Life sucks and then you die. It was a joke on car bumper stickers when I was in high school. I never thought at forty that it would turn out to be my fucking mantra. There was a time when I was a young man in my twenties and I considered myself to be the lead character in my very own novel. Later, I mentally changed that role to a comic relief character in someone else's novel. Whose novel? Who knows? Not mine. Now, here I am, forty years old and I don't know if my life even equates to being an extra in a movie. Who am I? Fat guy #3 in copy shop. Yes, somehow I have grown fat. I'm not obese. It's not like I could be a contestant on The Biggest Loser but man oh man, I'm a good fifty pounds heavier than I was when I graduated high school. They say it happens to all of us. It doesn't. It just happens to some of us and for that matter, who the hell are they?
More specifically, I am Robert Daggle, assistant manager at Con-Kor Copies and More! The exclamation was added by some corporate weasel in marketing who apparently thought that somehow adding the exclamation after the word more was a fucking stroke of genius. In reality, it is the kind of unimaginative, marketing technique created by douche-bags with little imagination and then copied by even bigger douche-bags with even less imagination.
The Con represents Continental Copies, which was a small copy company started in East Lansing, Michigan somewhere in the mid-70s. Somehow they survived the onslaught of Kinko's long enough to merge with Korina Distribution Systems Inc. of West Memphis, Arkansas. Apparently, KDSI constitutes the More! part of Con-Kor. I am the assistant manager of store #572 known as the East Orlando location.
If you think the copy business is glamorous then you obviously suffer from a serious crack/meth addiction. If you think the copy business is relaxing then you are simply, severely uninformed. Our clients are mostly comprised of a bunch of procrastinators who waited until the last minute to complete whatever project they were assigned and then when their final product predictably comes out looking like shit, it is we who get the blame. More specifically it is usually me.
The manager of store #572 is the king of all douche-bags. Randy James is twelve years my junior. He is the laziest sack of shit to ever manage anything, anywhere, at anytime. Okay, I am sure there have been worse managers out there but he is definitely in the bottom hundredth percentile. So far, his greatest accomplishment is using his position to bang Misty Shallo. Misty is a nineteen year old copy clerk. As a copy clerk, she sucks. As a physical specimen of a woman, she is a freaking knockout. She's five foot six inches, probably about 110 lbs, dark tan skin, and really fake, platinum blonde hair. Nice tits too. I'm sure they are nothing more than skin covering plastic bags filled with saline solution but they sure as hell look great. Randy is so fucking good at being a douche-bag that I don't even think he and Misty are a couple. To Randy she is basically nothing more than a glorified fuck buddy until something better comes along.
Before you feel sorry for Misty, hold off. Misty is a number one, with a shiny, silver bullet, bitch. Most of my dealings with Misty are Misty ignoring me whenever I tell her to do something. I am of course powerless to do anything about her insubordination because of her "status" with Randy. Beyond the simple insubordination, I also have to deal with Misty constantly laughing at me behind my back. Frequently, whenever I leave an area, I am accompanied with little evil giggles coming from Misty and whomever Misty is talking to. Misty's derisive laugh has become my damn theme song. I tried being nice with Misty but Misty wasn't having it. I tried reprimanding Misty but then Randy called me into his office to have a "little chat." Apparently, Misty reported to Randy that I was deliberately giving her a hard time. I tried to explain to Randy what was going on. It's not that Randy didn't believe me, I'm sure he knew I was telling the truth, in the end though he just didn't give a fuck. I think he would have fired me long ago but if I go, who the hell is he going to get to do all the work? In the end, I have resulted to simply ignoring Misty but of course, like the proverbial bully, her actions towards me just get worse and worse. I'm not someone who would come in to work and open up on everyone around with an Uzi but I have to say, working with Randy and Misty gives me an inkling as to why someone else would.
"Bob, do you have the reports ready for my meeting. It starts in fifteen you know."
Fuck you Randy! "Sure thing Randy. They are on my desk. I'll go get them for you."
"Great, thanks. . . can you also get me a cup of coffee? Three sugars, heavy on the powdered cream."
"Sure thing Randy." I can hear Misty's giggles in the back. I see Randy give her a quick smile. I'm so glad I can be Randy's punching bag as part of some sort of sick foreplay for those two.
I go and get the coffee. I am tempted to spit in it but at the end of the day, as much as I would like to be the guy who does things regardless of the consequences, I have realized that it just isn't me. This job sucks but I desperately need it and with this shit economy, jobs are really hard to find especially for a fat, forty year old with a four year degree from Rollins College in Theatre History. A degree I might add that I am still paying on and somehow still owe more on that what I loaned out originally twenty years prior. Don't ask. Yes, it's possible.
I bring the coffee and reports to Randy. Randy is the quintessential ex-high school football player. His best days are behind him. He knows it. I know it. Misty doesn't have a fucking clue. He's overweight but not fat. I'm sure he once had the golden, thick hair of an athlete or a politician but as a fellow balding man, I can spot the thinning hair. I know he secretly uses Rogaine and other modern day snake oils in an attempt to fight a losing battle. In a way we are brothers, kindred spirits in a way. In all other ways, he is a fucking douche-bag that I have the misery of working for.
Misty is walking out when I get to Randy's office, she gives me a look of pure hatred as she passes me. Really, what the fuck did I ever do to you other than breathe?
"Thanks Champ." He says. I turn to go and I am stopped by Randy.
"Whoa! Wait a second compadre. Where are the highlighted parts?"
I turn around with dread, pick up the report and show him the highlighted areas.
"No, no, no. I wanted the color copier ticks highlighted in green and the B&W's in yellow not all in yellow. Really Bob, I thought I was pretty clear with you about this last time."
I want to shout at Randy. I want to tell him to stop calling me Bob, Bobby, Compadre, Champ, and whatever other name he can think of in his seemingly endless efforts to demean me. I want to tell him that he never mentioned he wanted the color copy ticks in green. I want to go find the email in which he just stated he wanted the ticks highlighted for him but I know that nothing good will come from insubordination. All I am left with is a simple . . .
"Sorry Randy. I will make sure that I get it right for next time."
"Be sure that you do sport. You know you can't just keep working like you have your head up your ass all the time. It's time to pull that puppy out, wipe the shit from your eyes and say good fucking morning to the world."
Fucking idiot! "Sure thing Randy. Again, I'm sorry." Randy gives me a dismissive wave and picks up the phone to start his teleconference with corporate. I turn out the door just in time to see the supremely, smug look of Misty.
I spend the rest of my day simply trying to avoid the two of them. I think there are employees who have some sympathy for me and what I go through but clearly none of them give me an ounce of respect. For the most part, no one wants to get too close to me for fear of aligning themselves on the side of the powerless.
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