I got a letter in the mail from a law firm out in Minnesota, asking for my participation in a class-action lawsuit against Guitar Center for wage violations during the time I worked there. One of those "we don't admit wrongdoing but we'll pay a few million to make it go away" kind of deals. Based on the couple of months I worked there, I think my take will be about 45 bucks before taxes.
Guitar Center was an odd place to work, to say the least, but I can't say I didn't enjoy it. I met Skip Lefti there, and went on to run sound for the band he played with, King Domino. It led to the first revival meeting I ever went to - the only white person in attendance at a hotel in downtown Rochester over two days (no idea how I got talked into that - just felt that SOMEONE should accompany about ten grand worth of sound equipment we'd lent out for reasons that made sense to my manager).
I suppose I should do a run on those stories, but as I'm sitting here drinking coffee alone on a Sunday morning, I have one very happy memory.
The store staff was a bunch of guys (with the exception of the payroll clerk, who was drop dead gorgeous and an amateur boxer not to be trifled with - but I digress), and as with all fraternal organizations, there were stupid crap we did. And one was a "call on Line 9" in your department.
The phone extensions only went up to 8. "Call to Pro Audio on Line 9" translated to "there is a fantastically hot chick headed to your department, you lucky bastard".
So one particular day, announcement comes over the system, "Pro Audio, you have an urgent call on Line 9. URGENT CALL, Line 9."
Someone's head got spun...let's see who this hottie is...
And she was. Jaws dropped, heads spun. Long red hair, curves for miles, legs to die for.
And she came up and kissed me. :)
"Hey dear, just wanted to stop by and say hi and find out when you were coming home."
"I'm closing tonight, so I should be home by 9:30 or so."
The department was dead silent as she walked out, with all the other clerks staring at me. And I just smiled.
I don't know why that memory came up when I got the mailing, but it did. And I'll have to write up some other GC stories - it was an eventful couple of months.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Fear and Loathing in Le Roy
Bad Craziness in the town of Jell-O. I am camped out in my bedroom with a quart of rum, coffee on standby for the morning, and the Gurkha knife I smuggled out of Germany as a degenerate sixteen year old twenty years ago. The doors are locked, but that will merely slow them down with their offers of A Friendly Beer and Just Wanting To Talk. The bastards are closing in, and I fully expect the room to be lit by the flames of my burning car any moment now. At least that will give me the light to see the fuckers and make some sort of desperate escape...
And it all started by just wanting to do my laundry over Labor Day Weekend...
Photographic evidence of the degeneracy and foulness of the laundry area is available on my Facebook page. I would like to state, for the record, that the photographed condition is the rule, not the exception, though I am usually able to stagger over the trash to do my laundry. However, with my new position requiring a veneer of respectability (or at least dress pants), I declared at top volume my annoyance at the state of affairs and the need to do my laundry at the laundromat, which required actual money. This resulted in the thousand-yard “fuck-with-me-I-dare-you” stare of the wife, and the “oh” of the husband.
As I filled two washers at the laundromat with $2.25 each (incidentally, the price of a draft beer at the local bar, where I was informed this weekend that I was eligible for a Medal and Commendation if I remained in my current apartment for over six months, by local legend), I seethed over the domination of my life by the downstairs Harpie wife, the “neighbor Sarah” incident (some know, and that is a tale worth telling all its own if you haven’t heard it), and the constant diatribes by the Beck-head husband about the Evils of Progressives and the oncoming Rapture. I was angry. I was enraged. I found my spine straightening. And I Brought the Hammer Down.
I called the landlord to tell him the laundry area was unusable, and to tell the full tale of the “Sarah Incident”.
(This may not seem extreme, or even unreasonable. But, the wife downstairs specifically pulled me aside when I moved in to let me know they were Decent and Reasonable People, Good Americans, and that any issues I might have I could happily take up with them without involving the landlord, who was a known Crude and Degenerate Man, not to be bothered by Trivialities.)
(Another side note - the landlord asked me to drop off my rent in person this week, not only due to it being three days late, but he wanted to chat. He had heard rumors about the “Sarah Incident”, and wanted to assure me to not only not take any guff from the downstairs neighbors, but to please let him know if any Bad Craziness was going on, as they were “inches away from eviction” as it was. So I was under an Obligation.)
Upon my return from doing laundry and getting a haircut (the less said about that the better - a wretched butchery deserving of its own rant), I informed the husband about my conversation with the landlord.
“Ohhhh...not good...not good...”
Whatever, I thought. Not my fucking problem. Buy the Ticket, take the Ride, and let the Chips fall where they may. And I slept well. Which might just see me through until tomorrow, as there is no sleeping tonight...
