Training Day - A 30 minute slice of SpamSubmitted by Spam at 2006-01-20 21:23:01 EST
Rating: 1.92 on 35 ratings (35 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
“So if you just double click on the purple icon, and then add the reference number from the bottom of the page in the box marked ‘page reference number’ everything should be okay. You then have to move to the next screen, so what you do is press the button marked ‘next screen’. Any questions?”
The flurry of hands that shoot up from my fellow trainees gives rise to an instinctive grimace and I let out a barely audible groan. I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this shit again.
The seven of us are gathered around Michaela’s miniscule monitor as she sits with her back to us, laboriously explaining what it is we’ll have to be doing in what will no doubt turn out to be a few mind-numbing hours time. I’ve positioned myself at the back of the group and whilst this means I can’t see the screen through the crowd of minions, I realised when she started mumbling that this wouldn’t really matter.
That was Two Fucking Hours ago.
It’s a telemarketing job… how fucking hard can it be? Just give me a list of questions, a list of numbers and a phone and then fuck off and leave me to it. But I guess not everybody is as clever as me.
Certainly not the sort of dumbasses that still raise their fucking hand before they ask a question. And to somebody who has their back turned to them, no less.
Michaela resumes her tutorial without looking around, her class’ silence confirming to her that they all understand. She begins stammering away under her breath and I can barely hear her but in the long run, this is probably a good thing as it allows my mind to wander.
I think back to five years ago and the first proper job I did after leaving school, the telesales position I’d been awarded despite being woefully inexperienced and under qualified. I remember tuning up on that first day of work, dressed in my ill-fitting trousers, gaudy shirt and only tie surrounded by smug fuckers wrapped in Armani – an immediate indicator that I was a small fish in a large, un-fish-friendly pond.
Salespeople are wankers. Not all of them of course, I’m sure somebody out there reading this is in sales and wherever you are, I’m sure you’re a perfectly nice person, but then, if you’re NOT a smarmy fucker trying to drown everybody in a sea of your own arrogance then I’m afraid I just can’t consider you a true Salesman, you just work in the field.
That’s a compliment by the way.
All a Salesman wants to talk about to his fellow co-workers is himself. How many deals he’s closed that week, how much money he’s bagged himself with his lies, how flexible the two Swedish sisters he fucked last night were. It’s always the same and listening to a conversation between two of them is reminiscent of a couple of teenage jocks trying to out-scream each other about how fucking huge their cocks are. Except maybe less interesting.
Thing is though, and I’m a little embarrassed to be telling you this, but I actually enjoyed the job. I mean, I really fucking LIKED it. There was something uniquely exhilarating to my 18 year old brain about calling an irritated and hostile IT manager and then hanging up the phone five minutes later knowing that my company was a 50K richer because I had the balls to call a complete stranger and the skill to manipulate him into the belief that he would live a sexually unfulfilling life if he didn’t shell out on a few extra toner cartridges that week. Of course, the knowledge that I would see 1% of that 50k helped too.
Maybe stranger still is that I was good at it. Really good, actually. A fucking Rembrandt. I realised pretty quickly that I had the naive charm of youth that existing and prospective clients found refreshing after being exposed to so much bullshit from my peers and this of course, is something I exploited to it’s fullest. I learnt the ropes quickly and soon I was one of the best we had, soon it was me in the Armani sneering at the new guy in the shitty suit, me screaming about my gargantuan member to my uninterested colleagues. I used my newfound skills to get phone numbers off girls and to convince barstaff to give me occasional freebies, soft-soaking them with a mixture of bullshit smalltalk and a selection witty quips from my repertoire. In all honesty, it was a golden period.
Until I caught myself utilising techniques I’d learnt at work to convince a friend to lend me money and the truth hit me like a dyke’s knee to the crotch – I was a wanker. Puffed up by own sense of self importance I hadn’t realised just how much of a twat I’d become over the previous six months, the transition from naïve nice-guy to money hungry cock-gobbler was slow but significant and to this day, even after all this time, the arrogance still seeps through . Just re-read the last 4 paragraphs if you don’t believe me.
I couldn’t continue in the job after that and I left shortly afterwards to pursue other avenues, promising myself that never again would I become so absorbed by my job that I let it change the person I am in the real world. It explains a lot I suppose.
Funny then, that 4 years down the line, fate decrees that I end up back in the field, telemarketing this time, the Sales Sunday league compared to the Premiership Glory of my previous life. Funnier still I guess, that I, a man who used earn 6 figure sums monthly for blue-chip corporations at the age of 18, am standing here amongst a group of idiots being ‘taught’ how to do the rudiments of job that I learnt inside and out years ago.
I should’ve expected it of course - quitting a well-paid, long-term job that I’d come to do easily through scorching hangovers and residue inebriation was never going to be without it’s drawbacks and I suppose this minimum wage intelligence vacuum is a necessary and bearable evil. Well almost bearable anyway.
I look around at my new ‘colleagues’ as Michaela continues to drone, a mixture of bored and housewives and unqualified school leavers. You know you’re doing a bottom of the barrel job when the women there have more facial hair than the men.
I dunno, maybe it’s the arrogant remnants of my previous existence, but I’ve always thought, when I started a new job, that I was better than most of the people I joined with. For the most part I’ve been proved right too. Today shows no signs of being an exception.
