Fired (Part 1)

Four short years later, clamshell design gave way to a touch screen as the summer of 2007 saw the launch of the fist A-Phone.  Personally, it was an exciting season for me.  I got fired.  I got married.  My cat got a new penis.

It began late in April.  I had just been back to work for a month after being off for three months from shoulder surgery and was getting back into the flow, feeling my oats.  I can’t remember what phones we were pushing at the time, but they’re obsolete now.  Brooklyn and were discussing the U.S. President at the time and his leadership capabilities.  As we were debating the merits of an articulate leader, our inarticulate one walks over.

“Mr. Glamour Boy,” he starts with the buddy-buddy tone, “when you have the moment, I can see you in my office.”

Distracted by politics, I had not noticed both a Union representative and Cock Bombay’s then boss, The Lady, slide into the office to have a meeting.  They must have already been in there for 30 minutes by the time I opened the door.  

“Hello, Glamour Boy.  Have a seat.”  Usually The Lady flirts a little.  She’s all business today.  That, and the fact that there are papers and receipts littered all over the desk have my heart beating a little faster than usual.  I realize I’ve been ambushed and can do nothing as she begins.

“Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, this is going to be a little difficult.  I’m truly sorry to be the one who has to do this.  We have some questions about some of your recent behavior. I have a transaction history here of credits that were given on customer’s accounts that date back to December and continue up until last month.  Can you explain these?”

She lifts and shows herself the paper before twisting her wrist around the way that someone dramatically reveals the contents of a page--almost a "are you sure you don't recognize this girl???".  I look down at an Excel spread sheet that has my name slapped across the top in bold font.  This is my corporate rap sheet.  I am a wanted man.  Someone in Business Securities saw a red flag and has been watching my every move.  So they think.

“I recognize some of these.”

The legitimate ones would be for the rarely waived activation or upgrade fees.  Other times, charges would appear on a customer’s account that they “never signed up for!”  It’s better to credit the $9.99 in 5 seconds than it is to tie up both you and the customer by waiting on hold for 30 minutes with customer service.  I would gladly explain all of them on a case by case basis. 

“Yeah, these two I remember doing.”

“What about these $100 dollar credits on a co-worker’s family’s account?” She reluctantly points out three or four itemized lines.  She gained no pleasure from this, but put on a strong face.  Sure enough, there they were.  I look at the page, I look at the phone numbers, I look at the dates.  I shake my head.

The fact that they were questioning my having credited a coworker’s family’s account should be ludicrous enough for the simplest mind to dismiss.  I’m not the most honest of people, but I’m also not the stupidest. There were no credits to my own family’s account.  The coworker in question had been transferred two years prior to another location but obviously still had the same login I gave him when we worked side by side.  I sigh relief.  This is clearly an example of someone using my codes to credit his own family’s account.  It was pretty simple to prove, too.  

“Well, I didn’t do those.”

“But they’re in your name.”

“True, but I didn’t do them.”

“How can we know that?”

“Well, it’s simple.  I stopped work on December 9th for shoulder surgery and rehab and didn’t get back to work until March 21st.  Most of these credits you are showing me are in that same time frame.  I’m assuming you spoke with Tyler?”

A pause.

“You haven’t spoken with Tyler?” I ask, pleading for logic where it rarely exists.

“We will.  But right now we’re talking with you.”

What the hell?  How much more of an explanation do you want?

“There’s more.” She reaches for the receipts.

A phone sold out at zero--at the time it was how we dealt with the extremely rare in-house warranty exchange when the phone they were returning could not be brought back into our inventory.  Serial numbers were not always compatible and customers are not always understanding.  Anyone working retail knows of this divide.  They were using this to build a case.  This was tax-evasion to Al Capone.

There were also thousands of dollars in accessories adjusted out of inventory.  Yeah, I did it.  It’s how we had done things for years.  Cock Bombay just sits there. He knows that in the case of the phone, I made the decision to help a customer under special circumstances. He knows that I adjusted our accessories so that it would all match up for his audits.  Instead of speaking up, he sits there silent, taking notes and nodding.  If he speaks up, there will be no promotion, no acrylic awards.  Here I am, taking a hit for making the store look better than it actually is, and he’s nodding away staring at his notes.  
But she was right.  I should not have been doing these things.  I should have let the place go straight to hell.  I should not have stuck my neck out for the customer.  I should not have stuck my neck out for the store.  I can almost hear Brooklyn, "no good deed..."