Returning home his evening, I found the foyer had been superficially cleaned. Swept. Bag of trash gone. Other, deeper foulness remaining, of course. Amazing what a call to the landlord accomplishes, I thought.
I was greedy - drunk on the recently successful campaign. I wanted more. And, after an unrelated phone call that put me in an evil and foul mood on top of the crazy, I confronted the husband in front of the house, in the presence of the kids (a fatal error in judgement that will haunt me in this exchange, and much of the reason for the Bad Craziness resulting in locked doors and blades for protection).
I informed him that I was scouring the hallway on Thursday evening. Anything remaining in the hallway Thursday morning would be tossed on the curb for municipal trash pickup after I tagged it. And the hallway was a common area, not their storage area. It was to remain clean.
Following that, all complaints regarding their behavior would result in a call to the landlord. This included the wife roaring into the driveway at top speed with rap blaring loud enough to shake the windows, having to climb over bags of trash to exit my apartment, or Screeches by the wife at Top Volume at Ungodly Hours threatening to Kick Someone’s Ass. I had tolerated enough, and I was done.
“Yes,” the husband informed me, “you are, in fact, Done.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Having seen no evidence of Spine previously, I was caught unprepared. This was not part of the Plan.
Then it dawned. Ah yes. The Children. Teenagers, but still. Or perhaps, especially. The Children. My fatal error. I had Spoken Ill of the Absent Parent in front of the Children. I had ceded the high moral ground. I was fucked. It was now merely a question of degree and depth.
“The fact that you called the landlord rather than talking to me tells me she was right about you. Slinking around taking pictures of the hallway. What kind of shit is that?”
(I considered telling him that the photos were not to show the landlord, but were instead for the shock and amusement of my friends and associates on Facebook. However, realizing this would not exactly strengthen my position at this point, I remained silent.)
“So I ask you - since I have to clear my shit out of the hallway, are you prepared to deal with the trash can every Thursday?”
I was stunned. I had vacated the moral high ground, prepared for a royal reaming for redemption in the eyes of the children, and this petty shit is what he comes up with?
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll even buy a new trash can.”
“And are you prepared to purchase your own snow shovel, since you told me to clear my shit out of the hallway?”
Again, the mind reeled. “Ummm...sure....”
“And are you prepared to kick in for part of my electric bill, since the light for the hallway is on my meter?”
This crossed the line of sanity - I could take no more . “I will buy a fucking flashlight,” I informed him, and headed up the stairs, turning out the light and ascending in the pitch darkness. Fate smiled on my key selection in the blind shadows, and I quickly opened and closed the door.
I fired up the stereo. Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers, “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin” followed quickly by “Bitch”. No sense in beating about the bush. Good Mick Taylor riffs, drowning out the bad noise of the downstairs - sixteen year old threatening to leave the house (bad flashbacks - where’s the rum...ah, rum....devil rum...), wife coming out, ranting about her Unfair Position as the bad guy, that she never DID anything to deserve it, and maybe I just needed my Fucking Ass Kicked to prove how innocent she fucking was.
Pizza. Rum. Stones. “Dead Flowers.” Clear the air. Clear the mind. Make it go away. Bad noise about calling the landlord about ME. But what had I done? What could they possibly say? More rum. Nothing. I was innocent. White sheets straight from the washing machine I couldn’t use this weekend due to the foul and filth....
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
On edge, immediately, like I’d been hit with a cattle prod. NO ONE ever knocks on my door in this town.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me.”
“Who me?”
“It’s me - you know which me. I want to talk with you over a beer. Got ‘em right here...”
Sure. Along with your crazy-ass wife and a fucking shiv...
“I have nothing to say to you tonight.”
“C’mon man, I thought we were friends...”
Sure - I listen to you rant about the Evil Progressives who want all your hard-earned unemployment money while you drink my beer. Still not worth a shiv in the spleen, fuck you very much...not tonight...
“I have nothing to say to you. Maybe later. But not tonight. Not now. Go away.”
A sigh. “I’m really disappointed in you, man.”
“Likewise.” I don’t know if he hears. I doubt he would admit it even if he had.
Silence as I’ve typed the following words, and the lack of flickering from my windows tells me my car is not on fire. It is likely soaked from the recent rains and open sunroof, which was not enough of an incentive to go outside to brave the possibility of either having my Teeth Kicked In or suffer the Offer of a Friendly Beer. (Frankly put, the Friendly Beer is the more terrifying possibility - Teeth Kicked In is a simple and uncomplicated assault charge.) It is early enough that I don’t dare fall asleep - I will get merely an hour, and it might be best to remain awake with the assistance of heavy stimulants. Or perhaps just an hour of uncomplicated sleep before the hammer comes down tomorrow. Hard to say. Either way, tomorrow promises to be highly interesting, in the sense of the ancient Chinese curse. Good night and good luck.
