I’ve decided the side-effects of my anti-convulsants aren’t really all bad. My whole life I’ve struggled with the relentless compulsion to be “nice.” Now, I’m exploring the joys of being a committed bastard when circumstances warrant. Of course, Beret has reminded me that our house is not a place where circumstances typically “warrant,” so I’ve begun to look for other venues to use my new powers For Good. Last weekend, a choice opportunity arose; we received our latest “bundled” telecom bill. I decided it contained enough excess, outrage and malfeasance to justify an in-person Monday morning visit to the nearby branch of our provider. I loaded up the dead cable box we were still paying for, the creepy home surveillance kit they forced on us, our last three months’ bills, and my best can of medication-infused whup-ass.
The “next available agent” looked a perfect match: square-built, no-neck, and enough testosterone to withstand my abuse without inducing guilt. I informed him that none of this was personal but that his employer was a fraudulent, racketeering outfit on a par with the Medellin Cartel, and that I wanted the offending items Off My Bill. He initially resisted, so I got enthusiastically irate. By my third stanza, the rep (I’ll call him “Troy”) had gone docile, punctuating my tantrum with an occasional “fine,” and waiting for me to stop. He removed all the offending charges without further argument or much comment. Finally calming down, I looked, for the first time, at his face. It was ashen – in fact, miserable.
“You look like you’re in pain.”
“Yeah, man, it’s my back.”
“Really? My wife is dealing with that.”
“Oh, it f**king hurts. Four years of linebacker at Chatfield High. 5A football. I used to clean-and-press 350. You know — all that pressure on the spine? I had no idea. Now my discs are all blown out. Five of them. They give me the epidural shots, but nothing works. And what am I — like, 38 years old?” As he spoke, the mass of his once-ferocious physique bulged out of his flimsy company shirt, and he rolled compulsively from one buttock to the other on his flimsy company chair. Troy was in agony, and it was only 9:15 a.m.
“Look,” he pleaded. “I can do everything you want. And I’ll even take an extra 30 bucks off your bill for your aggravation. But –” he paused – “You’ll have to take HBO. The company won’t let me go down in service. It has to keep going up, no matter what. It just has to. I don’t condone it. But it’s just . . .” His eyes met mine, flat, waiting for another tirade.
I had no heart for it. “I appreciate your admitting it, at least. I mean, that’s where we all are, right? We all have to keep going up. OK, I’ll take the HBO.”
I rose to go, having saved $70, which I knew would be cut back to $40 if I called back later to eliminate the unwanted service, or else jacked back up the same amount in three months if I didn’t. Troy smiled, weakly grateful. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“You’ll get a call from my supervisor later today, asking about my service. Could you rate me a 5?”
I said sure. I guess my dosage still needs to go up several more notches before I can properly play this game, when the other side makes such clever use of human shields.