, how can I help you?
"Yeah, sorry about calling so many times, I just lost the connection twice."
Crap.
And here I thought I was putting different people on hold for about three minutes.
Work Stories
I hate people.
Particularly, here's what I hate: when you haven't seen us for a year, call up after that time, and ask to speak to the doctor. Then you don't help out reception by doing things like giving any kind of question to take back; standard procedure to ask. So I pass off the call to Ziemer, with him having the chart and neither of us knowing what to expect; he thankfully shows up with meds.
Only for us to be annoyed later. She comes in to pick up the meds, and decides that she wants to do a consultation. Lucky for her that Ziemer already finished with the 10 Pitt Bull puppies who also came in. So we stick her in an exam room, and thankfully get her seen and out of there. I find myself now hoping more that her pooch recovers, not so much for the pooch's sake, but because I have a feeling that none of us want to have to talk to her again. Especially the doctor.
On the upside, however: Puppies!
I even remember when the mom came in. The appointment was listed as "Pregnant?" Meaning that the owners had no idea; like the big belly with lots of little lumps wasn't giving it away. We all took one look at her and thought, "Yeah, she's very preggers."
Work Stories
I finally have the distance to tell this story.
Friday, June 10 - I get a call from Jemel, asking if I can cover for her on Saturday. She offers to pick up some of my weekday hours this week to cover for me. Good deal, it gives me two evenings off. Naturally, I take it.
Yeah, that was smart.
I get in early, enough time to setup. Have to wait for the computers to setup, and look at the schedule: there are two euthanasias that day. Fuck me.
So, lots of people show up. Typical saturday. I have to finish the paperwork that they didn't do on Friday, so we can get a weight estimate, ask the bite question, and have them sign before sending them back for the euth.
Then the phone rings, maybe 10am.
It's an old client. She's been bringing her dog Sunny there for a while... who has not been eating. She wants to put him down today. Actually, she wanted Ziemer to go out to her house that day, since he said he would be willing to do a house call. Just a few problems:
1) Z was off till Tuesday
2) Dog was doing really bad
3) Animal in question is really heavy and can't walk
4) Even if he could get to Tuesday without suffering (yeah right), that's no guarantee Z could MAKE said housecall on Tuesday
So, check with Dr. Kressler (hereafter, all docs are called by Initial: Z, K, and C for Carman). K has me tell her to try to get Sunny in before lunch, and we'll work them in. She calls around for help, and then when she gets back, starts vacillating; ask K for advice, and pass stuff on, and try to help her.
Long story short: you have to bring Sunny in now.
Three euthanasias.
In between all of this, another lady calls: Alexander, her dog, is seeing the ghost. Meaning, he's getting ready to go. She wants to euth him today. As usual, she can't carry him. I check about seeing him; K wants her to call back when she can get him in, and give her a few other local animal hospitals as a just in case.
Why?
C left early. His wife also called while he was in the bathroom, so I could have C mad at me for putting his wife on hold and getting him yelled at, or knocking on the bathroom and annoying him that way. Our solution: get K to talk to his wife, and she knocks on the door.
Mwahahaha! Problem solved.
But back to the story.
They call back later: her husband is home. Check with K. We have enough time, so she has me tell them that if they can get him in before closing, he can be seen.
Four euthanasias.
What about the scheduled ones?
Sunny showed up at the same time as another one, which brough like 20 people, all crying and breaking down. One woman even lost it and had to go vomit in the bathroom.
The other scheduled one showed up late for his appointment, and got annoyed that we were trying to stay on schedule.
Freaky Fact: after an animal is euthanised and the heart stops, automatic motor functions continue until after the brain finishes dying. This means that you could step into the room and find a dead dog steadily breathing, or even twitching.
....here's to hoping for a new job soon.
Work Stories
As everyone knows (I hope), I'm now doing Tech Support for W/B HIDTA. It's rather fun, getting to know the cops personally and all, but the NOC's director (Bob) has been being run ragged lately. To the point where he forgot to hit send on an e-mail to me, so I offered to help out if I could. Now, I'm looking for quotes for him on a server we got approval for.
Sounds easy enough, right? Well it is... until you try to find a rack on Dell's website. Go ahead, I dare you. You can find all of the peripheral equipment you like: rails, that's easy. Monitor setup, that's easy. Hell, you can even find a door. However, after several hours of searching, I gave up and just called them.
After an hour on hold, I got through to ascessories. Yes, an hour. Asking the nice gentleman for help, telling him what I wanted....
It turns out that racks are not considered ascessories. The racks themselves are considered, get this, part of the system. So I had to track down the representative (thank the gods I knew where the funding was comming from, so I knew which state to contact - I swear, we have more lines of funding than you can shake a stick at), and left a message. I'm debating trying to do another search or just waiting ot see how long it takes to get an e-mail back.
But still...
Racks are not ascessories now.
Whopee!