And it all started by just wanting to do my laundry over Labor Day Weekend...
Photographic evidence of the degeneracy and foulness of the laundry area is available on my Facebook page. I would like to state, for the record, that the photographed condition is the rule, not the exception, though I am usually able to stagger over the trash to do my laundry. However, with my new position requiring a veneer of respectability (or at least dress pants), I declared at top volume my annoyance at the state of affairs and the need to do my laundry at the laundromat, which required actual money. This resulted in the thousand-yard “fuck-with-me-I-dare-you” stare of the wife, and the “oh” of the husband.
As I filled two washers at the laundromat with $2.25 each (incidentally, the price of a draft beer at the local bar, where I was informed this weekend that I was eligible for a Medal and Commendation if I remained in my current apartment for over six months, by local legend), I seethed over the domination of my life by the downstairs Harpie wife, the “neighbor Sarah” incident (some know, and that is a tale worth telling all its own if you haven’t heard it), and the constant diatribes by the Beck-head husband about the Evils of Progressives and the oncoming Rapture. I was angry. I was enraged. I found my spine straightening. And I Brought the Hammer Down.
I called the landlord to tell him the laundry area was unusable, and to tell the full tale of the “Sarah Incident”.
(This may not seem extreme, or even unreasonable. But, the wife downstairs specifically pulled me aside when I moved in to let me know they were Decent and Reasonable People, Good Americans, and that any issues I might have I could happily take up with them without involving the landlord, who was a known Crude and Degenerate Man, not to be bothered by Trivialities.)
(Another side note - the landlord asked me to drop off my rent in person this week, not only due to it being three days late, but he wanted to chat. He had heard rumors about the “Sarah Incident”, and wanted to assure me to not only not take any guff from the downstairs neighbors, but to please let him know if any Bad Craziness was going on, as they were “inches away from eviction” as it was. So I was under an Obligation.)
Upon my return from doing laundry and getting a haircut (the less said about that the better - a wretched butchery deserving of its own rant), I informed the husband about my conversation with the landlord.
“Ohhhh...not good...not good...”
Whatever, I thought. Not my fucking problem. Buy the Ticket, take the Ride, and let the Chips fall where they may. And I slept well. Which might just see me through until tomorrow, as there is no sleeping tonight...
Returning home his evening, I found the foyer had been superficially cleaned. Swept. Bag of trash gone. Other, deeper foulness remaining, of course. Amazing what a call to the landlord accomplishes, I thought.
I was greedy - drunk on the recently successful campaign. I wanted more. And, after an unrelated phone call that put me in an evil and foul mood on top of the crazy, I confronted the husband in front of the house, in the presence of the kids (a fatal error in judgement that will haunt me in this exchange, and much of the reason for the Bad Craziness resulting in locked doors and blades for protection).
I informed him that I was scouring the hallway on Thursday evening. Anything remaining in the hallway Thursday morning would be tossed on the curb for municipal trash pickup after I tagged it. And the hallway was a common area, not their storage area. It was to remain clean.
Following that, all complaints regarding their behavior would result in a call to the landlord. This included the wife roaring into the driveway at top speed with rap blaring loud enough to shake the windows, having to climb over bags of trash to exit my apartment, or Screeches by the wife at Top Volume at Ungodly Hours threatening to Kick Someone’s Ass. I had tolerated enough, and I was done.
“Yes,” the husband informed me, “you are, in fact, Done.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Having seen no evidence of Spine previously, I was caught unprepared. This was not part of the Plan.
Then it dawned. Ah yes. The Children. Teenagers, but still. Or perhaps, especially. The Children. My fatal error. I had Spoken Ill of the Absent Parent in front of the Children. I had ceded the high moral ground. I was fucked. It was now merely a question of degree and depth.
“The fact that you called the landlord rather than talking to me tells me she was right about you. Slinking around taking pictures of the hallway. What kind of shit is that?”
(I considered telling him that the photos were not to show the landlord, but were instead for the shock and amusement of my friends and associates on Facebook. However, realizing this would not exactly strengthen my position at this point, I remained silent.)
“So I ask you - since I have to clear my shit out of the hallway, are you prepared to deal with the trash can every Thursday?”
I was stunned. I had vacated the moral high ground, prepared for a royal reaming for redemption in the eyes of the children, and this petty shit is what he comes up with?
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll even buy a new trash can.”
“And are you prepared to purchase your own snow shovel, since you told me to clear my shit out of the hallway?”
Again, the mind reeled. “Ummm...sure....”
