Welcome to Chapter VI of my novella ‘Peeved’ releasing week by week! You don’t need to read the previous chapters to know what’s happening in this story, but if you’re interested I’ll put the link to them at the bottom.
Recap
The plan was simple: speak my mind, fix the world. I’ve made enemies, lost friends, and drawn blood–some of it mine. After roasting my work nemesis at my tech support job, I got hauled into my boss Grace’s office and slapped with a written warning… for telling off a customer, Teresa, who held me hostage at the end of my shift.
Word spread fast about my written warning, but I made sure to show that I wasn’t going to budge from my newfound identity. I learned my lesson from Teresa: I needed a little more tact when calling out future inconsiderate customers. Instead of outright calling customers out, I’d cloak my comments in polite-but-assertive language. Passive-aggressive, with a dash of sash.
Time for me to be honest with you, oh faithful reader. If I tick off the remaining items from my quest:
- Make my quiet carriage always quiet
- Start a revolt at Alliance that forces management to change the company culture
- Stop my noisy neighbours from partying late at night.
…I’d be happy.
Or at least people might stop seeing me as just a little Indian geek they could slap around.
***
The next day, I had a customer who wouldn’t get off the phone because he wouldn’t stop talking about his dog.
I wanted to say, ‘Kevin, I truly don’t care about how your dog is afraid of cling wrap. Thank you for calling Alliance. Goodbye.’
But I adjusted it to, ‘Kevin, thank you for sharing your stories, but unfortunately they don’t interest me, and I do need to attend to other calls. If you wish to discuss your puppy’s adventures, might I suggest a Facebook group–or perhaps an Instagram account?’
He seemed to take it well enough. Sure, maybe he was angry, but what was he going to do–complain that I wasn’t in his dog’s life story? A normal person wouldn’t even blink.
I wasn’t being rude. I just told him the truth, politely. Hoping–praying–that next time, he’d pause and ask himself whether the person on the other end actually wanted to hear about his cling wrap trauma dog.
At work, I went with ultra-politeness.
Outside the office, was a different story.
Take what happened at lunch, a week after my written warning.
A little context before we get going:
It shouldn’t surprise you that Alliance Telecommunications had a very strict lunch policy. Return more than three minutes over your one-hour break, and you risk a written warning.
So… Wednesdays are my nacho lunch days. I sprinted down to the World Square food court and placed my usual order at Guzman y Gomez. Spicy chicken nachos with extra guacamole, since you’re dying to know.
It was busy, but I got my order in five minutes flat. I was ready to race back to the office and gorge on my cheesy bounty when I spotted him.
A portly man in a tight-fitting cream suit ordering seafood laksa.
Gerry Hayne.
My old uni friend.
I pretended not to see him, praying he’d do the same. You know… that old dance.
‘Arjun? Oh my god, is that you?’
Obviously, Gerry didn’t get the memo.
‘Gerry!,’ I said, pretending I’d just noticed him. ‘Shit, it’s been a while, man. Sorry, I’ve gotta run back to the off–’
‘It’s been forever. How’ve you been?’
‘Good, man,’ I held up my GYG bag. ‘Hey, actually I need–’
‘I can’t believe you’re still rocking the nerd look. I just got promoted to Technical Account Manager at Jobsly.’
I could feel the nachos wilting in their bag, ‘That’s great to hear, Ger–’
‘You still at Alliance?’
Before I could answer, he launched into:
‘Dude, did I tell you I almost went on a date yesterday?’
‘Tha-’
‘She bailed last minute though. I don’t know what I did.’
I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes before I’d be late. If I didn’t leave now, I’d be both unemployed and eating nacho soup.
Somehow, Gerry segued his lame dating story into talking about his new computer, ‘…it’s the newest one on the market. Water-cooled power supply–’
‘Sorry, Gerry,’ I interrupted. ‘I really have to run. My lunch break’s about to end.’
He blinked, stunned. He hated being cut off. Hypocritical arse.
I started walking away. But I turned back around.
I couldn’t let it slide.
Gerry had been a selfish prink. Nice on the outside, sure, but he didn’t give me a second to speak. He saw me holding food, clearly needing to be somewhere, and he still monologued like I was his therapist.
‘You know what, Gerry?’ I said. ‘You didn’t get an answer to any of your questions. You like the sound of your voice too much. You’re so pathetic, you’d rather talk about your overpriced piece of shit computer to overcompensate for the fact that you’re a thirty-five-year-old virgin–by the way–than actually ask someone if they have time to waste on talking to you.
His face paled.
I continued, And if you actually gave me one nanosecond to speak, that’s exactly what I would have told you: “Sorry Gerry, I’ve got to run. My break’s nearly over and if I’m late, I could lose my job.” But no. You kept flapping your mouth. So next time you want to talk your arse off, ask if someone’s busy before you launch into your latest “Tech bro can’t get date” story. Because I’m sorry to say, Ger–most people don’t have time for your shit.’
I finished.
I blinked.
It was like I woke up from a trance. I’d lost myself halfway through the rant.
The food court was dead quiet. People had stopped eating and ordering and they were gawking at us.
Gerry’s jaw hung open.
Shit.
Someone probably already posted a video titled ‘Indian Nerd Melts Down in Food Court’.
There were probably TikToks of me right now, remixing the rant into a drill beat.
‘Overcompensate, overcompensate, thirty-five-year-old virgin state…’
Fuck it.
I ran.
***
I sprinted into the office with a stitch in my side. Every breath felt like it would collapse a lung.
I ran to my desk and punched the break code from ‘Lunch’ to ‘After Call Work’.
The break report sc screen blinked up.
Lunch: 1 hour 2 minutes 56 seconds.
4 more seconds and I would’ve been fired.
I peeked into my nacho bag with dread.
I opened the box. My worst fears, realised.
It was a swamp. A mushy, soup, guac-smeared mess.
Only one nacho survived. The others had perished in battle.
So much for Nacho Wednesday.
Thanks, Gerry.
Isaiah Prasad 