ely Hero
By Stone Patrick
Copyright 2014 by Stone Patrick
I am an ordinary desk jockey. I live the life of Dilbert, the cartoon character by Scott Adams, but in the flesh.
My name is Leonard Dickerson, but my friends call me Lenny. Only my mother calls me Leonard, and I don't dare correct her. I am 45 years old, unmarried, no kids, and I work in a call center for a major insurance company. Various corporate policies and numerous federal regulations prevent me from disclosing my employer's name, so I will refer to them as ABC Company. My apologies if there really is a company called by that name.
"Who are you talking to?" My mind snaps back into focus as I heard my cube-mate, David, imploring me on the other side of our shared cabinet.
I shushed him silently, and then continued. "Mrs. Johns, your policy clearly states that normal wear and tear are not covered. I-"
"Young man, I spoke with someone else in your office, and they told me that it was covered."
I rolled my eyes. That's the oldest excuse in the book. "I'm sorry that you were told information that was incorrect."
"So how am I supposed to trust you? What if you are the one that is incorrect?"
My jaw tensed up, and I squeezed my stress ball. "Mrs. Johns, I am sorry. Believe me, I wish that I could help you, but I can't." I closed my eyes to push out the headache that I felt coming on. "Please contact your agent who sold you the policy and they will be happy to explain it to you."
I heard a mumble of disagreement, and then a click in my headset, and then I let out my breath in a loud whoosh. "One more satisfied customer." I said to no one in particular.
I didn't think that my life would be at this stage at my age, with no real prospects for companionship besides my cat, Ginger, who shares a small apartment with me. I've tried a number of different dating sites with limited success, and I've met a lot of very attractive women through those services, but ultimately there was always some kind of fatal flaw that, for me, was a deal breaker.
To be fair, I may have focused a bit too much on my career in my 20's after graduating from Brigham Young University with a BS in Travel and Tourism. I was the top telemarketer in my first job at another major technology company, so I thought I could make a career out of talking to people on the phone.
A beep in my headset announces another call. "Lenny Dickerson with 'ABC Company,' how can I help you?"
I tried to listen intently to the caller, but after a few moments I went into automatic mode and my mind wandered some more. It isn't that I don't care about the customers that call. It's that I can practically do my job in my sleep. As the voice on the other end droned on and on, my eyelids started to droop into a long, stretched out blink. I felt myself relaxing in my seat, the tension in my muscles drifting away like fog on a pond.
"Lenny!"
I opened my eyes suddenly, and, because I'm a bit disoriented, I somehow leaned back too far in my chair. My left leg went flying up and my shin connected with the underside of my desk with a loud thump. My chair righted itself somehow, but the pain shot up to my stomach and I gritted my teeth from the intensity of the hurt.
I sensed someone behind me, so I slowly turned around in my swivel chair.
"Uh, hey boss. D-Did you need something?" My supervisor, Kinsey Hendricks, rolled her eyes -- a double roll, accompanied by a slight shake of the head -- and a sigh escaped her dry, chapped lips. She's fifteen years my junior, has only been with the company two years, but came straight out of some Ivy League MBA school. Within the last month or so she got the supervisory position that I had been angling for (not that I stood much chance), so I don't think I will be inviting her over for milk and cookies any time soon.
After looking around for a bare spot on my desk and not having any success, Kinsey slammed a pile of paperwork on my desk, almost upsetting a cup of water that was on the edge. With the deftness of a gymnast, I grabbed the cup before it spilled, took a sip, and then set it back down, all in one fluid motion. Smiling at my prowess, I looked up Kinsey and only saw a frown.
"You forgot to initial your B-52 forms, Mr. Dickerson."
"T-i-i-i-n roof! Busted..." I sang, grinning. Nothing. "You know? The B-52's? The American New Wave band?" I raise my eyebrows hoping to get some kind of recognition. I got nothing but a blank stare.
"Mr. Dickerson, your behavior is very unprofessional.”
“Yes, Ms. Hendricks.” My palms started to turn moist and I wiped my brow with my shirt sleeve. I immediately grabbed a pen and opened up the first folder. I flipped through the pages until I found the B-52 form, and then I initialed it in the bottom right corner. I hoped that Ms. Hendricks would see my diligence, cut me some slack, and then walk away, but she stood there, watching over my shoulder until I went through all fifteen or so folders. Only when I silently handed them back did she acknowledge my work with a forced smile and a whirl of her hair as she stomped off, no doubt towards some other hapless worker.
David, my previously ignored cube-mate, popped his head up again, this time to ask me if I wanted to do lunch. I gave him some lame excuse about needing to finish some other paperwork, so he left instead with Stacy, a single, 30 something blonde who had a thing for David. They walked off, with Stacy laughing at something clever David had just whispered to her.
I sighed, and then turned back to my computer. I really didn’t want to take another call, so I took my wallet from my desk drawer and decided to grab a bratwurst outside from the guy on the corner.
As I approached the hotdog stand, I rubbed my hands together. It was a bit chillier than I remembered from this morning.
“Hey, Lenny, y’want the usual?”
I nodded, too cold to say anything. Sam, the hotdog vendor, pinched out a hot, steamy dog with his tongs and placed it in a thick, poppy seed bun.
“Mustard?”
“Always!” I said. I handed him a five dollar bill and, feeling generous, said, “Keep the change, Sam.”
“Thanks, Lenny!” Sam pocketed the money and turned to help the next customer.
Not wanting to sit down and freeze, but not willing to go back inside just yet, I decided to stroll across the plaza towards the opposite corner.
The diesel exhaust from the thousands of buses and taxis that patrolled the streets of New York combined with the aroma from my bratwurst as I took my first bite. I glanced around and noticed about a dozen or so pigeons pecking at the ground and strutting as they searched for morsels of food. Without even thinking, I sauntered over to them. When I got close enough, I swept both hands out and up, as if commanding them to rise up, and with a loud “Brrrr!” I caused them to take flight.
One of my favorite things to do when I see pigeons. I have yet to find a single bird that will stay grounded after I do that simultaneous action and noise.
I can still control the fowls in my life, I smirked.
Since I needed some cash, I continued across the plaza and crossed the street to the First National Bank of New York where I had an account. I strolled up to the ATM, put my card in, and pressed the Withdrawal button. Nothing. I pressed Withdrawal again. Still nothing. Great! The ATM ate my card and wasn't giving it back.
I tried pushing other options, but got the same response. I scrunched my face up in disgust, looked directly into the camera hoping it would register my anger, and then whirled away to talk with someone inside. I pulled the heavy glass door and felt the soft whoosh of warm air as I entered through the inner entrance.
Hoping that the security guard at the entrance could help me, I started with him first. "Can you tell me who I need to speak with about the ATM outside?"
The guard, in his late 50s with a smart-looking uniform, looked me over and must have determined that I was not a threat. "You ne
ed money?"
"Well, yes, but-"
"Then you need to go over to one of our associates." He swept his hand towards the teller counter where three separate windows were open.
"Yes, but my ATM card was taken outside."
The guard immediately put his hand on his gun holster. "What happened?! Did someone steal your money?"
I shook my head slightly. "No, there is no thief, per se. The ATM ate my card, and I..."
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some odd movements. A non-descript utility van pulled up in front of the bank and the back doors flew open.
The guard, who was still facing me, registered the surprise look on my face, which immediately turned to fear as four armed gunmen with ski masks jumped out of the van and ran towards the bank doors.
He turned around and saw the robbers force their way in.
I dove behind two long, stainless steel planter boxes and cowered in fear.
I heard the guard yell, and then three shots