“Lady,” my pleading begins, “I know what this all looks like.  I was probably doing things the old way and didn’t stop when the rules changed because I’m not a manager and I didn’t know the rules had changed.” I shoot a look toward Cock Bombay.  Eyes closed, he tilts his head to the side before pointing his face in my direction.  The last thing he does is slowly open those beady eyes.  His stare was vacant, his mouth still.  I turn back to The Lady, appealing to the smarter of the two. “I assure you, however, that if you look through these receipts, you will see that none of these things were done for personal gain.  I didn’t sell phones on Ebay (as others have).  I wasn’t stealing accessories.  I was helping the customer. I was helping the Company.”

“Be that as it may, we’re going to have to suspend you indefinitely.”   

That always means you're fired.

“Hang on, I answered all your questions.  I feel like I have a pretty good defense here.”

“I’m sorry, it comes from above us.”

“Even though I’m getting married in 4 weeks?” If they were going to be grasping at straws, I was too.

“I’m sorry.”

Then, finally, the Union Rep speaks. 

“I’ll walk you out.”

Mickey Rourke 2003

It's 2003.

The Motorola V60 rules the wireless waves with its sleek metal exterior and gratifying "SLAM!"of a clam shell design(not since a proper landline cradle phone has 'hanging up' felt so rewarding).  Oh sure, the hinges will wear out and the antenna will eventually break off, but in 2003 this phone dominates, by itself, a third of the growing US cell phone market.  The people love it.  And...it sucks.

Not the least of this phone's problems is the fact that it takes no fewer than 18 steps to find the clock and change the time.  So our store sees a wave of people in the weeks following Daylight Savings changes who finally realize they've recently been either 30 minutes early or an hour and a half late to every appointment.  A week into this rush of new faces and we've begun simply holding out our hands while the customer is still 20 feet away, flicking our fingers toward us and saying, "Clock?"  Quickly align yourself with the frustration of the customer by being equally outraged by any design or programming flaw.  This helps the hours pass smoothly.

This lesson is the start of my entrenchment against the phones and The Phone Company.  This is when I realize that the best side to pick in this battle is the side standing directly in front of me. 


The door opens.  A man carrying a dog walks hastily toward the counter and I instinctively offer my hand and say, "Clock?"

"Hell no. PHONE."

Hell yes, it's Mickey Rourke.

"Oh...uh...okay.  How can I help you?"  I'm helping my first celebrity.  My first of hundreds, it would turn out, but the first that I remembered so fondly that I would end up helping so often.  Yeah, Samuel L. Jackson came in around the same time, stoned, shaking his head at everything we tried to explain.  So that was cool for a second.  But this guy...this 'Mickey Rourke'.  Man.

"My phone is busted."

If understatements competed in beauty pageants, this one would win Miss Congeniality, Photogenic, Costume, Swimsuit and Smile.

He hands over the pieces, the oh-so-many pieces, of a Motorola V60 phone and I think to myself "all the king's horses...all the king's men..." before asking,
"What happened to it?"
"A wall happened to it."
"Are you sure it didn't happen to a wall?"
He smiles, laughs winsomely and sets his dog down in the free-range store.
"You might say that."
"Okay," I breathe, "let me see what we can do."

I go to the back room where, at this time, we have hundreds of replacement phones, pieces and parts.  It's 2003 and the customer's needs are still, mostly, taken into consideration.  So we do warranty replacements in store, insurance claims on the spot and we hoard parts and pieces to help fix the problem that is right in front of us without having to send the customer anywhere else.  Can you imagine?  I show the phone to my mentor/manager and he gasps "Whah?" before standing to help just as the chihuahua/terrier finds us around the corner.

"Check to see if he has Lockline on his account."

Long story, shortened:  M Rourke has Lockline (insurance).  M Rourke needs Lockline (a lot).  He pays a deductible and we pull the replacement phone from a plastic pouch and send him on his way.   My manager removes and re-adds the insurance feature so as to keep M Rourke enrolled in the insurance program and give the store another couple of dollars in feature sales(ahhh...the lost art of cell phone insurance fraud).  This repeats 5 times in about as many months.

I become increasingly comfortable with this exchange and begin adjusting my approach as he walks in the door.

"Phone?"  I smile with my hand offered.
"Shit yes, phone." he smiles back.
"Hello, Sausage Girl" I greet his sweet dog, Loki.  I have renamed her because she looks like two dogs have been stuffed into the skin of one.  I know I have 'made it' when M Rourke chuckles "he he, Sausage Girl...I kinda like that.  Come here Sausage Girl!"

