At last Neo has returned from Paris. But, to my extreme dismay, he has returned empty-handed. He was unable to find the book I had requested, and he did not bring me back any consolatory souvenir in its stead.
My hopes for a borderline inappropriate boss-secretary gift exchange have been dashed to pieces, but being a good sport, I step into Neo's office to thank him anyway.
He glosses over his travels to Paris, Cannes, St. Tropez, then asks me how things have been.
“Oh, okay. You know, same old stuff.” I thank him for having had me write a complaint letter to Werizon Wireless, admitting that, second only to taking care of the office plants, it was the most exciting task I completed last week. I somehow segue this into saying that I’m a terrible secretary, to which he protests that I shouldn’t sell myself short; of course, we all know who’s got the correct assessment of my skills in this situation.
Neo somehow segues my self-deprecation into me ghostwriting a book for him. Non-fiction, maybe 100 pages or so. This is the third time this week that someone is commissioning me to write something, a freakish clusterfuck of opportunity, but I tenatively accept, taking on more than I can chew, as usual.
Neo says we can talk about it more later, if it sounds like something I might be interested in. I ask him what the subject matter is. “Well,” he muses in his heavy Russian accent, with what seems like a hint of hesitation, “a few years ago, I wanted to start a club… no, not a club, that’s not what I’d say it is; a sort of community.”
“What do you mean?” His hesitation has piqued my curiosity, and I have a subconscious hunch I know what he’s talking about.
“It’s a… a rather self-conscious subject… but we can talk about it in more depth another time.”
The door to Neo's office is wide open; over the weekend we installed a gigantic mahogany desk that just barely blocks the swing of his door for the time being, preventing him from closing himself off from the rest of the office. His book is nothing he wants to discuss within earshot of the entire staff, and I sense he is growing timid despite his initial bravado in asking me to ghostwrite his book.
It is then that my subconscious hunch propels itself to the surface of my mind in a startling realization:
Could it be? Are my most unreasonable wishes for the most ridiculous of situations being granted, here in this executive black leather swivel chair? Will Neo be asking me to ghostwrite a book for him… about S&M??????
Oh boy; this book is more inappropriate a gift than I could ever have ever asked for.
24 September 2010
21 September 2010
Dumb and Lucky
I am walking back from a lunch date with my friend Rashad, recounting my half-facetious expectations for unnecessarily luxurious gifts from my boss Neo.
Rashad shakes his head. He scoffs at my audacity, and he recounts the mere week of paid vacation he may or may not receive after a year of indentured servitude at Café Gypsy. He thinks I need a reality check.
He’s right, in his own right. But as I see it, he is currently carrying two bottles of $100 scotch for me, something I am purchasing as an errand for my boss Istanbul. Istanbul is planning to give it to two of our office tech guys for helping out on a big project. Congrats, expensive booze.
Reality, in my case, seems to be skewed in favor of extravagance and absurdity.
“I think you like to put yourself in these ridiculous situations,” Rashad postulates, “because it gives you stuff to write about.”
“Clearly,” I respond, without hesitation. “And so what?”
Rashad shrugs, “Good point.”
He walks me to my office entrance, as he’s off to Café Gypsy for a 10-hour shift. I’m heading back to work, coming off an hour-and-a-half lunch break from my seven-hour shift.
“Have fun pulling shots of espresso,” I bid him.
“Have fun throwing back shots of scotch in your cubicle,” he bids me. We hug goodbye; until next lunch date.
I must say, some of what happens to me is self-inflicted; I don’t mind tying my own body to the tracks, if the moment calls for it. Honestly, though, much of my daily hilarity is pure dumb luck.
Which has to be how some of the people at Badvertiser see me: dumb and lucky.
Rashad shakes his head. He scoffs at my audacity, and he recounts the mere week of paid vacation he may or may not receive after a year of indentured servitude at Café Gypsy. He thinks I need a reality check.
He’s right, in his own right. But as I see it, he is currently carrying two bottles of $100 scotch for me, something I am purchasing as an errand for my boss Istanbul. Istanbul is planning to give it to two of our office tech guys for helping out on a big project. Congrats, expensive booze.
