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November 15, 2004
Conversations at Work
My office building is chock full of PhDs. It is correspondingly full of fairly dry conversation and a virtual abscence of music. Sure, I have a crappy little stereo on my desk, but I think I'm the only one. (There is a guy in the next office over that sometimes wears headphones. I imagine him listening to music, but he could be doing some sort of work, or blocking out the egregious harmonies that wander over from my desk.)
This is quite unlike jobs I've had in the past.
I once installed HVAC systems. The guys I worked with were constantly talking about getting trashed and beating people up over the (too loud) sound of the local country station. Well, they were the day I worked with them. I quit after one day for a couple good reasons. 1 I had not idea how to install an HVAC system, and 2 I got a call from my old job rehiring me for more an hour and promoting me to Shift Manager.
That's right I got a shiny faux metallic name tag at Taco Bell. I replaced Karl. I'm not sure why Karl left, he seemed like a natural at the fast food business.
If you asked any passer by what they thought Karl's long suit was I'm sure a majority of them would say fast food. That is unless he opened his mouth, then the response would probably be "dungeons and dragons."
When Karl still worked at "the Bell" I remember a little incident. I was in back washing dishes or firing off the meat gun or something, and heard a commotion out front. Which was rare. As hard as I tried not to, the rest of the employees forced me to listen to another bad country station (I listen to classic country, but this pop/rock/country is not my bag, baby) and that's basically all I could hear.
Someone passed me on their way to the break room and I asked them what was going on.
"Some guy insists on bringing his dog in the restaurant."
What a moron, I thought.
A couple minutes later Karl came back and said my parents were there and wanted to see me...."And tell them it's against the law to bring the dog in the restaurant...And that I like your dad's accent. It's real cool. Reminds me of a Norse god or something."
My dad wasn't born in the US, and he didn't grow up here either, so he has a bit of an accent. (The thing with the dog is just because, well, umm, parents. They have to do these sorts of things when you're growing up, or else you'd want to stay at home or something.) And growing up where people don't ask "What kind of name is that?" after he tells them his last name, I'm pretty confident he's pronouncing it right.
That's how one of the PhDs here fell out of favor with me.
He was actually in favor for a while.
He was the new guy on the block and when I was introduced to him I discovered that his bad suit and bow-tie was really a cover for a profanity machine.
The guy could throw out four letter words fast than an HVAC installation specialist. I was impressed, especially since the four letter words peppered (somewhat) non-boring conversation.
Then he asked my name. I told him. He asked me what kind of name it was. I refrained from saying "a last name," and instead told him the ethnic origin.
Then he told me I was pronouncing it wrong.
What? You don't know what kind of name it is, but you know I'm pronouncing it wrong? I told him that I was pronouncing it the right way.
Then your dad is pronouncing it wrong.
Karl wouldn't say anything of the sort. Karl would have told me it was a great name for a character in planet Zolgan. Then he would have lumbered and weazed off to the the back office to eat another burrito supreme and draw dragons on a napkin.
Where have you and your witty conversation gone Karl?
Posted by calculatoronfire at November 15, 2004 09:22 PM