| A Sort Of An Ego Thing Part III... |
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random excerpts of the Basement Journals. |
May 11, 2006 ... Buzz Fugazi
One of my ex-wives hooked me up with one of her ex-boyfriends and his buddy and they let me crash on their couch for a month in Wicker Park. The neighborhood was in early transition following Bucktown's gentrification, but the Busy Bee was still open beneath the Damen El and the westside grunge was still prevelant in the decor. Wicker Park was one of the few places in Chicago where I could get into a fun basketball game equally mixed between ghetto brothers and white boys. Most of the other places I played in the city were either mostly black, mostly white, or mostly hispanic. Playing at Cicero Stadium was mixed, but also a good place to get an elbow or a basketball buried in your face, so not quite as fun as the Wicker Park games which were active enough to make you break a sweat, but usually just running, passing, shooting, blocking, and rebounding. Not a lot of physical banging.
My First Downtown Office Job
from a letter to V.I. Pete
28 April 1996
Nelson Algren Av.
Wicker Park
Chicago, IL
A funny thing happened with my opportunity at Stress-Sat, "a growing young hi-tech company" located in a swank downtown location. First, I got the gig: 7a-4p, 40 hrs. reception plus general office, data entry, etc. at 7.50 pr. hr... with an additional 10 hrs. at time and a half. I was told on Wednesday that I would definitely be starting that Friday; so with my hopes raised, I got a call on Thursday: the punk bastards didn't want to pay time and a half for o.t. Instead of one 50 hour job, they decided to cut it into two 25 hour gigs.
Meanwhile my time at Road Kill Lil's apartment was running down and the park benches were calling my name.
Happily, after a few extra days of unemployment without compensation, there was a compromise: there would be a 40 hr. pr. wk. job for me.
My first day was Monday. There was very little in the way of orientation, and I was thrown straight into it. Stress-Sat is an international sattelite communications network. Their main deal is providing commodities dealers fresh market numbers from around the world. Early every morning, each client gets a huge report on closing figures overseas. Every morning there's a massive wave of "broken ribbons" and "jammed printers" so the clients call for a re-transmission so they can get duplicate reports. This was done by punching a code to our sub-let piece of commercial sattelite. My job was to take down SAT #'s for the uptight Frat Techie (One memorable quote about a client from Frat Techie: "That Jew asshole is always calling here! Don't get me wrong... I'm not prejudiced or anything, but this guy is a real Jew asshole! You'll learn"). People also call in with whatever technical problems they're having with their SAT dish, receiver, computer, printer, or whatever audio or video signals they're supposed to get.
My second and last day was Tuesday. Our transmission signal somehow got jammed by another company and herds of our clients called in a simultaneous panic.
"My status light is red!"
"I didn't get the whole report!"
"Is it on our end or your end?"
Spanky, the President of Stress-Sat, was at his morning cancer treatment. Smiling Jack, the VP, was trying to get the system back on line. Frat Techie was wrapped up in a technical problem which may have been related to the problem at hand, or possibly related to something I kept hearing about a law suit and earlier work gone bad... so I was alone to deal with six lines ringing at once; many calls by angry or otherwise hysterical Type A brokers who'd launch into a description of what their system was doing or not doing, demanding an immediate solution.
I handled it fairly well. However, by the time the situation was under control, Stress-Sat looked like a company burning up in orbit. I think they lost a lot of clients.
Whatever the case, Spanky was in a fury. He screamed at Frat Techie:
"ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?
DID YOU FINISH THE PROJECT?
DO YOU KNOW HOW TO FINISH THE PROJECT?
Answer me!
YOU ARE FUCKING STUPID! YOU DON'T HAVE A BRAIN IN YOUR HEAD!
Finish the project, then get out! I don't ever want to see your face here again!
YOU'RE FIRED!
YOU DISGUST ME!"
Spanky was still fuming when Slick, one of our sales guys, called for him. He was on hold and I stood facing Spanky and his tantrum with Frat, waiting for him to take a pause so I could tell him.
Finally, he noticed I wanted to tell him something. He screamed: "WHAT?"
I was a bit nervous and off-balance and said, "Frat... I mean, Slick, is on line one for you."
"DON'T YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK IS ON THE PHONE? ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID, TOO?"
"No."
"YOU'RE FIRED! Pack up your shit and get out!"
While I recovered from the shock and gathered my things, I could hear Spanky in the men's room repeatedly slamming the steel, bullet shaped garbage can and letting out booming shrieks.
Zinfindel, Spanky's wife and assistant, called the temp agency and apologized and put in a good word for me. She said even if Spanky would change his mind, they couldn't afford to pay me.
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