I had been fired from my corporate job for calling in sick too many times. I had been fired on a Friday, and started my new job the following Monday. It was a low paying, weekend working, zero benefits, start up company that more-or-less stayed afloat on the false promise of “commission”. It was advertised as a receptionist position, which would later hold the training strategy of a sales position- an underhanded attempt to put any ass in their chairs to compensate for their soaring turn-over rate in every department.
My interview was actually just a meeting with three middle-aged men with ring imprints on their fingers, wedding bands probably shoved into their ash trays. I tried so hard to take them seriously as they childishly gazed at the 22 year old in the room. I left laughing, “Yeah fucking right, never in a million years.” I told my roommates at home that night while lighting the joint hanging from my lips. But after a conversation with my father that night, which I thought would end with him “maybe”, “possibly’ covering my bills for the following month- I was back on the phone with the hiring manager the next morning, accepting my new role as the fresh piece of meat at the front desk.
So there I was on my first day, 5 minutes late- just to set the precedent for my employment there. The office was tiny. Four cubicles lined up outside a tiny office with a tiny window that looked out at the vast warehouse. I only knew my office manager apart from the technicians buzzing through the office because he was at my interview. Before I left my interview, clearly turned off by the whole interview experience, he shook my hand 3-seconds too long, and then very specifically pointed out his cell phone number on his business card. “Call me anytime.” He smiled a bright squinty eyed smile. I had glanced down at the glossy business card now in my hand. Wait. Is this guy’s first name really Red Cloud?
Job requirements included answering the phone when it rang, giving buzz cuts to the technicians in the warehouse on the weekends, and making sure the office Labrador had a bowl of water. I quickly became familiar with various garage door components, what my boss liked on his sandwiches, and one particular phone number that called in a few times a day. We had technicians in different cities across the state, and the best part of the job was getting to talk to them to hear about their days- most of them hated the the company as much as I did. One technician in Stockton was always exploding through the phone with jokes and impersonations and foul mouthed humor. Aside from his name, all I knew about him was his phone number, his love for Redlines, and that he really fucking hated being in traffic. His phone calls were my favorite.
One quiet Saturday morning we were over-staffed with managers in the office, myself being the only dispatcher. They each took a turn between phone calls to ask if I had plans that weekend, or if I was dating anyone, where did I grow up? Maybe I could come over and barbecue with them on Sunday night. “I really should be getting paid more for this,” I would remind them occasionally while ignoring all their elementary flirting.
A company truck pulled into the warehouse through the roll up door, and all at once they were on their feet, echoing with banter as they headed out to the warehouse to greet the technician that just arrived. I leaned back in my chair to check the clock, literally feeling every second tick.
The back door swung open and suddenly the air filled with the same roaring laughter that I’d been romancing for the past few months. I got a lump in my throat as his beautiful blue-green ocean eyes bee-lined it to my desk, the only occupied desk in the office. “Hi,” he announced with every ounce of enthusiasm, his right hand already out, ready to envelope mine, the lights swinging from the ceiling as I slowly drowned in his sea of perfection.
“I’m Jeremiah.”
Wild Little Hare 