“And are you prepared to kick in for part of my electric bill, since the light for the hallway is on my meter?”
This crossed the line of sanity - I could take no more . “I will buy a fucking flashlight,” I informed him, and headed up the stairs, turning out the light and ascending in the pitch darkness. Fate smiled on my key selection in the blind shadows, and I quickly opened and closed the door.
I fired up the stereo. Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers, “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin” followed quickly by “Bitch”. No sense in beating about the bush. Good Mick Taylor riffs, drowning out the bad noise of the downstairs - sixteen year old threatening to leave the house (bad flashbacks - where’s the rum...ah, rum....devil rum...), wife coming out, ranting about her Unfair Position as the bad guy, that she never DID anything to deserve it, and maybe I just needed my Fucking Ass Kicked to prove how innocent she fucking was.
Pizza. Rum. Stones. “Dead Flowers.” Clear the air. Clear the mind. Make it go away. Bad noise about calling the landlord about ME. But what had I done? What could they possibly say? More rum. Nothing. I was innocent. White sheets straight from the washing machine I couldn’t use this weekend due to the foul and filth....
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
On edge, immediately, like I’d been hit with a cattle prod. NO ONE ever knocks on my door in this town.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me.”
“Who me?”
“It’s me - you know which me. I want to talk with you over a beer. Got ‘em right here...”
Sure. Along with your crazy-ass wife and a fucking shiv...
“I have nothing to say to you tonight.”
“C’mon man, I thought we were friends...”
Sure - I listen to you rant about the Evil Progressives who want all your hard-earned unemployment money while you drink my beer. Still not worth a shiv in the spleen, fuck you very much...not tonight...
“I have nothing to say to you. Maybe later. But not tonight. Not now. Go away.”
A sigh. “I’m really disappointed in you, man.”
“Likewise.” I don’t know if he hears. I doubt he would admit it even if he had.
Silence as I’ve typed the following words, and the lack of flickering from my windows tells me my car is not on fire. It is likely soaked from the recent rains and open sunroof, which was not enough of an incentive to go outside to brave the possibility of either having my Teeth Kicked In or suffer the Offer of a Friendly Beer. (Frankly put, the Friendly Beer is the more terrifying possibility - Teeth Kicked In is a simple and uncomplicated assault charge.) It is early enough that I don’t dare fall asleep - I will get merely an hour, and it might be best to remain awake with the assistance of heavy stimulants. Or perhaps just an hour of uncomplicated sleep before the hammer comes down tomorrow. Hard to say. Either way, tomorrow promises to be highly interesting, in the sense of the ancient Chinese curse. Good night and good luck.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Painting
“What are ya painting up there, the Sistine Chapel?”
Probably comments deserved from your neighbor when you paint in your boxers with an open window from the heat, and also when you’ve been painting your apartment for four months. The kitchen is the last bit that I’m going to paint (the bedroom I’m calling good and not worrying about it - I can live with the dark blue, and I have no idea what other color to paint it).
My personal tastes in apartments have always gravitated to the bottom line - cheapest rent possible while retaining some sense of livability. Usually this means older houses or adaptations that give a place “run-down character” and “fading style”, as I like to think. Or, as a friend referred to my previous apartments, “shitholes - all of them”. She hasn’t seen the new place, but her assessment was the same.
“Dude, you rented it. Therefore, it’s a shithole. As long as it’s safe for Sam - not like that one place in Vermont with the misfiring gas heater, or the one with the rotting slate shower, or the one...”
Safety for Sam did send me running from a few places I would have happily taken back in my bachelor days, but calling the current apartment a “shithole” when moving in would probably have been generous. The carpets were a combination of beige and ground-in dirt, along with some burn marks. The landlord mentioned a mark on the wall from when he’d put in replacement windows five years ago. Most of the walls were a glossy beige, but the kitchen was a dirty primer white with cabinets covered in dust and falling wallpaper in the back.
However, for a range of reasons, I was anxious to move, and the apartment had two qualities I was desperately searching for - cheap rent and a month-to-month lease. I wasn’t expecting to stay long. This was temporary.
The landlord was great - he’s a DJ, and we talked shop for a while. He was very upfront about the place’s shortcomings, and about the ramifications of dealing with them.
“I could replace the carpet, but I’d have to raise the rent and it would take a couple of weeks.”
I can live with the carpet.
“I could paint the place, but it would take a couple of weeks.”
I can paint it - I’ve painted places before.
“Okay - just keep track of your supplies and take it off your rent. I’d prefer you went with beige, but I am giving you the place with a dark blue bedroom, so I guess I really can’t say much about color.”
