A-no

Every other phone call was like that for a month.  Bosses saying “Get me the A-phone!” and assistants scrambling to do so.  Some were understanding, others, obviously less so.  Typically the shit would flow downhill and you could tell how awful the boss was by the behavior of those they had employed.  I suppose the logic being that if you’re hiring someone to do your barking for you, you’d better be sure their bark is at least as loud as yours.  I’ve never met Nicolas Cage, I probably never will.  But if I do, he owes me two apologies.  One for the inexcusable behavior of Francine Jones, the other for every performance he’s given since Raising Arizona.

Finally, it was launch day.  The line had begun the night before and consisted of two 15 year-old kids intent on spending the night and being first in the nerd queue.  The overnight security guard would later inform me that these two became frightened of the local transients, went home and came back at daybreak.  They hadn’t lost much ground.  They ended up 20th and our line was 150 strong at opening.  I was sure that our store, being the flagship of the region, would clearly be given the lion’s share of Southern California’s supply.  We had assured every caller that, even though we could not hold an A-phone for them, we were positive there would be plenty of them in stock.  Our store was, and still is, the sales leader of all of Southern California.  How could we not be amply supplied?

We sold through the 110 A-phones that we received in 2 hours.  That was it.  Done.  The line was still there, the people were still willing.  We blew through our supply before 10am even hit. Then we practiced our pitch for the disappointed who would be frantically running through the door all day.  We didn’t know when we’d be getting more but we remained optimistic.  “Hopefully (surely) tomorrow.”  How could we not?  We’re the phone store, after all.  Check back again tomorrow.  We’ll have more then. Wrong.

  The biggest sales day of the year was a bust.  We sold maybe 6-10 A-phones per sales rep; then we became greeters.  I was supposed to be consoled by the idea that “some stores didn’t get any!”  What a joke.  That enraged me even more.  Why would I feel better that other reps got shafted even worse than we did? This company was the laughing stock before this debacle.  It looked like the phone guys were dancing to the tune the computer guys wrote.  The computer guys kept selling. Were we all hanging from the strings held by the turtle-necked puppeteer?  

What followed was an embarrassing five weeks without the A-phone.  Five weeks of phones ringing, ringing, ringing.  I can still hear them ringing.

“Thank you for choosing The Phone Company.  This is Jason.  How may I assist you?”

“You guys got A-phones?”

“No, sir.  I’m sorry we are still sold out. Maybe next week?”

“So, you guys are the phone company and you don’t sell phones?”

“That’s right, sir.  Pretty ironic, huh?”

“It’s fucking stupid is what it is.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Then comes a sigh, followed by the most annoying version of the two most common syllables in the English language.  A breathy, raised pitch of incredulity betraying the actual word.

“Ohhh-kayyyy.”

Dick.

Our appetites had been whetted.  Our hopes had been built up.  Our importance in the grand scheme of things was severely overestimated.  Meanwhile, the computer company’s stores were selling thousands.  

A more cynical version of myself would make the argument that this was diabolically intentional.  Maybe someday, someone will file a class-action lawsuit.  It won’t be me.  But it does seem suspicious.  Sales reps at The Phone Company were paid commission.  Employees at The Computer Store were not. Why would the cell phone company want to sell the A-phone in their stores when they were not making any money on the equipment anyway?  They were guaranteed the service contracts.  No other carrier’s service would work in the phone.  Selling them at the computer company’s stores was equally profitable from the contract point of view and that way you wouldn’t have to pay your employees any commission.  They made out like bandits for over a month.  We answered phones; they raked in the money.  Finally, after a long, dry July in the first week of August, we started selling the phone in our stores.  We also started getting all the complaints that would go along with doing so.

Launching the world’s most exclusive, innovative and advanced mobile phone device can present “challenges.”  “Challenges,” I have learned, is the corporate terminology for “cluster fucks.”

The Nicolas Cage Family

As I mentioned, 2007 brought many other things beyond new cat genitalia.  In the second week of the year, the computer guys and the phone guys held hands on stage and promised to revolutionize the way we saw cell phones.  They took a shot across the bow of every other smart phone manufacturer and promised the nerds, “you will levitate!” They announced the A-phone.  

Almost six months before it was scheduled to be released, the word was out.  People began plotting a way to get their A-phones without waiting in line, without co-mingling with the masses, without following the rules.  

“Can you hold one for me?”  No.  “But it’s me!”  Sorry.

One week before the actually launch, I get a phone call at the store:

“Hi, Jason, this is Francine Jones, assistant to Nicolas Cage.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just wanted to make sure the four A-phones I ordered are still on hold for the Nicolas Cage Family to get on launch day.  Actually, dear, if we could get them before launch day, that would be even better, but if we have to wait until launch day, I totally understand.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.  With whom had you spoken about this?”

