Her foot is on the pedal and her head is in the stars. Joy was a Bettie Page styled hottie on a mission. After a chance encounter with Nick Joy finds a kindred spirit but is she just too much for him to handle?
Hang on tight, this girl drives as...
I had finally drifted off, and sleep came in the usual fits. I couldn't get comfortable; too hot then too cold, rolling and thrashing all night. I was exhausted, but I was glad the alarm had gone off. I practically leaped from the bed, and while coffee was brewing, I logged into the Mac and started perusing for spare parts for the Cruiser. With the purchase of the trailer, my plans were beginning to gel and take form, and damned if I wasn't excited. Suddenly the drudgery of work seemed minuscule. There was light at the end of the tunnel, and if I squinted, I could see an image of myself at the other end beckoning me on. I showered and thought about everything leading up to this very week.
My plans had been revealed to one person only, my buddy Scott.
Scott worked with me at Nameless Insurance Company. He was a nice enough guy, a vegetarian to the furthermost reaches of vegetarianism, an extremist even by his own admission. But that can be understood if one's convictions are honest and sincere, and his were. Like many others, he was a quiet fellow who found himself trapped in a harsh and futile corporate environment. In the semi-shelter of our respective gray cubicles, we sat opposite each other, trying our best to meet quotas imposed upon our work by someone in a management position long ago dissolved. We kidded each other about working there and what kind of wrong turns our lives had taken to lead us there. Scott was independently studying computer languages in hopes of working his way into the information technology field. He and I both knew that no matter how experienced or good he was, he would have to leave the company to pursue those avenues. It was a means to an end on the best day.
Working in a service industry position broadens your horizons and allows you to meet with so many people who haven't a fucking clue. Usually, these people are in management positions, and under their careful watch, you are immersed in more futile corporate slop than you could ever imagine. Nameless Insurance was no exception. They seemed to operate entirely by the seat of their pants and placed Scott and me directly in the line of fire between their ever-changing and insane management policies and the equally insane public.
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The phones rang non-stop with questions, complaints, claims, changes, and credit card payments. The computer system we were made to use was less efficient than using carbon paper. Management had imposed strict quotas on the number of phone calls taken and changes processed despite all that. Eventually, even the luxury of a ringing phone was removed. We were issued headsets, and after a simple beep, you suddenly had an individual shouting directly into your ear.
The bottom line was service, service, and service. That was started by Sam Walton or James Cash Penny or some other turn of the century son of a bitch. He had succeeded where Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, and Jiang Zemin failed miserably, completely squashing the will to live out of a vast sector of the public.
William Faulkner was once a postal clerk, a job in which he admits he was destined to fail miserably. "I had no choice. I had to quit. I was sick and tired of being at the beck and call of every son of a bitch who had two cents for a stamp." Faulkner's problem with the job was customer service, and any of you who have ever had to deal with John or Jane Public regularly will completely understand this next tirade.
