A Work of Fiction.
Chapter 1
“Jimmy, you know, you should dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” Bob smiled warmly, as if he had just dispensed sage advice on a loving disciple.
I hated my job, and Bob Roop was a big reason why. He was only five years older than me, but he insisted upon treating me (the whole team, really) like we were children. I can’t remember how many times I had sworn to myself, “If he calls me ‘Jimmy’ one more time, I’m going to drop a monitor on his head.” Luckily for him, I’m very non-confrontational, or as my ex-wife liked to call me, “a pussy.”
“Bobby,” I replied, “I am dressing for the job I want. I want a job sitting around my apartment drinking beer and chatting online with hot babes, all day.”
He laughed. “Who are you kidding? If you had a job like that you wouldn’t even put on pants.”
He had a point.
“Jimbo, technically you’re within the dress code rules. You’ve got on a collared shirt, and you’re not wearing jeans. But look at Steve, for example; pressed shirt, dark slacks, and shoes he didn’t steal from a hobo.”
A hobo? What is this, 1923?
“Yeah, and he spends all day writhing in his chair because he’s wearing wool pants in July and it’s giving his ass a rash. Bob, if I’m uncomfortable, I don’t do my job well. Comfort for me means sneakers and clothes made of unnatural fabrics that don’t make me scratch my junk all afternoon.”
Bob took a long sip from his coffee mug, something he did when he wanted to seem thoughtful. “Fine, but remember; promotions tend to go to guys who dress the part.”
I took a deep breath to prevent myself punching him in the balls. “We’ve been over this. I don’t want a promotion. I want to keep typing away at my computer, getting periodic cost-of-living raises, until someone like you gives me a heart attack by bugging me about my damn collared shirt. Now, I’ve got fifty emails to read and a conference call that starts in one minute. Can I get back to my job?”
Without waiting for an answer, I put on my headset and started dialing into the conference call. Bob stood there for a minute, trying to look intimidating, and walked back to his office.
A chat window popped up on my monitor. It was Steve, being a smart-ass.
S.Albert: u know, it wouldn’t hurt u to buy 1 nice pair of pants!!
J.Graves: Suck it, Steve.
S.Albert: im just sayin, if u wanted to go shopping later i have some time before i meet angela tonite, we could get u a couple shirts and slacks
The last thing I wanted to do was spend any more time with Steve than I already had to. Angela was his latest flame, and every hour you spent in his presence required you to listen to at least 45 minutes of detail about their spectacular sex life.
J.Graves: Hey Steve, you have a pendejo hanging off your mustache again.
S.Albert: a what
J.Graves: Look it up.
I closed the window and logged out of chat, just for a few hours, until my glowing hatred of all humanity had dimmed.
