OCTOBER 1ST SPECIAL — ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
September 30 finally gave me an answer.
Not a good answer.
But an answer.
After approximately two weeks of sitting in employment purgatory while Haus Morgenrot apparently convened the Council of Elrond to determine whether Mr. Germlin still worked there, somebody finally picked up the ceremonial HR telephone.
Terminated.
There.
Done.
Finished.
The employment relationship had ceased to be.
Mr. Germlin was an ex-Germlin.
The paycheck machine had been unplugged.
I had spent two weeks asking one incredibly complicated question:
“Do I still have a fucking job?”
And after fourteen-ish days of smoke signals, carrier pigeons, interpretive dance, and whatever other communication system Haus Morgenrot was apparently using, I finally received an answer.
No.
Okay.
Fine.
I didn't like the answer.
But at least we had successfully advanced from:
?????
to:
NO.
Progress!
So I went to bed September 30 with the comforting knowledge that tomorrow would be October.
A fresh month.
A clean slate.
Surely October would allow me approximately one business day to process recent events.
October looked at September.
October looked at me.
October cracked open a beer.
“Hey.”
Oh no.
“What?”
“Hold this.”
THE 713 NUMBER
October 1.
My phone rings.
713.
Houston.
Now, I have developed a complicated relationship with mysterious 713 numbers.
Because lately, answering one feels like spinning the world's shittiest Wheel of Fortune.
RIIIIIIIIING.
Come on, recruiter.
Come on, recruiter.
Come on—
“Hello! My name is Marie!”
FUCK.
Marie is not necessarily a specific person.
Marie is a concept.
Marie is an institution.
Marie is the disembodied spirit inhabiting every telephone number that wants to discuss something I neither requested nor qualify for.
Marie may be calling regarding:
additional benefits,
final-expense insurance,
a supplemental plan,
something involving my card,
something involving somebody else's card,
something vaguely adjacent to healthcare,
or an incredible opportunity available exclusively to people who possess:
MEDICARE PART A AND PART B.
Do I have Medicare Part A and Part B?
No.
Does this prevent Marie from finding me?
Also no.
Marie does not care about mortal limitations.
Marie has a headset.
Marie has a script.
Marie has my fucking number.
Somewhere in an office beyond time and space, Marie awakens every morning and whispers:
“Today he may finally have Medicare.”
He does not, Marie.
He is 44.
Please update the prophecy.
So normally when 713-MYSTERY-BULLSHIT appears on my screen, I already know the boss music.
But I've been experimenting with what I call the Semi-Yes-Man Doctrine.
Not full Yes Man.
Full Yes Man is how you wake up in Nevada married to a circus performer while financing a timeshare.
We don't do that.
Semi-Yes-Man simply says:
Eh. Answer the phone.
Worst-case scenario?
Marie.
I already know how to defeat Marie.
“I don't have Medicare A and B.”
click
Encounter complete.
+3 XP.
No loot.
So I answered.
WAIT.
“Hey, Mr. Clark, my name is Dylan…”
Hold on.
That's not Marie.
“…I'm with staffing…”
STAFFING?
“…you applied to one of my open positions…”
WAIT.
WAIT WAIT WAIT.
Jerry.
JERRY.
GET IN HERE.
Tiny raccoon footsteps approach at alarming speed.
JERRY:
What?
ME:
This 713 number knows what a résumé is.
JERRY:
Impossible.
ME:
SHUT UP. I'M LISTENING.
The man starts talking about a general labor position.
Then masonry.
Then a project.
Then long-term work.
Then approximately:
6:00 AM–4:00 PM.
Ten-hour days.
Six days a week.
And then he says:
$20 an hour.
Jerry slowly lowers the Medicare pamphlet he had prepared for the occasion.
JERRY:
…Bricks?
ME:
Apparently.
JERRY:
Twenty dollars?
ME:
Apparently.
JERRY:
Per hour?
ME:
THAT IS GENERALLY HOW HOURLY WAGES WORK, JERRY.
BRICKS
Now, I would like to clarify something about bricks.
Bricks are excellent coworkers.
A brick has never accused me of anything.
A brick has never called HR.
A brick has never required me to complete an incident report.
A brick has never asked me to cover another shift.
A brick has never hidden contraband.
A brick has never wandered away during headcount.
A brick has never generated a mandatory 6:00 AM meeting.
A brick has never looked directly at established procedure and said:
“Yeah, but what if we didn't?”
Most importantly:
BRICKS DO NOT COMPLAIN.
You put the brick where the brick goes.
The brick remains there.
Outstanding performance.
Promote the brick.
Give the brick dental.
Meanwhile, I had spent months working inside an environment where every ordinary shift possessed approximately a 14% chance of spontaneously developing a side quest.
I would arrive thinking:
Today I will be boring.
Haus Morgenrot:
NEW OBJECTIVE
Investigate hallway cat.
Goddammit.
So when this man starts describing masonry labor, somewhere deep inside my soul a little light comes on.
Physical?
Sure.
Early?
Very.
Six days?
Jesus Christ.
But conceptually?
There is something incredibly appealing about a workplace where the primary antagonist might simply be:
heavy object.
Heavy object makes sense.
Heavy object has rules.
Gravity has maintained a remarkably consistent attendance record.
OCTOBER HAS ENTERED THE CHAT
And this is the part I cannot get over.
The timing.
September 30:
“Your employment has been terminated.”
October 1:
RIIIIIIIIING.
“Hey, you interested in making $20 an hour?”
Excuse me?
I haven't even finished being unemployed yet.
My unemployment is still in the tutorial.