And so Mickey Rourke breaks phones.  We replace the phones.  Mickey Rourke pays his deductible and never complains about the contacts he loses.  Mickey Rourke remembers the phone numbers he needs, minus a few late night entries.  Mostly, people call Mickey Rourke, so he can't be too bothered.  Mickey Rourke teaches me another lesson in cell phone customer service:

The amount of anger you exhibit from your loss of phone calls or contacts is directly proportional to your fear of being forgotten. 

It may have been Mickey Rourke's loss of cool that brought him into the store to replace his phone so frequently, but it was his maintenance of cool, his propagation of cool, his evangelism of cool that made us want to help him and for which he will always be remembered.  That and that fat, sweet little dog.

The Del Taco

"The Del Taco!" says Cock Bombay with unbalanced excitement.

Brooklyn and I exchange a look.  We’ve eaten all over this town and there are no fewer than 20 breakfast-serving estabilshments closer than the Del Taco on La Cienega off I-10.  Whatever, you don’t argue with crazy.  We get in his Honda and I climb in the front seat and gingerly move a child’s shoe from beneath me.  I can’t help but think it belongs to “the fucker” who is still sick at home.  Not wanting him to speak ill of his family, I don’t even ask.  Instead, Cock Bombay starts the chit-chat.

“So, how’s things? How’s the life?”

“Good” I swear I can’t do this.

“How’s wifey?”

“Wifey is fine.”

I’ve mentioned my wife’s name a dozen times.  The blatantly natural forgetfulness by someone who simply could not care less is inexcusable to me.  Saying “wifey” is bad enough to begin with, but he doesn't even try to learn her name.

He takes over.

“Yeah, I know how the marriage is.” 

Oh really?  

“Last week was our anniversary so I ask the wifey, ‘what would you like?’ and you know, she says ‘nothing much’ so I don’t get her nothing much at all.  Suddenly she gets very upset and I say ‘listen, I work hard all day long and I don’t need to come home to this.’ But she is still upset so I take her to Costco and she picked out a ring.” 

Keep going, Casanova, I’m taking notes.  

“You know, when I’m home, I don’t have to get up for anything.  If I want tea, I say ‘bring me tea.’  If I want food, I eat.  It’s the culture.”

“Yeah,” I agree like it’s the same thing in our household.  I’d rather not get into it. He goes on and I resist the urge to turn around and make eye contact with Brooklyn in the backseat.  I’m sure I would lose it.  Finally we get to Del Taco.  Aside from three unengaged employees in the back, we’re the only people there. 

“It’s on me!” As if anyone else was about to offer.  Cock Bombay moves to the front and throws a coupon on the counter.  “Three Burritos!” he barks. “I have this.”

I look down and see the 79¢ coupon slowly uncrumpling itself on the counter and the look of disgust on the employees face.

“What kind of burritos, sir?” The employee is deliberate, patient and a little condescending in return.

“The breakfast kind.”

I offer to pick up the coffees because I doubt he has a coupon for that.  I bring the coffees to the table and we sit there eating while Cock Bombay checks his Blackberry for something more important to come through. 

Having avoided the conversation about our customer satisfaction scores, Brooklyn and I bring up some new ideas to drum up business and a tool to follow up with customers better down the road.  Nothing earth-shattering, we just want to get permission from customers to put their e-mails in a database so that we can inform them of “special events” happening at the store down the line.  We can then sort them by address and target them when we need a boost in The Company’s growing television services department.  Cock Bombay dismisses the idea, not seeing it fit into the established structure that his superiors have set out.  He was not promoted to his current level of ineptitude for taking creative risks. 

We get back in the car and start the long drive back to the store.  We keep talking about business plans and entrepreneurship.  Brooklyn and I have plenty but know not to share the best with someone who would gladly take all the credit.  I paraphrase Lee Iacocca just for fun and Brooklyn quotes something from Glengarry Glen Ross.  We’re proud of our inside jokes and know that our driver is completely unaware.  Suddenly, though, he feels the need to join the party.

“My father once told me something I can never forget.  He was a great success.  He once told me, ‘I will know you are a successful businessman when you take a profit and turn it into a loss.”

The car falls silent and remains so all the way back.  

Friday, 6am

INT.  RETAIL WIRELESS STORE--6AM

COCK BOMBAY

Are you ready to work, Mr. Glamour Boy?

