You need to realize-well, you don't need to realize anything at all. But I want you to know there are four loan officers here at the main branch, and we're all good at what we do. But every time we land a strong client, Oglethorpe swoops in, bribes them with golf dates, lunches, and sports tickets, and tells them to deal with him for future loans.
"What about Buddy?" my clients say.
"Buddy's a great guy," Oglethorpe says, "but he's a worker bee. If he writes your loan it has to go to committee for approval. That's fine for the average customer, but you're top tier, so why deal with subordinates? You need money, call me, personally. I can get you same day approval."
We can't compete with Ogleshit, so we've become hamsters on a wheel, always scrambling to replace the clients he steals.
As I enter the main office, all five senses are assaulted by the contrived atmosphere some bullshit artist conned the bank's management into buying. This is supposed to appeal to customers? Who says so? And who signs off on these decisions? Who approved the blue and black geometric-patterned carpet, the plastic potted plants and fake ivy clinging to the walls, the shiny wood veneer desktops, and mind-numbing Muzak piped through the ceiling speakers? Who selected the sickening sweet air freshener that squirts a blast of "Sunny Island Breeze" every fifteen minutes the first and third weeks of the month and "Polar Ice Mist" the second and fourth?
Muzak's upbeat version of "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" is playing, as it does every two hours of every day, as it has for the past six years, as it will for the rest of my career, which apparently means Friday. The cloying tune is half over, and I've been conditioned to know that "Please Release Me," is on deck. I wonder why companies like mine pay people to make bad music sound worse.
I pass Gus, the narcoleptic security guard, and head to my desk. Along the way, I nod in the general direction of the tellers' forlorn faces, but avoid making eye contact, since I can't abide their hapless glances.
I place my briefcase on my desk and take a seat in my faux leather executive desk chair. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the beepy, electronic version of "Please Release Me" that's cuing up even as we speak. I open my eyes and flip the tabs on my briefcase to remove some papers, and feel a cold wave of evil wash over me. I look up and-
"Jesus!" I say, startled by the face that could launch a thousand shits.
Oglethorpe's secretary, Hilda, is standing over me, frowning, tapping her watch. My eyes instinctively go beyond her scowl to the faux wood clock on the wall. I'm five minutes early, which makes me ten minutes late, as per Oglethorpe's Fifth Rule of Success.
"Guess you don't care about office rules, since you're out of here on Friday," she says.
Bad as Ogleshit is, he's not the boss I wish would die.
Hilda is.
Since Ogleshit is out of the office most of the time, schmoozing my former power clients, Hilda has assumed control over the office. Everything that happens within the confines of that space is recorded in her journaclass="underline" every remark, mistake, or profanity. Every water break, bathroom break, cough, giggle, or fart.
The bitch is relentless.
Last month, deep in an audit, I noticed it was 11:30 p.m. and realized I'd been working sixteen hours. I looked across the conference table at Hilda and said, "Wow, it's almost midnight."
Hilda's look told me I was dogshit on her shoe.
"I'm fading," I said.
"Sink or swim, Pancake," she said. "Your choice."
"Can I at least get some crackers, maybe take a quick cat nap?"
"Man up, Pancake. This ain't preschool, it's your job."
I manned up, kept my job.
When my grandmother was dying in the hospital, and the rest of my family had gathered at her bedside, I asked Hilda if I could leave an hour early to share her final moments.
"You a surgeon?"
"No."
"Faith healer?"
"No."
"Not much you can do then."
"But she's dying!"
"Then let's remember her as she was, before the bad times. Wait a minute. Did she ever bake cookies for you?"
I nodded.
"Goody. Cling to that happy thought till closing time. But don't let it interfere with your work."
I know you think Hilda can't be this bad.
You're right.
She's worse.
Chapter 6
Lunch. Second best part of the day, next to closing time.
Unless I'm entertaining a client, I only get forty-five minutes, so I have to make it count. I rush out the door, jump in my eight-year-old Taurus, and head for Tokyo Blue, where every Monday they offer a discount for those who sit at the sushi bar and order off a special menu. If I can get a seat at the bar, I'll have time to make lunch happen. If not, it's burger and fries, back at my desk.
The drive is four blocks to Broadway, two to Eighth, where a nearby parking lot provides easy access to the restaurant. Naturally, the lights are timed to make me stop at every intersection, which gives me plenty of time to think about the shameful way I'd spent the morning. I'd been forced by desperation to turn to the one thing I swore I'd never do: write letters to total strangers, invoking their children's affiliation with my niece, who attends Bluegrass Academy, the city's most prestigious private school.
I have two hours to change my mind, but the letters are already in the mail bag for the two o'clock run. I felt dirty signing my name to the sixteen dreadful letters, all of which had been personalized with information I extracted from my poor niece, Reece.
I wince thinking about the expression I'll see on Lissie's face tomorrow when her sister calls to tell her the disgusting way I'm pimping loans. Would she read one of the letters aloud to my wife? Of course she wilclass="underline" Hi John and Beth, My niece, Reece, told her Aunt Lissie and me how "awesome" your daughter, Meagan is. Apparently, our girls are quite the pair! Reece isn't ours, of course, but we get her on "loan" regularly. And that thought made me wonder if Meagan's parents are getting the best possible terms on their "loans." On the chance you might benefit from the best loan rates in town, I'd like to call you Wednesday to see if we can meet on Thursday, so I can offer you a complimentary portfolio review. Sincerely, Charles 'Buddy' Pancake.
I know what you're thinking: could I possibly sink any lower? Stick around. You have no idea.
So sure, I hate myself. How could I not? But I loathe my job and my bosses even more.
How bad is my job? When I think about today's lone bright spot, this is what I come up with: I only have to hear "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" and "Please Release Me" two more times today.
Unless Hilda makes me stay till six-thirty.
In which case I'll kill myself.
Chapter 7
Tokyo Blue is filling up fast, but I spot three empty seats at the sushi bar. I claim the middle one, and within seconds a long-haired kid in a corduroy jacket and designer jeans grabs the one to my left. I can't help but notice the kid's Prada loafers and wonder how he managed to find employment that allows him to dress like this, and pays him well enough to afford it. I'm about to ask what he does for a living when I hear a voice to my right say, "What's good here?"
I turn my head to find the seat on my right occupied by an elderly lady wearing a hat that looks so ridiculous, people behind her are pointing and laughing. It's enormous, and beige, with a dozen huge, mud-brown feathers protruding a foot out the top, arranged in a circle, like some sort of aviary Stonehenge. I can't tear my eyes away from it, and wonder if maybe someone is filming the customers' uproarious reactions for a hidden camera TV show.