My plan was actually to go with pretty neutral colors - actually mostly beige. My energy levels were up and down, so even getting the place primed took effort, room by room. The plan was to repair the apartment as a way to repair myself as well, and leave a well put-back together apartment after six months or so.
By the beginning of June, however, it was apparent that things wouldn’t be going according to plan, and I was going to be here a lot longer than six months. I’d done much of the priming and repair to the cabinets in preparation for color, but now I had no idea of which direction to go. Shitholes had always been temporary - I moved about once a year when I lived in apartments, and never did very much with them. Financially, I knew I wasn’t likely to move for a while. And Sam was going to need some consistency about things. So I was here. Time to settle in.
The taking five months has been finding out I care about what the place looks like. (Not that anyone’s seen it besides Sam, and I don’t think he really cares that much.) It’s been more than patching holes and throwing up paint. It’s been a careful selection of color choices. It’s been buying stuff to put on the walls. Installing venetian blinds. Carefully painting the inside cabinets. Changing out plastic towel racks and paper towel holders for metal and bamboo.
I went with a flat enamel finish - flat enamel is much more forgiving of uneven lathe and plaster walls. So the painting required a coat of primer and two coats of color to get anything looking good.
It’s also been picking out furniture, which has been kind of an odd thing as well. My yard sale luck has been phenomenal this summer, as I found a good fold-down table, good kitchen chairs, and a nice rocking chair. Again, the idea that I care what the place looks like is kind of odd.
Might be because I’m 37 and no longer the 20-something who stuffed the shitholes of yore with whatever crap I could find. Or who only painted one of them (the Winthrop apartment) due to a drunken “discussion” that involves a brushstroke of primer across the wall at 2am. (Painted white - landlord just about fell over in shock when I moved out.) Post-30, maybe I just need a certain level of civilization and refinement.
Though more of it seems to be the apartment as a metaphor for where I am. A place to be repaired and restored. Maybe, if I could get this place looking respectable again, there might be hope for me to regain a foothold for where I was. Though now, with everything finished, I have to move on to other things. I have repaired the place. Time to move on to repairing other things.
Probably comments deserved from your neighbor when you paint in your boxers with an open window from the heat, and also when you’ve been painting your apartment for four months. The kitchen is the last bit that I’m going to paint (the bedroom I’m calling good and not worrying about it - I can live with the dark blue, and I have no idea what other color to paint it).
My personal tastes in apartments have always gravitated to the bottom line - cheapest rent possible while retaining some sense of livability. Usually this means older houses or adaptations that give a place “run-down character” and “fading style”, as I like to think. Or, as a friend referred to my previous apartments, “shitholes - all of them”. She hasn’t seen the new place, but her assessment was the same.
“Dude, you rented it. Therefore, it’s a shithole. As long as it’s safe for Sam - not like that one place in Vermont with the misfiring gas heater, or the one with the rotting slate shower, or the one...”
Safety for Sam did send me running from a few places I would have happily taken back in my bachelor days, but calling the current apartment a “shithole” when moving in would probably have been generous. The carpets were a combination of beige and ground-in dirt, along with some burn marks. The landlord mentioned a mark on the wall from when he’d put in replacement windows five years ago. Most of the walls were a glossy beige, but the kitchen was a dirty primer white with cabinets covered in dust and falling wallpaper in the back.
However, for a range of reasons, I was anxious to move, and the apartment had two qualities I was desperately searching for - cheap rent and a month-to-month lease. I wasn’t expecting to stay long. This was temporary.
The landlord was great - he’s a DJ, and we talked shop for a while. He was very upfront about the place’s shortcomings, and about the ramifications of dealing with them.
“I could replace the carpet, but I’d have to raise the rent and it would take a couple of weeks.”
I can live with the carpet.
“I could paint the place, but it would take a couple of weeks.”
I can paint it - I’ve painted places before.
“Okay - just keep track of your supplies and take it off your rent. I’d prefer you went with beige, but I am giving you the place with a dark blue bedroom, so I guess I really can’t say much about color.”
My plan was actually to go with pretty neutral colors - actually mostly beige. My energy levels were up and down, so even getting the place primed took effort, room by room. The plan was to repair the apartment as a way to repair myself as well, and leave a well put-back together apartment after six months or so.
By the beginning of June, however, it was apparent that things wouldn’t be going according to plan, and I was going to be here a lot longer than six months. I’d done much of the priming and repair to the cabinets in preparation for color, but now I had no idea of which direction to go. Shitholes had always been temporary - I moved about once a year when I lived in apartments, and never did very much with them. Financially, I knew I wasn’t likely to move for a while. And Sam was going to need some consistency about things. So I was here. Time to settle in.