Work Stories
More fun: Shu has been playing with the proxy server. By which I mean blocking certain e-mails (including several complaints of people unable to get stuff from, say, DHS - oops) and a number of websites. Now, this has caused a number of problems. The most amusing was that this morning, we couldn't get our timesheets.
No, I take that back.
The most amusing one was a person who called because of a blocked video attachment, supposedly for work. Shu gets told about it and promptly replies: "Yeah, that's just porn." Apparantly, some of the DEA people have been passing it around.... and he's already blocked hundreds of these.
Keep in mind: Shu put the blocking software in place Monday.
That's this monday.
The fun doesn't stop there. Congress Critters show up tomorrow. Some senatorial staffers come in for a meeting and get a tour - our appropriations bill must be comming up again somewhere - which means that we had to clean... at least somewhat. It's a fine line between our usual "meh" attitude and looking like we do work, apparantly (really, those machines sitting by the cubicles weren't harming anyone). Worst of all, I had to put my rubber band gun away. :(
Work Stories
If any of you have ever talked to me and thought, "you know, Adam is wierd," I'm about to tell you about someone from Dorsey road who I've made fast friends with. You won't think that I'm the wierd one any more. All in all, we wound up spending 2 and a half or three hours talking, since they're construction work down at Dorsey, and Howell can't get to his computer... which also meant that he couldn't get to his e-mail.
So he was up there chatting, and we'd also yacked for a while down in reception before he wet to talk to the director, who he helps out with various things. "What does this have to do with oddities?" you ask.
We started out discussing topics of mysticism, the conscious universe, and the ways in which science is now beginning to say many of the exact same things that mystics have been saying for millennia. Right down to the change that the principle building block is no longer matter but energy, and energy's principle guiding force is something called consciousness.
Which means that you have a couple of mystics (Howell's word for us) talking about these things. And when you have a Christian and a Pagan agreeing with each other enough, things start to get fun. Especially when we began talking about the mystical element to the war on terror. Because when you recognise how terrible the world really is, you have two options: go deeper and become a transformed being, or become a jihadist and "let god sort 'em out."
This segued into us discussing the occult in World War II, Hitler's astronomers, Churchill's Astronomers, the Spear of Longinus, the secret Nazi mystical doctrines within the upper echelons. A friend of Hitler's (back when he was still Adolph Schickelgruppe) who had nothing more to do with him when, after not seeing him for several years, noticed that his old friend had aligned with a malignant power. One which was never given a name like Loki or Lucifer, but we all know the type of power; the imagry is really secondary, anyway.
Somehow, we got back to current events. I found (at his request) over the past few days a huge stack of stuff for him. Hopefully Howell will get to pick this all up in a few days. Unfortuantely, I don't think I can post most of what I'm doing for him. We can't go into specifics over the phone when talking, so sure as hell can't post it over the internet.
Anyway.... we weren't done with oddities quite yet. We got into UFOs a bit. There's some wierd things there as well, and among the myriad of book recomendations, got a couple to check out from there. Have some of them on the way. Including stuff on the paranormal - not that spoon bending shit, the real stuff.
But there's a point to all of this: I've been bitten by the analyst bug thanks to him. And he's already made remarks about recomending me for a position.
Work Stories
Why does the idea of Adam being a professional mystic/philosopher terrify the willies out of me?
I am reading the novel Quicksilver by Neal Stephenson which may have something to do with it.
Adam, anyone you meet that is stranger than you is in and of itself an accomplishment 0X
Work Stories
Thanks! :)
Though... you left out conspiracy theorist from the list of titles. ;)
Work Stories
Yes but you aren't a professional conspiracy theorist (yet)
Work Stories
Almost.
Howell is stopping by the office again on Tuesday, especially since he's interested in some Iraq and Railgun info I found. The information which is both available and open-source is utterly amazing. Between Howell and Bob finally taking advantage of me (working on something that ONDCP - Office of National Drug Control Policy - requested), get to be rather busy.
But anyway... last phone conversation, Howell told me that he passed my name on to a contact at Homeland Security. The one before that (when telling about some stuff I found) he goes, "Yeah, we have to get you out of there. Go to nsa.gov...."
But to get to work stories....
Something went wrong on Friday. We still aren't sure what, but all the sudden, Erik comes running out of his office. No, not excited because England scored, or being chased by Jose. This time, it was the stench... which very quickly permeated the entire floor. Even I could smell it.
Me, Scott, Erik, and Sergei all got chased off the floor by it.
Thankfully, it all cleared up.
Earlier that same day: Scott almost started doing cartwheels. Why? None of us are sure. Don't think even Erik knows. What we do know is that at the last moment before starting, he remembered "oh, that's right... I'm not nearly athletic enough to do that."
Work Stories
The following is what happens when you let a Russian drive -
Erik: What the fuck are you doing, man? She has the right of way in a crosswalk. Even has a kid, for Christ's sake.
Sergei: I didn't see her there. Walk faster, motherfucker.