“With Alex.” 

Alex.  Of course.  Alex was the reason I had to look up the word ‘smarmy’ one time; a customer had pulled me aside and described him as such.  If ever there was an individual who lacked actual emotion, but felt they needed to project it, it was Alex.  Alex was also quick to over-promise and under-deliver.  The prospect of helping out the Nicolas Cage Family was probably too enticing for him to pass up.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you were misinformed.  We can’t hold the phones for anybody.”

“WHAT?!?  Ooooh Noooo, that’s NOT what we had discussed.  Let me talk to Alex.”

“Alex is not here right now.”

“Then let me talk to a manager.” 

Morbid curiosity wanted to see where this would go.  I felt like fielding this one.  Besides, had I put Cock Bombay on the phone, Francine would have burst.  That’s not to say she wasn’t about to with me, but I was feeling safe on the other side of the phone line.

“I am the manager, ma’am.”

“Okay, fine.  Well, I spoke with Alex and he ASSURED me that you would be able to put four phones aside for the Nicolas Cage Family.”

“Ma’am,” I grow more quiet as she gets increasingly loud--a trick I learned from an ex-marine of all people,  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but even the executives for both companies releasing the A-phone have to wait in line.  We’re only selling one per person, per visit.  First come, first served.”

“You don’t understand,” her volume now matching her condescension as she deliberately articulates, “This.  Is.  For.  The.  Nicolas.  Cage.  Family.  You don’t really expect them to wait in line, do you?”

Practically whispering, “I assure you, ma’am, I do understand, but you need to know that we are not able to make exceptions for anybody.  Those are the rules.”

“What!?! I can hardly hear you, SPEAK UP! Can you help me or not?!?”

“The answer is no, ma’am.  No one can help you with this.”

“Unbelievable.  Un-be-liev-a-ble!”  And then the exchange that I will never forget as long as I live.  “Do you really want to leave a sour taste in Nicolas Cage’s mouth?!?”

“Ma’am, I’m not interested in leaving any kind of taste in Nicolas Cage’s mouth.”

Click.

Kitty needs a new penis

Doctor Behnoodzadeh is a young doctor. I like him because he’s relaxed.  He doesn’t scare his patients into unnecessary procedures or medicines.  He has a great bedside manner and is very efficient as well as competent.  Oh who am I kidding, I just wanted some Ambien.  So that’s enough about him.

The flight to South Africa was broken up into two 11+ hour stints.  One from Los Angeles to Paris, then next from Paris to Mauritius--an island off the cost of Africa in the Indian Ocean.  The plan was to stay awake for the first flight and sleep through the second.  Since neither my would-be-bride nor myself excel at sleeping near strangers in cramped quarters, we were advised that a sleeping pill would help.  Ambien being the drug of choice, I asked the good doctor what his thoughts were.

“You want some Ambien, sure.”

Easy.

“Any shots I should take?”

“Check with the CDC.  I think you’ll be fine.”  I shoved the Ambien prescription into my back pocket and started walking home.  

I had found, over the years that two healthier-than-drinking-at-lunch tricks helped me stay sane at my job.  The first was playing music in the evenings and the second was walking to and from work.  The 3 miles usually takes 45-55 minutes depending on how adventurous I get with the route.  That’s enough time to fully digest an album and some bonus tracks.  At the time, I was deep into Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen.  A magical live recording at the energetic peak of the white Ray Charles’ career, it was the raw live answer to the digital bullshit I’d been surrounded with.  I was walking in LA.  I had nowhere else to be.  I had just stopped by the pharmacy in the Grocery store, picked up my Ambien ‘friends’ and was on the way home when I got the call.  Frantic fiance on the phone:

“Hey love?”

“Yes?”

“Kobe’s sick.”  That’s the cat.

“What?  What’s wrong?”

“I took him to the vet because he was doing this weird crouching thing and he was dripping urine in weird spots around the house.  They thought he was blocked and they tried a catheter but they can’t get the catheter in.”

“How’s that possible?”

“He needs surgery.”

Of course he does, I think to myself.  I’m coming off sick leave pay and 10 days of unpaid suspension.  We’ve got wedding expenses and a scheduled honeymoon.  We have plenty of money for Operation Cat Operation.

“Come pick me up.”

The green Beetle swooped by and grabbed me in front of LACMA and I held the crying Kobe on my lap all the way to the west side.  I told him, not really knowing, that everything was going to be fine.  I swear he looked at me and questioned my credentials.