GLAMOUR BOY

Yes, Mr. Bombay.

COCK

Where are your shoes?

GB

My dress shoes? In my locker.

COCK

(flicking his first two fingers, palm down)

Go and put them on.

GB

(disbelieving)

We open in three hours.

COCK

And where are your dressing socks?

GB

My what?

COCK

Your regular, black dressing socks, to match the shoes.

GB

These are argyles.  I always wear argyles.  And they match my pants--the belt should match the shoes.

COCK

Go on and change the shoes.

It should be obvious to most: the irony of having a 2-hour, 6am bootcamp to help us improve customer satisfaction is that it puts us in no mood to improve customer satisfaction for the rest of the day.  We’re already disgruntled, why make us exhausted as well?  These are the days I’m sure will be my last.  I am convinced that I will stop biting my tongue out of fatigue and say the wrong thing to the wrong person(or the right thing to the wrong person) and I will clean out my locker for the last time.  

So here we are, at the break of Friday dawn, trying to “bridge the gap” between our own Individual Customer Satisfaction scores and the Likelihood to Refer scores of the company.  Cock Bombay starts in:

“The Company have no face.  Whoever says The Company has face?  You are the face...so the survey is about you.”

We are all sitting on the floor of the sales area, propped up against accessory racks and huddling next to display cases because there are no chairs in the store. The chair thing has been happening for a few years now.  They don't want the customers to get too comfortable.  

Brooklyn, who brings his own folding beach chair to these early morning meetings, leans forward in his strapped seat before clarifying, “the first question of the survey reads ‘On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the best, how likely would you be to refer The Company to your friends and colleagues.’ It says nothing about the Sales reps.”  He leans back as Bombay returns fire.

“But you are the face of The Company.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the service.”

“But you give the service.”

“Yeah, better than The Company does.  But I don’t provide the cell phone towers so that our customers can make phone calls.  And I don’t appreciate you using my name to make The Company look better than it is.  Why should I lie for you?  And why wouldn’t we want honest results of this survey so that we could actually make moves at becoming better instead of insisting on the perception of getting better.”

We’ve all talked about this so many times that he speaks for all of us.  It’s unfortunate that Brooklyn is painting this target on his back.  Occasionally, the truth needs to be heard.

“Mr. Glamour Boy,” the Cock turns to me, “you got all 10's last week. But you got two 8's in the LTR column.  Those are the 'easy no brainers.'  If you can get an 8, you can get a 10.”

“I disagree entirely,” I react.  

“Excuse me?”

“I think I could move a 1 to a 10 easier than I could move an 8.  I think a 1 is a potentially rational being who simply did not get heard when they were in the store and therefore are taking this survey in an irrational mindset.  I think that if we gave them a chance to vent their frustrations to our faces, they wouldn’t do it through text message.  I think I could be so exceptionally considerate and understanding to someone like that, they wouldn’t risk giving The Company anything but a 10 because they don’t want to chance giving me a bad score.  A person that influenced and potentially irrational probably wouldn’t read the entire survey anyway, so they would think they were taking it solely regarding me.  The person who gives an 8, on the other hand, will always give an 8. There are people who will always want more for their money and I can’t say that I blame them.  Why would you ever say you were completely satisfied when there is always the option to get improved service for the money you pay?”

“We’re not going to argue.”

“Why not?”

Brooklyn sees the target move onto me and makes a hissing sound that warns me to stop.  Sleep deprivation, frustration...wait, no...truth compels me further:

“Why would you not listen to me when I have the highest scores in both of these areas?”

“Let me give you the best example,” he gets a little louder.  “When customer comes in, they see what?  They see you!  You are the face of The Company.  The survey is all about you and I don’t want to hear anymore about it.  The Company have no face!”

“We know how to fix it.”  I practically whisper, gesturing between myself and Brooklyn.  

“How do we fix it?” I’m surprised by his exasperation as his voice almost cracks under the weight of the issue.  I often forget that this guy, for all his faults, is on the line for these scores more than we are somedays. 

“Nevermind,” I respond, knowing that my policies will never align with those of The Company.

The meeting is always scheduled for 2 hours because the union (bless their hearts again) says that the minimum job tour we can be scheduled for is 2 hours.  That's actually why these things start at 6am.  We open at 9am and need the 8-9am block to perform opening procedures in the store.  So we've had our meeting.  And now it's 6:30am.