The taking five months has been finding out I care about what the place looks like. (Not that anyone’s seen it besides Sam, and I don’t think he really cares that much.) It’s been more than patching holes and throwing up paint. It’s been a careful selection of color choices. It’s been buying stuff to put on the walls. Installing venetian blinds. Carefully painting the inside cabinets. Changing out plastic towel racks and paper towel holders for metal and bamboo.
I went with a flat enamel finish - flat enamel is much more forgiving of uneven lathe and plaster walls. So the painting required a coat of primer and two coats of color to get anything looking good.
It’s also been picking out furniture, which has been kind of an odd thing as well. My yard sale luck has been phenomenal this summer, as I found a good fold-down table, good kitchen chairs, and a nice rocking chair. Again, the idea that I care what the place looks like is kind of odd.
Might be because I’m 37 and no longer the 20-something who stuffed the shitholes of yore with whatever crap I could find. Or who only painted one of them (the Winthrop apartment) due to a drunken “discussion” that involves a brushstroke of primer across the wall at 2am. (Painted white - landlord just about fell over in shock when I moved out.) Post-30, maybe I just need a certain level of civilization and refinement.
Though more of it seems to be the apartment as a metaphor for where I am. A place to be repaired and restored. Maybe, if I could get this place looking respectable again, there might be hope for me to regain a foothold for where I was. Though now, with everything finished, I have to move on to other things. I have repaired the place. Time to move on to repairing other things.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Overtime and Thanksgiving
One of the things that appealed to me most about working in collections (aside from promises of making ungodly amounts of money) was the strict 40-hour week. This was something that had been emphasized over and over in training - the idea that vast sums of money could be made while working only 40 hours, with no overtime at all. You have your time - make the most of it.
Having working in various professions that were very time-demanding (teaching, theatre tech, and law school), I thought that part of my own healing process (aside from paying back debts with the promised ungodly amounts of money) would be a job that was only 40 hours. I would have time at home, time with Sam, and time to reconstruct my life.
The distaste for overtime within the company was dramatic and down to the minute. Sometimes, while on a call, you would have to stay past your 8-hour shift because you needed the extra time to get a borrower to finalize payments (which was a challenge on west-coast hours, since the computer systems shut down automatically at 12:30 am). This was not overtime - this was to be kept strict track of and taken off of another day.
So the first thing you did on Friday when you got in was figure out how many hours you had to work to round the week out at 40 hours. To the minute. Then you wrote that time on a Post-it note and stuck it to your monitor. And, as your manager was making the rounds, he or she would remind you of the time to make sure you were out by the specific time.
The only time overtime was available was on mandated holidays. The company was committed to giving you the possibility of 40 hours of collection time every week. So, for example, the office was closed on the 4th of July. But that week, you could squeeze the 40 hours into the other six days, and get paid overtime for the holiday pay. At standard time-and-a-half overtime rates. Needless to say, most people took advantage of the additional time.
The first holiday I was able to take advantage of for this was Thanksgiving, and on that holiday I was grateful for it. Due to a variety of circumstances, Jess was taking Sam to visit a friend of hers out of state over the long holiday weekend and spending Thanksgiving with her friend’s family. Not wanting to really explain the situation to anyone (explaining meant I might have to face certain truths and deal with things), I decided to spend Thanksgiving alone. And aside from getting through the day itself, that would give me some structure to the other days.
The day before Thanksgiving was spent on the phone calling every reference and relative I could find on all of my accounts. My senior collector recommended this, and he was absolutely right.
“Yes, hi - I was trying to reach John Smith.”
“Oh, he doesn’t live here - this is his mother.”
“Will you be seeing him soon? I’ve been trying to get a message to him.”
“Well, yes, he’ll be over for dinner tomorrow, obviously. I can take a message...”
The question was how much good the messages actually did. As the Poet said, “It’s not like they can call back tomorrow or anything. Did you get any phone numbers? Those would be useful.”
Nope, no phone numbers. Probably made a couple of uncomfortable moments over the Thanksgiving table, but the result was zero callbacks on Friday for Wednesday’s efforts. The rest of the weekend was equally useless, and the month ended with my only accomplishment being a need to start writing about collections to stave off losing my mind.
December had three holidays - Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Year’s Day. So this meant for the week preceeding Christmas, collectors could cram 40 hours into the five days available, and for the week following could cram 40 hours into the six days following.
I went round and round with my manager over taking the last week of the month off. I had the time, and I desperately needed to get out of town - the plan was to take Sam to Maine to see the relatives, and I hadn’t been out there for some time.
“So you’re basically blowing off any chance of hitting goal for the month of December.”
I shook my head. “Not at all - I just have to hit goal before Christmas.”