Once inside the Veterinary Hospital, they quickly took Kobe into the examination room and we tried to make light of the situation by joking around.  It’s what we do.  We joke, mostly.  I sometimes think I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.  Even so, it’s hard to be merry when there are sick animals all around you.  Any and all attempts at humor come to an abrupt halt when they ask you what level of resuscitation you want to go with.  

“Huh?”

“Well basically there are three levels of resuscitation, and three associated costs.  The first level is your basic CPR where we try and resuscitate using the traditional cardiopulmonary methods.  In the most extreme level we open up the rib cage and attempt to hand-massage the heart back to it’s blood-pumping self.”

Oddly enough, I don’t remember what Combo plate number 2 was, but that’s the one we chose.  Fortunately, we wouldn't need it.

The doctor came back into the waiting room and delivered a line neither of us will ever forget.  “Well. He’s special.”  Read: expensive.

“How so?”  

“Basically, his penis is scabbed over.”  I feel my own testicles recoil up into my stomach a little. Yikes. “That’s why he’s having trouble urinating.”

“What could have caused that?” The fiancé probes.

“Well, we don’t usually see it in adult cats.  It usually only occurs in a litter of confused kittens and it is usually the result of excessive suckling.”

“Whoa, what?”  I instantly try to figure out in my mind if this scabbing is the result of self-imposed suckling or if the other cat, Tyson, had anything to do with this.

“Yeah, it is a bit strange.  But you know how a cat’s tongue is coarse like sand paper?”

Testicles contract again.

“Yes...”

“Well, with enough suckling, that could cause the penis to scab over and close up.”

“Okay!” I jump up to shake my balls out from wherever it feels like they’re hiding and pace around the room a little.  The doctor continues.

“I can build him a...kind of...vagina.” 

“What?!?” Are you kidding me?

“I mean, it’s not that different.  I would just slice open the penis and fold the two sides back and sew it that way.  The urethra will be open and he’ll be able to urinate.”

It baffles me that doctor’s can talk this way.  I once thought I could be a doctor.  I really don’t think I have it in me though. I remember in this moment why I abandoned Pre-med Psychobiology--I can’t pretend, in moments like this, that I don’t have a dick of my own.

The operation goes off without a hitch and we return the next day to receive the good news.  Instead of paying for a sex change, Kobe got a new three-thousand dollar penis.  The doctor was able to perform some blah blah blah and well, I’d heard enough.  We grabbed the antibiotics, the new-dicked, cone-headed wondercat and headed home.  We needed a drink.

Funny thing about spending that kind of money on a cat, you feel much better about spending $60 bucks on Mexican food and margaritas.  So after we got the cat home and sequestered him in our walk-in closet by blocking it off with a folding table, we carefully administered a pill of antibiotics and told the cat to chill.  We then drove to El Compadre.  You have to laugh at these things.  So we did.  A couple of Flaming Margaritas and marginally good mexican food later, we were ready to relax.  We get back home and I reach for the second round of cat medicine.  Hmmmm....where did I put those cats pills?

Funny thing I learned about cat antibiotics and Ambien: They look exactly the same. 

FUCK!

I race upstairs to find that Cone-head has managed to leap, probably fly, over the folded table, make his way onto the bed and was writhing around between the pillows purring like an Apache helicopter.  

“Oh shit!” 

I look at his eyes.  I don’t know what I’m looking for.  I don’t gaze into his eyes that often.  Should they be mostly black?  I need a comparison.  Where’s the other cocksucker?

“Get Tyson!” I yell.

“Why?” Katie asks, handing me the black and white one.

I pick up both cats and take turns listening to their heartbeats.  Since one was scared shitless and the other higher than James Brown, it was pretty hard to tell.  I hold both cats to my ears at the same time, like some crazy homeless DJ.  I pause.  I listen.  The second starts purring now and I think, “hmm, he might be fine.”

Knowing that most humans we know, averaging 150 pounds, take only half of an Ambien to fall asleep and that this cat, tipping the scales at 11 lbs., took a whole one, we decide, somewhat reluctantly, to head back to the Veterinary Hospital.  To figuratively die of our own embarrassment is one thing, for the cat to literally do so as a result would have been something else.

Fortunately, the keepers of the kennel took mercy.  “Oh, that’s nothing.  Usually it’s intentional.  Owners are like ‘one for me, and one for you!’  You guys are fine.  He’s just high as a kite, so we’d like to observe him overnight, if that’s possible.  We’re positive he’ll mellow out and finally get some sleep.”  

Overnight.  Right.  Just....put it on our tab.

Those were some expensive margaritas.

