Blackhumouristpress's Blog

February 15, 2010

Leaving the Complaints Department… Peace, Out

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Curt and Carl had been life long buddies.  Back in the old days, kids at school called them the Columbine Boys behind their backs.  Nobody really thought of them as closet homosexuals as much as antisocial, introverted, skateboarding wannabees, with possible homicidal tendencies.  They both had tight jeans with Van shoes and long hair that covered one eye at all times.  They spent most of their time trying to perfect the stuff they saw on MTV.  Neither one of them was bold enough or athletic enough to ride hand rails or try to jump a flight of stairs on their bikes.  They were just west coast, southern California boys trapped in the desert near Palmdale and Lancaster at the far northern tip of Los Angeles County, not far from the windmills near Tehachapi.  All houses looked about the same as the next house and sparse growth covered the mountain sides that looked more like the surface of Mars or the Moon that anything on Earth. 

            Somehow both Curt and Carl finished high school without killing anyone and made it through albeit with beat up self esteem.  Carl one day decided that he would move to England.  Curtis thought he was really full of shit and called him on it.

            “I’ve decided that I want to live somewhere other than this sterile fucking place filled with former Midwestern fucks that live in tract house fucking subdivisions and go to the fucking Vons to shop, In and Out Burger for dinner and get old and fat watching that one fucking tree grow that was planted by the city, in their front yard.  I’m not gonna beg you but we should just fucking go, man.  I mean where can you go where they kinda speak English that is totally not like this fucking place?  I wanna go to pubs and fuck chubby chicks and never learn their names.  I want to drive on the left with a wheel on the right and not worry about my fucking teeth.  Fuck Arnold Schwarzenegger, earthquakes, landslides, smog, diamond lanes and all of it.  Let’s go to England, man.  We can get a flat in London and live like fucking kings…” said Carl.

            “I really like In and Out Burger…” Said Curtis.

            “Yeah?  Well fuck you too then…” Said Carl.

            As shocked as Curtis was to see his buddy Carl go, Carl did take every cent he had and moved to London.  Carl found jobs at fast food restaurants and at a funeral home before he landed a job in customer service.  Carl was the foreman of a division that answered customer calls.  Ironically, Curtis worked at a company that was an answering service for apartment buildings and doctors.  Curtis was the complaints department and hated it.

            It had been four years of sending porn, jokes and one sentence emails to one another when Carl offered Curtis a job at his factory in London.  Curtis was intrigued.

            “Dude…  You gotta come to London.  I work for a company that sells Irish sweaters and quilts and shit.  I’m like the head of all the customer service calls.  It’s fucking great.  There are like three chicks I’m totally making it with right now who work for me.  I swear to baby Jesus that I go home to change fucking underwear only.  After work I go and have a few pints then go and a have a few more at another pub, throw some fucking darts and lay a new broad every night.  All you have to do is tell them you are from California and they immediately think like Beach Boys and surfing.  I’m like whatever.  Where’s your flat?  Oh and one big thing to sway your ass…  The fucking pound is the strongest currency in the world.  It’s like making one and a half times what you make in California.  I hope you’re done nursing your snatch and bring your ass out here.  You can shack up with me and trust me when I say that you will have more puss than you could shake a stick at.  Tell your mom that you’re going to learn to fly and move the fuck out here, bitch…  Peace out Carl.”

            Curtis agonized for a week about doing something so abrupt but then decided he would.  He sent Carl the good news and just wanted to clarify that there would be a job waiting for him.

            “Dude…  I’m so coming to England.  You do have a job waiting for me, right?  I don’t mind what it is; I’m just spending all I have to get there.  I can hardly sleep thinking about this.  The Trenchcoat Posse rides again!”

            Carl responded.

            “Bitch… Bring your sorry ass here.  I’ll fire a fucking Paki to give you a job.  Just get here…  Peace out.”

            Curtis responded.

            “Okay, man.  I’m coming.  I bought a ticket.  I stop in NYC and then on to London.  Pick me up on Saturday.  Just have to set the record straight here at work….”