And Christmas is a whole other post by itself.
Having working in various professions that were very time-demanding (teaching, theatre tech, and law school), I thought that part of my own healing process (aside from paying back debts with the promised ungodly amounts of money) would be a job that was only 40 hours. I would have time at home, time with Sam, and time to reconstruct my life.
The distaste for overtime within the company was dramatic and down to the minute. Sometimes, while on a call, you would have to stay past your 8-hour shift because you needed the extra time to get a borrower to finalize payments (which was a challenge on west-coast hours, since the computer systems shut down automatically at 12:30 am). This was not overtime - this was to be kept strict track of and taken off of another day.
So the first thing you did on Friday when you got in was figure out how many hours you had to work to round the week out at 40 hours. To the minute. Then you wrote that time on a Post-it note and stuck it to your monitor. And, as your manager was making the rounds, he or she would remind you of the time to make sure you were out by the specific time.
The only time overtime was available was on mandated holidays. The company was committed to giving you the possibility of 40 hours of collection time every week. So, for example, the office was closed on the 4th of July. But that week, you could squeeze the 40 hours into the other six days, and get paid overtime for the holiday pay. At standard time-and-a-half overtime rates. Needless to say, most people took advantage of the additional time.
The first holiday I was able to take advantage of for this was Thanksgiving, and on that holiday I was grateful for it. Due to a variety of circumstances, Jess was taking Sam to visit a friend of hers out of state over the long holiday weekend and spending Thanksgiving with her friend’s family. Not wanting to really explain the situation to anyone (explaining meant I might have to face certain truths and deal with things), I decided to spend Thanksgiving alone. And aside from getting through the day itself, that would give me some structure to the other days.
The day before Thanksgiving was spent on the phone calling every reference and relative I could find on all of my accounts. My senior collector recommended this, and he was absolutely right.
“Yes, hi - I was trying to reach John Smith.”
“Oh, he doesn’t live here - this is his mother.”
“Will you be seeing him soon? I’ve been trying to get a message to him.”
“Well, yes, he’ll be over for dinner tomorrow, obviously. I can take a message...”
The question was how much good the messages actually did. As the Poet said, “It’s not like they can call back tomorrow or anything. Did you get any phone numbers? Those would be useful.”
Nope, no phone numbers. Probably made a couple of uncomfortable moments over the Thanksgiving table, but the result was zero callbacks on Friday for Wednesday’s efforts. The rest of the weekend was equally useless, and the month ended with my only accomplishment being a need to start writing about collections to stave off losing my mind.
December had three holidays - Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Year’s Day. So this meant for the week preceeding Christmas, collectors could cram 40 hours into the five days available, and for the week following could cram 40 hours into the six days following.
I went round and round with my manager over taking the last week of the month off. I had the time, and I desperately needed to get out of town - the plan was to take Sam to Maine to see the relatives, and I hadn’t been out there for some time.
“So you’re basically blowing off any chance of hitting goal for the month of December.”
I shook my head. “Not at all - I just have to hit goal before Christmas.”
And Christmas is a whole other post by itself.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Life's Little Victories
One of my favorite cartoonists is a guy named Keith Knight, who does political commentary, and also an occasional strip called "Life's Little Victories". It's a brief look at the little accomplishments in life we should be grateful for. For example:
Often we pay no attention to the little things that make up a life - the small things we should be grateful for. So, with everything that has been going on, I am going to take a brief moment to be grateful for the small things of today:
* Sam got his cast off today
* I found the pool noodles for Sam's birthday party after an epic struggle at way too many stores. (It is July - this should not be a hard item to find.)
* The trim in the hallway is finished, so three of the five rooms in the apartment are now painted
* I will have fresh bread in about an hour
And those are just the small victories for today. Not bad for a Tuesday. Not bad at all.
So I will try to focus on the little victories, and put them together as I can.
Often we pay no attention to the little things that make up a life - the small things we should be grateful for. So, with everything that has been going on, I am going to take a brief moment to be grateful for the small things of today:
* Sam got his cast off today
* I found the pool noodles for Sam's birthday party after an epic struggle at way too many stores. (It is July - this should not be a hard item to find.)
* The trim in the hallway is finished, so three of the five rooms in the apartment are now painted
* I will have fresh bread in about an hour
And those are just the small victories for today. Not bad for a Tuesday. Not bad at all.
So I will try to focus on the little victories, and put them together as I can.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
First call
After practicing on a call simulator program, practicing with each other, and going over federal and state regulations again and again, the day finally came for live calls.
"All of you are going to screw this up," Becki said. "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, or because I don't think any of you can do this. But this is your first call. It's not an indicator of how well you'll do. I know one girl who actually got someone to pay on her very first phone call. She was gone in three months - never hit goal once."