The role here is a simple one – capture names and e-mail addresses from purchasing managers so that they can be passed to the marketing department of some vast, oxygen squandering corporation who will then proceed to spam the fuck out of them until their resolve crumbles and they hand over the keys to the company safe. Yeah, I feel a twang of guilt about it, I fucking hate spam as much as the next person, but I gotta eat y’know?
I am distracted somewhat when the girl standing directly in front of me brushes back her luscious black hair to reveal the troublingly arousing nape of her neck. Really good skin. A waft of cheap perfume envelops me for a second and I close my eyes as I inhale deeply and enjoy my proximity such innocence. She’s 17 and practically flawless, all the more alluring because of her nervousness, her big doe eyes frantically flicking between Michaela’s monitor and her notepad where she’s desperately trying to scribble down every single word that’s being said to us. You can tell this is her first job.
Julie. That’s her name. I know this because I went to school with her older sister, a girl we teased remorselessly because her 13 year old sibling was more ‘developed’ than she. Kid’s can be fucking evil sometimes. Then again, I guess adults aint much better.
That neck again. There’s just something about it. Don’t get me wrong here guys, I’m not a throat-a-phile or anything, but I’m bored as shit here and it’s all I’ve got to look at. I could stare at her arse I guess, but that’d be a little obvious. Still, I can’t work out what it is about that neck, the smooth curve where it joins her jaw perhaps? Maybe it’s the mole just above her collarbone. Imperfections like that really fucking do it for me.
Somehow, my scrutiny has drawn me half a pace closer to her like the horny moth that I am. I’m practically breathing on her now and she must sense my gaze, I mean seriously, how could she NOT? That doesn’t really bother me I suppose, I have no intention of perusing the matter, it’s just nice to be able to stand back and appreciate a beauty so delicate once in a while. I have a sudden urge to call the girlfriend and tell her I love her or some such to reaffirm my fidelity, but somehow, I’m not too sure it would go down to well with our ‘instructor’, so I ignore it, shuffle back to less lechey proximity and resume my study as Michaela’s voice bubbles away incoherently in the background. Learning to filter out the sound of somebody who annoys you is a useful skill.
Wait a second, is that a hair on her shoulder? Where the fuck did that come from? Was that there before? It couldn’t have been, I would’ve noticed, surely? Fuck, maybe it’s one of mine, fallen onto her whilst I was practically leering over her. Sure, it could be, my hair’s getting pretty long now and that four-inch badboy could easily have come from my flowing locks.
Shit, this is really bugging me for some reason. I want to bask in the obscured perfection of this young neck again and also, I’m strangely curious as to whether that thing belongs to me or her. Should I reach forward and grab it? Risky that, if I got noticed there’d be no real rational explanation I could give that’d convince these people I’m not a perv. Then again, I suppose I AM, at least a little and I couldn’t give two fucks what these twats think of me anyway.
I hold my breath and slowly reach forwards, biting my lip and wincing like a bomb disposal guy as I do so. I extend my index finger and thumb and ever so gently grip hold of a part of the rogue follicle that isn’t in direct contact with her creamy skin.
Now to withdraw.
Carefully now, many a thief has been caught because he was cautious going in but too eager to escape. Still pulling a stupid face like my target could explode at any time, I gradually pull my arm back away from her.
The hair is caught on something.
I yank it.
What. The. Fuck?
Julie’s hand snatches up to where the hair was moments ago and turns on me with a faint look of pain on her face.
“What the fuck did you do that for?”
Inside I’m dying, voices in my head councilling me on what a fucktard I am. That wasn’t one of my hairs, that was DEFINITELY one of hers. And I just pulled it out of her neck. Jesus Christ she must think I’m a right fucking nutbag.
But there is another voice. The kid inside me that can’t stop making fun of people for no reason, the piss-taking cunt that grew up in a pub pool-room. It’s getting louder. Soon it’s all can hear. And this is what it says:
WHAT SORT OF A FUCKING FREAK HAS 4 INCH HAIRS GROWING OUT OF THEIR FUCKING NECK? HOW CAN YOU NOT NOTICE THAT, YOU POORLY GROOMED SACK OF OESTRAGEN? BEEN EATING 3 SHREDDED WHEAT RECENTLY HAVE WE? OH. MY. GOD. YOU’RE GRIZZLY ADAMS’ LOVE CHILD WITH LUCY LAWLESS AREN’T YOU?
After all my attention, how did I not notice that hair earlier? Even worse, how the fuck did I not realise that it was STILL FUCKING ATTACHED? I guess life’s full of these little mysteries.
The whole room has turned to face us now, me still with the offending strand in my grasp and she with a look of abject horror on her face. She knows where this motherfucker came from and I can see that, like me, she doesn’t want anybody else to know what it is I just did.
Michaela Looks concerned.
“What’s going on you two?”
I can’t think of anything to say.
That NEVER Happens.
Fuck. What can I say, what can I say? Somewhere out there, is the perfect combination of nouns, adjectives and verbs that, when used in the correct order, will completely extract me from the jaws of embarrassment. It’s out there somewhere. I just wish I knew what it was.
But as I said, life’s full of these little mysteries.
you have no idea how horrible finding this picture was for me.jpg