but I’m the one who feels bad. I hurt her feelings.
And as I bundle up, I wonder what I really know of judging hearts. I feel like I can’t find my own. Mostly, I feel alone. Even with Dot, sometimes I feel alone. Reading into a little recording device for the blind revising literature, I feel alone. Maybe the only time I don’t feel alone is when I see myself on that screen, existing in the future—maybe only where there are two of me. Really, though, maybe even then.
Alone is alone. Sometimes I think I’ve got a permanent condition.
Godfrey
FROG CALLS
When I arrive at my desk at the Department of Unclaimed Goods, there’s a note on my chair from my boss, Chapman: We need you in Lost Cell Phones—all afternoon. —C.
Chapman is an idiotic prick—the kind of idiotic prick who knows he’s an idiotic prick and uses this knowledge against himself before you can. It’s kind of brilliant. When I went in for my annual review last year and asked for a raise—because Madge badgered me with little speeches that ended You’ve got to ask to receive— Chapman rubbed his chest and said, “You can die from a duodenal ulcer, can’t you?” I said, “I think you can. Um, did you hear my question?” And Chapman said, “About the raise? Didn’t I say no? I thought I said no in the middle of the question. I must have just said no in my head and thought I’d said it aloud.”
Because Chapman is an idiot and a prick, it’s hard to tell whether this temporary demotion to Lost Cell Phones is a mix-up—maybe Chapman has confused me with someone of a lower rank—or a reprimand for a fake doctor’s appointment. Either way, I’m pissed. Lost Cell Phones is the lowest rung on the ladder and it’s the only office lodged in the basement, which is cold and damp and feels like a basement. It’s where most everyone starts out. I moved up from there two years ago and I never planned on going back.
I punch in before walking down the rows of cubicles, angrily wrestling my jacket. Standing in front of Bart, I say, “Where’s Garrett?”
“How’s your gallbladder?”
“Fine. Where’s Garrett?”
Bart shrugs.
“Chapman’s put me in Lost Cell Phones.”
“Shit.”
“I take a few hours of personal time and I end up in Lost Cell Phones? Is that fair?”
“Personal time? I thought it was medical.”
“That’s what I mean.” I lean against Bart’s desk so that I can look down on the bald spot of Art Gunston in the next cubicle. “Where’s Garrett?” I ask Gunston.
Gunston looks up, startled, as if God is speaking to him, but then he sees it’s just me. “Oh, you.” I once stamped UNCLAIMED on Gunston’s cheek while he was sleeping on the job, and he didn’t take it with the good humor in which I obviously intended it. There’s been tension ever since.
“Where’s Garrett? He’s supposed to be in Lost Cell Phones.”
“He’s driving the truck.”
“The truck?” I say, astonished. “The fucking truck?”
Bart doesn’t like this at all either. “I’ve never driven the truck,” he says sullenly.
“He has some kind of license,” Gunston says. “Chapman just found out. So he’s doing pickups.”
“And so I’m the one Chapman tells to take over in Lost Cell Phones?” I’ve got a year’s seniority on Gunston, easy.
“Ha!” Gunston says smugly.
“Shut up,” Bart says.
“What?” Gunston asks innocently.
“You know what,” I say.
TH E BASEMENT SMELLS OF mildew. The lights are dim. They’re fluorescent, which is how Bart avoided starting out here. He claimed he was an epileptic and that the fluorescent lights could cause a fit. Chapman demanded a physician’s note, which Bart got from his brother-in-law’s cousin, a podiatrist in Boca. That’s the kind of typical shit Bart does that I find both despicable and admirable.
I didn’t want this job. I have a college degree in business. Madge wasn’t the first to talk me out of early education, to be fair. My freshman-year
And as I bundle up, I wonder what I really know of judging hearts. I feel like I can’t find my own. Mostly, I feel alone. Even with Dot, sometimes I feel alone. Reading into a little recording device for the blind revising literature, I feel alone. Maybe the only time I don’t feel alone is when I see myself on that screen, existing in the future—maybe only where there are two of me. Really, though, maybe even then.
Alone is alone. Sometimes I think I’ve got a permanent condition.
Godfrey
FROG CALLS
When I arrive at my desk at the Department of Unclaimed Goods, there’s a note on my chair from my boss, Chapman: We need you in Lost Cell Phones—all afternoon. —C.
Chapman is an idiotic prick—the kind of idiotic prick who knows he’s an idiotic prick and uses this knowledge against himself before you can. It’s kind of brilliant. When I went in for my annual review last year and asked for a raise—because Madge badgered me with little speeches that ended You’ve got to ask to receive— Chapman rubbed his chest and said, “You can die from a duodenal ulcer, can’t you?” I said, “I think you can. Um, did you hear my question?” And Chapman said, “About the raise? Didn’t I say no? I thought I said no in the middle of the question. I must have just said no in my head and thought I’d said it aloud.”
Because Chapman is an idiot and a prick, it’s hard to tell whether this temporary demotion to Lost Cell Phones is a mix-up—maybe Chapman has confused me with someone of a lower rank—or a reprimand for a fake doctor’s appointment. Either way, I’m pissed. Lost Cell Phones is the lowest rung on the ladder and it’s the only office lodged in the basement, which is cold and damp and feels like a basement. It’s where most everyone starts out. I moved up from there two years ago and I never planned on going back.
I punch in before walking down the rows of cubicles, angrily wrestling my jacket. Standing in front of Bart, I say, “Where’s Garrett?”
“How’s your gallbladder?”
“Fine. Where’s Garrett?”
Bart shrugs.
“Chapman’s put me in Lost Cell Phones.”
“Shit.”
“I take a few hours of personal time and I end up in Lost Cell Phones? Is that fair?”
“Personal time? I thought it was medical.”
“That’s what I mean.” I lean against Bart’s desk so that I can look down on the bald spot of Art Gunston in the next cubicle. “Where’s Garrett?” I ask Gunston.
Gunston looks up, startled, as if God is speaking to him, but then he sees it’s just me. “Oh, you.” I once stamped UNCLAIMED on Gunston’s cheek while he was sleeping on the job, and he didn’t take it with the good humor in which I obviously intended it. There’s been tension ever since.
“Where’s Garrett? He’s supposed to be in Lost Cell Phones.”
“He’s driving the truck.”
“The truck?” I say, astonished. “The fucking truck?”
Bart doesn’t like this at all either. “I’ve never driven the truck,” he says sullenly.
“He has some kind of license,” Gunston says. “Chapman just found out. So he’s doing pickups.”
“And so I’m the one Chapman tells to take over in Lost Cell Phones?” I’ve got a year’s seniority on Gunston, easy.
“Ha!” Gunston says smugly.
“Shut up,” Bart says.
“What?” Gunston asks innocently.
“You know what,” I say.
TH E BASEMENT SMELLS OF mildew. The lights are dim. They’re fluorescent, which is how Bart avoided starting out here. He claimed he was an epileptic and that the fluorescent lights could cause a fit. Chapman demanded a physician’s note, which Bart got from his brother-in-law’s cousin, a podiatrist in Boca. That’s the kind of typical shit Bart does that I find both despicable and admirable.
I didn’t want this job. I have a college degree in business. Madge wasn’t the first to talk me out of early education, to be fair. My freshman-year
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