I haven't unlocked the unemployment skill tree.
I haven't completed the introductory mission:
OBJECTIVE:
Sit on couch and stare into middle distance.
October didn't care.
October walked into my house wearing sunglasses.
October opened my refrigerator.
October took one of my beers.
October opened a second beer.
October handed it to me.
Then October sat down beside me.
“Rough September?”
“You have no fucking idea.”
October takes a drink.
“Got fired yesterday, huh?”
“Yep.”
Another drink.
“That sucks.”
“Yep.”
October looks thoughtfully into the distance.
Then:
“You ever fuck with bricks?”
…
What?
October points toward my phone.
It's ringing.
713.
I stare at October.
October stares at me.
Jerry stares at both of us while eating something he absolutely found on the floor.
I answer.
And somewhere, perhaps, Marie feels a disturbance in the Force.
THE SEMI-YES-MAN DOCTRINE
There is probably some profound lesson here.
I refuse to find it.
Maybe the lesson is perseverance.
Maybe it's optimism.
Maybe it's answering opportunities when they appear.
Maybe it's that life can change incredibly quickly.
Maybe the universe closes one door and opens another.
That's inspirational-calendar bullshit.
I don't know.
Here's what actually happened:
For two weeks, I couldn't get a straight answer about whether I had a job.
Then I finally got the answer.
No.
Approximately one sunrise later, I answered a telephone call I half expected to be another conversation about Medicare benefits I don't qualify for.
Instead, somebody wanted to talk about hiring me.
That's it.
That's the lesson.
Sometimes life does not provide a meaningful narrative.
Sometimes life throws random shit at your head until something useful accidentally hits you.
So I remain a Semi-Yes Man.
I will not say yes to everything.
That is insanity.
But every once in a while?
Answer the weird number.
Open the suspicious email.
Submit the application you think probably won't go anywhere.
Talk to the recruiter.
See what happens.
Because sometimes it's Marie.
Sometimes it's bullshit.
Sometimes it's nothing.
And sometimes—
it's bricks.
UPDATE: THE DOCTRINE HAS ALREADY GONE TO SHIT
I would like everyone to understand that I wrote the preceding wisdom on October 1.
October 1 was apparently reading over my shoulder.
Because shortly afterward:
RIIIIIIIIING.
Another local number.
This time:
281.
Well.
We have established the doctrine.
Answer the damn phone.
So I answer.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Silence.
Okay.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen seconds.
Twenty seconds.
Still nothing.
Now, there are several mature and reasonable responses available when one receives a telephone call where nobody speaks for twenty consecutive seconds.
You can hang up.
You can say hello again.
You can wait patiently.
You can assume some automated dialing system has shit itself.
I chose:
Jason Voorhees.
Haaaaaaaah…
Haaaaaaaah…
Haaaaaaaah…
The kind of breathing that says:
You have called the wrong cabin.
And wouldn't you fucking know it—
A VOICE APPEARED.
Excuse me?
Twenty seconds of normal human silence accomplished nothing.
But the moment I transformed the telephone call into Friday the 13th: Harris County, suddenly somebody remembered how vocal cords work.
VOICE:
“Hello?”
OH.
HELLO.
THE SUMMONING RITUAL WORKED.
Jerry comes running back into the room.
JERRY:
WHAT DID YOU DO?
ME:
I FOUND THE CALLER.
JERRY:
WHERE WERE THEY?
ME:
APPARENTLY TRAPPED IN THE SHADOW REALM UNTIL JASON SUMMONED THEM.
So we have already discovered an important amendment to the Semi-Yes-Man Doctrine.
Sometimes you answer the suspicious number and receive a job opportunity.
Sometimes you answer the suspicious number and receive silence.
And sometimes the only way to determine whether another human being is actually on the line is to begin breathing like you're standing outside somebody's cabin holding a machete.
I don't make the rules.
October apparently does.
THE REVISED SEMI-YES-MAN DOCTRINE
Rule One:
Occasionally answer suspicious local numbers.
It might be employment.
Rule Two:
If somebody immediately starts discussing Medicare Part A and B, Marie has found you.
Deploy established countermeasures.
Rule Three:
If nobody speaks for twenty seconds, initiate horror-movie protocol.
Haaaaaaaah…
Haaaaaaaah…
Haaaaaaaah…
Rule Four:
If Jason breathing causes a human being to suddenly materialize:
Congratulations.
You have successfully established that the call was not entirely automated.
Further research is required.
Rule Five:
Do not become Full Yes Man.
We still have standards.
MR. JERRY'S UNSOLICITED ADVICE
If life calls from a suspicious 713 number, you are under no obligation to answer.
But if you do?
Give it about ten seconds before telling Marie you don't have Medicare.
Apparently sometimes the motherfucker has a job.
If life calls from a 281 number and then refuses to speak?
Give it twenty seconds.
After that, apparently we're allowed to become Jason.
I didn't write the rules.
I merely document the science.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Senior Vice President of Questionable Telecommunications and Applied Telephone Necromancy
POST-CREDITS SCENE
October takes another drink.
“So, Germlin.”
“Yeah?”
“You ready?”
“For what?”
October smiles.
I immediately become concerned.
“October?”
October finishes the beer.
“October, what the fuck does that mean?”
Jerry begins slowly backing out of the room.
JERRY, DON'T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME HERE.
October reaches for another beer.
My phone rings.
I look at the screen.
Jerry looks at the screen.
October looks at the screen.
Nobody moves.
RIIIIIIIIING.
…
Haaaaaaaah…
FAAAAAAAK.