Reality, in my case, seems to be skewed in favor of extravagance and absurdity.
“I think you like to put yourself in these ridiculous situations,” Rashad postulates, “because it gives you stuff to write about.”
“Clearly,” I respond, without hesitation. “And so what?”
Rashad shrugs, “Good point.”
He walks me to my office entrance, as he’s off to Café Gypsy for a 10-hour shift. I’m heading back to work, coming off an hour-and-a-half lunch break from my seven-hour shift.
“Have fun pulling shots of espresso,” I bid him.
“Have fun throwing back shots of scotch in your cubicle,” he bids me. We hug goodbye; until next lunch date.
I must say, some of what happens to me is self-inflicted; I don’t mind tying my own body to the tracks, if the moment calls for it. Honestly, though, much of my daily hilarity is pure dumb luck.
Which has to be how some of the people at Badvertiser see me: dumb and lucky.
20 September 2010
Role-playing
One of the few creatively fulfilling tasks I perform at Badvertiser is writing complaint letters for my boss Neo. For some reason, he has a multitude of things to complain about, and moreover, he likes to complain about them in a legally documented matter, signed in black ink. Fortunately, I love complaining—in which case, my complaint letters are veritable masterpieces, second only to the limited-edition series of poop signs I was honorably commissioned to draft in my first month or so at Badvertiser.
Neo’s away on a business trip in France, but he emailed me last week, asking me to write a letter about a poor Werizon Wireless customer service experience he encountered before leaving the country. The details of the debacle weren’t nearly as intriguing as the post script:
“Do you want anything from Paris?”
Maybe we’re just becoming good friends; I water the plant in his office, and he asks me questions about how my other jobs are going. We talk about screenwriting a lot, as we have since my days at Café Gypsy, serving Neo as a customer.
Or maybe we aren’t good friends; maybe he’s just the prototypical executive who has no handle on the minutiae of everyday life; one time, as a special errand, I went to return a defective digital recorder he purchased for a pronunciation class, only to find that it functioned perfectly well when I inserted batteries. maybe he needs me, his prototypical secretary, to play the paid role of assistant/wife.
But even so, can’t a boss buy a secretary expensive foreign things?
Being the moderately honorable person that I am, I resisted asking Neo to bring me back anything I couldn’t afford to buy myself, a tenet to which I stubbornly adhere when it comes to anyone buying me anything, especially men. So, disappointingly, I merely requested that he bring me back a French copy of a book I’ve been trying to track down for a friend of mine.
A lackluster request, I know. I’m just not one to drool over Italian leather purses.
Food, on the other hand... let’s just say I won’t turn down a jar of French black truffles, if Neo so chooses to define what seems to be our budding prototypical executive-secretary relationship.
Neo’s away on a business trip in France, but he emailed me last week, asking me to write a letter about a poor Werizon Wireless customer service experience he encountered before leaving the country. The details of the debacle weren’t nearly as intriguing as the post script:
“Do you want anything from Paris?”
Maybe we’re just becoming good friends; I water the plant in his office, and he asks me questions about how my other jobs are going. We talk about screenwriting a lot, as we have since my days at Café Gypsy, serving Neo as a customer.
Or maybe we aren’t good friends; maybe he’s just the prototypical executive who has no handle on the minutiae of everyday life; one time, as a special errand, I went to return a defective digital recorder he purchased for a pronunciation class, only to find that it functioned perfectly well when I inserted batteries. maybe he needs me, his prototypical secretary, to play the paid role of assistant/wife.
But even so, can’t a boss buy a secretary expensive foreign things?
Being the moderately honorable person that I am, I resisted asking Neo to bring me back anything I couldn’t afford to buy myself, a tenet to which I stubbornly adhere when it comes to anyone buying me anything, especially men. So, disappointingly, I merely requested that he bring me back a French copy of a book I’ve been trying to track down for a friend of mine.
A lackluster request, I know. I’m just not one to drool over Italian leather purses.
Food, on the other hand... let’s just say I won’t turn down a jar of French black truffles, if Neo so chooses to define what seems to be our budding prototypical executive-secretary relationship.
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