Following ten days of emails, resumes, and hiking Runyon Canyon while listening to new music--I had come to a sobering conclusion.  I had already been off work enough this year.  I had collected more than my share of unearned income while rehabbing my shoulder.  At this point, I wouldn’t be able to start a new job until after my return from Africa in June--over 6 more weeks.  Too much time not working.  I can’t do it.  I wrote an impassioned e-mail and sent it to The Lady.  I wrote my own obituary.  I cited how much I would be missed, that I was a valuable employee and that I would be a safe bet going forward because I wouldn’t be taking any chances.  She knew it was all true.  She knew I was more of an asset then I was a liability.  Lazarus had risen.

Cock Bombay feigned friendship in his legitimate astonishment.  “I’ve talked to all other managers, none of them ever has seen anyone come back from the suspension.  You’re like legend.”

I was back, yes, but under a final written warning.  For one year I had to watch my every move and tell customers “no” more often then I liked to.  But I kicked ass that year.  So much so that I had earned, at the end of 2007, the honored distinction of going to the company’s Pinnacle Awards Weekend.  The Pinnacle was reserved for the top 1% of sales people.  This is an all-expenses-paid trip to a five star resort.  I mean ALL EXPENSES.  Drinks, food, skydiving, golf.  I had earned it even in spite of shoulder surgery, suspension and the resultant missed three months of work.  Then, The Lady told Cock Bombay and Cock Bombay told me:  I couldn’t go because I was still on a final written warning.

Aw jeez.

Fired (Part 2)

Now, I realize that I may jeopardize any chance at being elected to public office by saying this, but my Union sucks. And I mean, deep voice, drawn out, 5 seconds long kind of “suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.” When you are, on the average, over-qualified for your job, there is nothing a Union can do to help you.  It seems as though only those uninspired, lazy few who deserve to be fired that the Union benefits most.  Ensuring that the lowest common denominator is the standard?  Thanks.  Guilds, Trade Unions, The Knights of Labour.  I remember reading these stories of champions for the people.  Well, we have health insurance now, for which I am grateful.  We have an 8 hour work day that the company manages to change to 9 and 10 in recurring “emergency situations.”  I just cleared out my locker, I’m being escorted out of the store, my colleagues are open-mouthed in shock and all you can say to me is that you’ll “file a grievance?!?”  

I once accidentally expressed this concern to a non-working member of SAG.  She responded, “Do you have any idea what you would be doing without a Union?”  “Yeah,” I thought, “working my ass off to not get fired.  Same as I’m doing with one.”  Apparently, it didn’t matter either way.

We walk outside and the Union Rep turns to me and says, “Okay, so this is how we’re gonna play it.”  A plan!  “Don’t wait more than a week,” she begins, “file for unemployment right away.” 

“What?”

“This indefinite suspension--no one comes back from that.  Don’t wait for them to analyze anything, they won’t.  When they want you gone, you’re gone.  File for unemployment right away and get to work on your resume.”

Thanks. Screw you. I’m getting my job back.

In the time it took me to plot my next course, I had definitely considered alternate employment.  As you can well imagine, I had grown a little tired of being trapped in the triangle of selling a product that doesn’t work to a customer that doesn’t get it for a company that doesn’t care.  I reached out to some connections, some friends.  I even considered going back to waiting tables.  I remembered at one time thinking that waiting tables was the worst job ever.  Fellow servers, don’t think I’ve forgotten how awful it can be.  It really can.  I still believe that every citizen should wait tables for one year between high school and college.  The world would be a better place.  I remembered wanting to write a book about that.  Child’s play.  I miss waiting tables!  No matter how poorly the customer treats you in a restaurant, it’s usually because they’re hungry.  At the end of every meal, you have a chance to be heroic.  Even if the food order gets totally screwed, it can be fixed while the client is still seated.  My problems, now, are invisible.  That means they’re impossible to solve.  The network?  It’s more an idea than it is an actual thing.  I can’t fix it.  I can’t answer what is wrong, how it happened, when it will be fixed or who is responsible.  The Wizard will not see you now.  Good bye.

While considering my future with the company, I was also busy getting things ready for my own personal future.  Granted, I was neither as busy nor as stressed out as my Mother-in-law in planning a wedding, but I was busy nonetheless.  There are loose ends to tie up and going to Africa for one’s honeymoon is a slightly more involved process than hopping a flight to Hawaii.  There are shots to take, pills to pop and driving arrangements to be made with reputable tourism companies.  On this side of the world, I had to make sure there wasn’t anything to be concerned with regarding my own health.  Being only suspended, I was still among the ranks of the employed.  That meant that I was still among the ranks of the insured.  That meant a visit to Doctor Behnoodzadeh.

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.