            Now Curtis hated his job and hated the despondent, fat, angry people he worked among and hated the chronic complaints he dealt with frequently as an answering service dispatcher.  Curtis decided to set the record straight with everyone who irritated him before leaving.  First was a woman who lived in Santa Monica with two cats, no husband and a lot of time on her hands.  She was the president of a condominium association who called frequently to the answering service to have their Albanian janitor work hard for his money.

            Ms. De la Croix,

                                       Although we have never met since I am up in Palmdale and you are in Santa Monica, I just want to let you know what I pictured over the phone in my two years of dealing with your annoying bullshit.  You are probably 5‘2 to 5’4, thin with bleached blond hair.  You probably went to some Catholic grade school in Santa Monica, Catholic high school in Santa Monica and then attended Santa Monica City College.  You think that Santa Monica is the height of Los Angeles County and center of the universe. You probably buy bullshit art at  the Santa Monica Mall on Saturdays and attend all meetings for rent control.  Your cats probably got two stupid names like Tulip and Persnickety and you have more appliances in the drawer of your night stand than the janitor of your building has in his tool shed.  Mind you that this poor fuck lasted through a war where Serbians were trying to murder him because some fucking Ottomans forced his ancestors to convert to being a Muslims.  That poor fuck made it all the way to sunny California just to become a slave to you and a bunch of sexually dysfunctional males and females that love titles such as president, treasurer or secretary of a board.  Fuck you, fuck your board and all your complaints.  Kiss your fucking cats cause they might be the only ones who love you and that might only be at feeding time.

            Yours Truly,

            Curtis Crawford

            Curtis felt so exhilarated by writing to Ms. De la Croix and telling her exactly what he thought of her, now he would tell his fellow workers what he thought of them.

            “Dear Mr. Smith and all employees of Minute Men Ready Answering Service,                                                                                                                                        

 I would like to invite you to figure out fast what makes you happy.  Most of you are

twice my age and are twice as unhappy and twice as fat and at least twice in debt over me. 

Most of you make me sick and scare me.  I waited my whole youth to be an adult and

now that I’m surrounded by adults, I ask myself if this is what I wanted and expected. 

Did I want to be grayer, fatter, angrier, and more cynical than I am now?  Granted I was voted most likely to come to school and mow everyone down and yet I would be more likely to come and put all of you out of your misery as a mercy killing now.  My problem was that I never bought a gun.  I did buy a ticket to London, England and start my new job next week.  So fuck all of you and I hope you step aside and heed the shit I’m saying.  Your sorry lives are not worth living and I want to thank all the pompous fucks among you for forcing my hand.  Had it not been for you, I may have been complacent and stayed in this fucking job until I grew a paunch, lost my hair and got excited over coupons or whatever the fuck there is to be happy about beyond the age of thirty with an unfulfilled wife and bratty fucking kids.  So I’ll say this now; see you in hell and if you make it to heaven let me know how it was possible because I have not seen how it could have been possible thus far…  Your devoted employee Curtis Crawford…”

            Curtis hit the send button to all employees as he gathered up things that he wanted

to take with him from his desk in a cubical.  Curtis could hear gasps and laughing as he carried his glad bag full of stuff through the front doors into the midday sun.  He got into his Hyundai ready to collect what he really needed for his first trip to Europe when a text message from Carl came through.

            “Dude…  It’s a fucking calamity.  The fucking Brits dumped all the women in the center and moved operations to fucking New Delhi.  Those fucking Indians. Don’t worry if you already quit.  I can find us work here.  I got a few bones stored away.  Just come out, we’ll figure it out somehow… Peace out, Carl.”

            Curtis was at a red light in his Hyundai when the car behind him beeped hard.  The light had turned green.  The only thought that came to Curtis was; Oh shit!

1 Comment »

  1. […] Blog Leaving the Complaints Department… Peace, Out – Curt and Carl had been life long buddies. Back in the old days, kids at school called them […]

    Pingback by Michigan Literary Bloggers Weekly Update… add yours… See who’s blogging.. | Michigan Literary Network…Motown Writers Network — February 23, 2010 @ 5:19 pm | Reply

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