Everyone begins to leave and, perhaps showing too much of his desperation, Cock Bombay invites Brooklyn and I to go to breakfast for a meeting.  His treat.  In my moment of empathy for the guy, I accept.

“Bro, what are you doing?!?!” Brooklyn squirms a little on the hook as he folds up his chair.

“Going to breakfast,” I answer.  “And it looks like you’re coming too.”

Suddenly all smiles, Cock Bombay grabs his keys from his office and rudely motions us out the door with his hand.

“Where are we going?” I venture.

“The Del Taco!”

Drill for Skill

Each week, when the machine produces our work schedule, there is a block reserved on Friday from 6-8am.  This is the time we are to meet and be reminded of the inferior nature of our job performance.   This early morning hellish morsel of time has gone by a few names.  First, it was called "bootcamp." But when The Union (oh yes, we are) caught wind of that, and its punitive connotation, they sent a 6th-grade-reading-level e-mail to someone whose reading capabilities almost match that level.  This is an outrage!  Changes are demanded!  How dare you compare a meeting to a strenuous weekend warrior cardio cross-training routine?!?!  Again, it was the disciplinary overtones of "bootcamp" that ruffled the feathers of our Union representatives.

And so, possibly by those who were also in charge of naming Operation Hi-Liter, the name of our Friday morning meeting was elevated to "Drill for Skill."  This appeased the Union who apparently decided that the "drill" mentioned must neither have been one referencing military exercises nor the tool which bores holes--in this case, into skulls.  

But, it rhymes...so how bad could it be??  It almost sounds fun!

Drill for Skill is scheduled for every Friday because the Union (bless their incompetent hearts) wrote us up a nice contract that demands the schedule be posted one week in advance.  So Cock Bombay cannot, in his hasty anger at 4:30am, plan a meeting for the following day.  Instead, the meeting is always scheduled.  Then the managers can, in their benevolence, send a text on Thursday night (usually around 10:30pm), telling us that the meeting has been canceled.  This poses a dilemma for the soldier worker.   We should technically show up at 6am for two reasons:

1) The schedule was not changed far enough in advance to be identified by the Union as valid.

2) The text message came in on our work cell phones, while none of us were on the clock.  So we should not have seen it until we clocked in again at 6am which, as those of you smarter than the average party involved know, would be too late.

It has crossed my mind to show up at 6am, only to wait outside of locked doors for 2 hours to prove a point.  Yeah, a fleeting thought.  Instead, I occasionally program my phone to send a text message to Cock Bombay at 6:15am:

Hey, where is everybody?!?

This, I believe, is why the Germans invented technology.

 

These aren't the 2am texts you're looking for.

2AM
Text Message
From: Cock Bombay
To: ALL

Team, very sad day today.  12 acts, 6 pp, 1 AAL, 18 ups, 32 FPO, 36 APO, 3 INS, 0 RA, 0 FM, 4 DB, 1 PTT, 0 TV

4:30 AM
Text Message
From: Cock Bombay
To: ALL

ANOTHER NEGATIVE -100% SURVEY!!  ARE WE HI-LITING???  WE MUST STOP THE BLEEDING!  THERE WILL BE A ALL THE HANDS ON MTG THIS FRI 6AM.


 And so it goes.  Every morning, I wake up to two text messages.  The first illustrating how poorly we executed sales the previous day, the second showing how poorly the customers rated us.  My daily affirmations are basically "I'm terrible" and "Nobody likes me."

 Our sales-related message laments the missed opportunities to up-sell people all day long.  These are 12 of the 25-30 things we should be "focusing on" during any particular month or sales cycle.  I've attempted clarification of this in the past:

 "Mr. Bombay, you know what a focus is, right?  It's a single point.  One thing.  Which of these things are we supposed to be focused on?" I ask, ignoring the etymology of the word and concentrating on its modern usage.
"All of them," he answers without hesitation.  Then, incredulous that I would ask for clarification, "we have to extra focus on every single one!"
 Not wanting to explore how "extra" redefines "focus"(Cock Bombay's circular reasoning could be Dante's 10th ring of hell), I simply plead my case in the form of a question.

"Do you think it's possible that we get low satisfaction scores because customers get the distinct impression that we are more concerned with sales than we are with helping them?  We have to mention TV, Internet, Family Mapping, Insurance, Direct Chirp, Add-A-Line, Messaging, Roadside Assistance, Car Chargers, Cases, Batteries, Bluetooth, Speakers, Tablets and gift cards(seasonally).  Do you think the customer might get the impression that we care more about these things than we do about their dropped calls?"