Mark raised his hand. "So what happened on your first call?"
Becki laughed. "Honestly? I hung up on them as soon as I got a positive ID by name. I panicked. So as long as you don't hang up, you're doing better than I did. So let's see who gets someone on the line first!"
I opened up my desk of accounts, and starting looking at them. Examining addresses, previous work...
"Nick - stop thinking so much and just call."
I looked behind me, and Becki was standing there. "You are procrastinating."
I shrugged. "I'm getting properly prepared for when I get them on the phone."
She shook her head. "You're going to get an answering machine or a wrong number 90% of the time. Stop thinking and call that number."
I pushed the dial button, and the phone rang, rang, rang - finally the system hung up on the call after the legally allowed 8 rings.
"See? Now just keep at it. Get into a rhythm." And she went over to help someone else.
I pushed the next button, a guy out in Florida who was marked as having been in prison a few months ago by our records found the previous day. Number's probably not even good at this point.
"Hello?" Gruff, male voice on the other end of the line.
"Uhhh...this call may be monitored or recorded. Can I speak to Jimmy Smith?"
Sigh. "Yeah, this is Jimmy."
My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard. "Mr. Smith, I believe I have a business matter of yours in our office, but I need to make sure I'm speaking to the correct person. Are the last four digits of your social security number 1234?"
"Yeah, that's me."
Must. Remain. Calm.
"Ummmm...Mr. Smith, my name is Nick and I'm calling regarding your defaulted student loan debt of $2,000."
Another sigh. "Aw, shit."
Click.
I stared at the screen for a moment, turned and saw Becki looking over my shoulder.
"Not bad," she said. "You'll do just fine here."
"All of you are going to screw this up," Becki said. "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, or because I don't think any of you can do this. But this is your first call. It's not an indicator of how well you'll do. I know one girl who actually got someone to pay on her very first phone call. She was gone in three months - never hit goal once."
Mark raised his hand. "So what happened on your first call?"
Becki laughed. "Honestly? I hung up on them as soon as I got a positive ID by name. I panicked. So as long as you don't hang up, you're doing better than I did. So let's see who gets someone on the line first!"
I opened up my desk of accounts, and starting looking at them. Examining addresses, previous work...
"Nick - stop thinking so much and just call."
I looked behind me, and Becki was standing there. "You are procrastinating."
I shrugged. "I'm getting properly prepared for when I get them on the phone."
She shook her head. "You're going to get an answering machine or a wrong number 90% of the time. Stop thinking and call that number."
I pushed the dial button, and the phone rang, rang, rang - finally the system hung up on the call after the legally allowed 8 rings.
"See? Now just keep at it. Get into a rhythm." And she went over to help someone else.
I pushed the next button, a guy out in Florida who was marked as having been in prison a few months ago by our records found the previous day. Number's probably not even good at this point.
"Hello?" Gruff, male voice on the other end of the line.
"Uhhh...this call may be monitored or recorded. Can I speak to Jimmy Smith?"
Sigh. "Yeah, this is Jimmy."
My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard. "Mr. Smith, I believe I have a business matter of yours in our office, but I need to make sure I'm speaking to the correct person. Are the last four digits of your social security number 1234?"
"Yeah, that's me."
Must. Remain. Calm.
"Ummmm...Mr. Smith, my name is Nick and I'm calling regarding your defaulted student loan debt of $2,000."
Another sigh. "Aw, shit."
Click.
I stared at the screen for a moment, turned and saw Becki looking over my shoulder.
"Not bad," she said. "You'll do just fine here."
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
And that post vanished too - sorry
I attempted to write something about the concept of broken things, but it ended up being way too personal for me to want to post. So it sits in the hard drive - better to have written it, but even better not to have posted it.
I also realized from looking at the listing that I've posted absolutely nothing of substance for a solid month, which is about 5 years in blog time. It's been a roller coaster of a month. I'm hoping some of it settles out this week, but I'm not holding my breath on a lot of it.
In the meantime, I'm still working as a substitute textbook clerk at a Rochester area high school due to the RCSD hiring freeze - no one can move into the position until the freeze is lifted. Kinda odd, but there it is.
More later.
I also realized from looking at the listing that I've posted absolutely nothing of substance for a solid month, which is about 5 years in blog time. It's been a roller coaster of a month. I'm hoping some of it settles out this week, but I'm not holding my breath on a lot of it.
In the meantime, I'm still working as a substitute textbook clerk at a Rochester area high school due to the RCSD hiring freeze - no one can move into the position until the freeze is lifted. Kinda odd, but there it is.
More later.
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