He gives it some thought, rubbing his face from his cheeks, past his temples, to that spot on his forehead where the answers hide.  He leans in.
"The customer comes in because they want something and need something.  We have the job to discover what the customer need is.  When they come in, we have to offer all the things the customer might need."
"Even if they're just coming in to complain about service?" I attempt.
"Exactly!  That's the most perfect opportunity. Then we can find out exactly what they need!" He is excited and victorious in his response before providing one more nugget of wisdom.  "But we have to ask them, because they might not know."

As though connected by a string, sliding back into his chair stretches a broad smile across his face.  For some, this is nowhere close to where this discussion might end.  For me, it has to.  I decide to leave the confines of his office for more tolerable atmosphere.

I say nothing about the tone of the texts with which we are greeted each morning.  I've mentioned it before.  The process repeats, defying (proving?) Einsteins's definition of insanity, and we continue to receive the 2am text, the 4:30am text and are frequently asked to attend a 6am meeting.  
Surely, this time it will work.

Glamour Boy

I read the next name from the list.

Oh shit.

"Rage" owns the gym upstairs.  He and his fellow muscle-bound types pump iron over our heads all day long.  They specialize in personal sculpting and often times you can see Rage strutting his stuff on the balcony, showing off the product.  When not throwing hundreds of pounds of metal into the air, he likes to complain about the smokers down below and his cell phone service.  Sometimes we like to escalate his issues straight to management to watch him turn from white to glowing hot red while talking to Cock Bombay.

I see Rage coming toward me and can tell he is already angry.  I wonder if he is upset because it's been years since he has been able to put his arms down?  To be held hostage by one's own biceps must be upsetting.  Alas, that's not it.  He holds his phone up to my eye level and slams his other hand on the counter.

“This phone sucks.”

“I’m sorry, what’s going on with it?”

“It sucks!”

“Okay, how does it suck, exactly?”

“I mean it really sucks.”

“Okay, and what can I do to help you today?”

“You can fix it, Glamour Boy!”  And with that, he throws the phone at me.  

It hits me in the chest and, making no attempt to catch it, I let it fall to the floor before I take my leave.

“Excuse me.”  I walk straight to the back.

I pound the access code into the keypad and burst into the hallway that is our break room.  No one else is there and I'm relieved.  My face is hot, first with anger and then embarrassment for allowing it.

  I pace (as much as the small hallway allows) for 30 seconds, shaking out my hands.  I look at the empty cardboard boxes discarded throughout the hall and decide kicking them would be too unfulfilling.  Breathe.  In a decade, I've never been the target of an airborne mobile device.  Add to that the fact that this incident follows a day of frustrating ineffectiveness, of problems I could not solve, and it feels like the final straw.  I might as well be the one with steroids raging through my veins.  For hours, my defenses have been worn down by dropped calls, busted screens and expensive replacements.  Then this asshole adds insult to injured integrity.  Breathe, you idiot.  

The realization that my absence will soon result in a coworker having to deal with Rage prompts my return.  Better I deal with this than chance a more incendiary replacement.  Shouting matches between my coworkers and customers happen almost daily and this one could end in violence.  

My face cools as I reach for the door, step onto the sales floor and head straight for him. As I approach, it hits me:

“Wait...Glamour Boy?" I ask.  "Really?”  

Now we're both confused.  I am confused as to why he chose my new nickname and he is confused, perhaps, as to why it didn't make perfect sense to me.  To be sure, he is confused as to why I would challenge him on it.

My confusion leads to paralysis as, normally quick with a comeback, I am now dumbfounded.  Lacking capacity for thought, I repeat, 

"Really???"

He shrugs and I shake my head.  I pick up his phone from the mat on the floor and hand it back to him.  Not sure how to ask him to leave, I ask him if he needs his parking validated.  He shakes his head like a stunned animal and quietly replies "no" as he turns to leave.  Then he spins around on his way out.

“Wait, what?!?  I own the gym upstairs.  I’m here all the time!  I park in the lot.”

I let his words fall as I pretend to try to recognize him.  I squint my eyes, purse my lips and slowly shake my head in feigned ignorance.  He knows he can't stay.

It takes a lot to slam a door on hydraulic valves.  He does his best.  Walking outside, he asks my smoking coworkers to cross the parking lot, away from his air upstairs.  Acquiescing to the demands of a man who needs a small victory, they oblige and he retreats to the gym.  I don't envy the dumbbells he finds up there.