Page 6 of Snapshot

“I’m already deleted? Damn, that was fast,” I mutter.

The call that ended my short-lived career at Advantage Insurance was barely an hour ago. The very minute I hung up onthat old asshole, I got an instant message from my boss:Meet me in Conference Room A. Now, please.

“Fuck ’em. Fuck this place. Like I said, I’m going with you.”

I click my tongue. “I appreciate the solidarity, but you know you can’t do that. You’re so close.”

Brooke’s been here for six months longer than me. She’s near her assistant manager promotion. That’s the dream. Serve your time on the phones, get promoted, and become a manager; then, you never have to take customer service calls again. For the go-getters, it takes about a year. If you can survive that hellacious year of verbal lashings and abuse,all of your dreams can come true… If your dreams are middle management at an insurance company, that is.

Brooke wraps her arms around me and squeezes firmly. I wheeze as I hug her back. Her bubblegum-sweet body spray is so strong my eyes are watering. She must’ve spritzed recently.

“This place is going to suck without you.”

“Agreed,” Beth says, popping up from her cubicle in front of me.

“Sorry,” I say, lowering my voice. “Are we being too loud?”

Beth, another one of my favorite people at this dreary place, points to her headset. “Nah, I’ve got this fucker on hold. He was rude, now he can wait. I’m escalating him over to sales for a new policy…” She smiles deviously. “In about fifteen more minutes.”

“Won’t that screw with your metrics, Goody Two-shoes?” Brooke asks her, pointing to the giant electric sign mounted on the front wall of the floor. “You’re top five on the leaderboard.”

Another joyous aspect of this job is that they publicly grade us. I suppose Advantage Insurance thinks a little healthy competition is motivational, not demeaning. They plaster our names on the digital sign that is constantly ranking us by call metrics such as efficiency, first-call resolution, and customer satisfaction surveys. Only the top thirty reps are displayed at onetime. My name’s been up there only once, and it was very short-lived. Probably a fluke.

Beth shrugs. “I’ll drop a few ranks to punish this one. Real piece of work. He’s trying to put his girlfriend on a secret policy that his wife can’t access. I told him we could only add a driver if they were living in the same household. Then, he asked me if I was dumb enough to think he had his wifeandgirlfriend living under the same roof.”

Brooke grits her teeth and seethes. “Why are men so open about being pieces of shit? I can’t even—” She stops and exhales deeply before closing her eyes. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she mumbles, “Happy place…happy place…happy place.”

Poor Brooke was recently cheated on. It was the main topic of many of our break room rants.Men.In a show of solidarity, I join in the disgruntled monologues. I’ve dated my fair share of jerks, but right now, I’m with a good guy. Alan is a textbook gentleman. He’s just a little matter-of-fact. He’d never cheat on me. He’d just end things, wait the appropriate amount of time before dating again, then move forward. Why do I assume that? Quite literally because we had that conversation.

One time in bed, right after sex—and I’m talking cuddling, with our sweaty bodies still glued to each other—Alan asked what the appropriate amount of time was that couples should wait to date new people after breaking up. I probably should’ve asked him why the hell he was thinking about breaking up while I was still naked in his arms, but I was caught off guard. He said we should wait at least a month for a fling but three months for anything serious. I went with it. My actual answer was “When I felt like it,”but that sounded a little sassy for such a vulnerable conversation.

I’ll admit, him planning our potential breakup over pillow talk isn’t exactly romantic, but I appreciated the honesty. My past relationships, while far more passionate, were volatile, tosay the least. They always ended the same way—me getting cheated on, a week of gnarly hangovers, and dying my hair a new color.

I no longer want men who get drunk off belly shots from a stripper’s navel. I want the guy who's sober at eight o’clock in the morning because he has a job. I don’t want to spend all day distracting myself so I’m not the girl who waits by the phone. I just want the guy who calls. No more Pop-Tarts. These days, I’m buying Luna Bars. So, I consider it a good thing that Alan wears khakis with pocket protectors. Even if pocket protectors are the least sexy thing on the planet.

Alan’s safe.

We dated casually for a year before we officially became boyfriend and girlfriend. After almost two years of knowing the man, hestillopens doors for me and pulls out chairs. Every time I see him, the first thing he does is compliment me. He takes me out to expensive restaurants that I know he can’t afford. And when I try to order something small to be considerate, he insists I get the steak, a fancy cocktail,anddessert. He’s good to me. So, I ignore the fact that we have about as much sexual chemistry as two puffer fish. That’s what kissing him feels like sometimes. Two people puckering their lips and bumping into each other face first. I swear he still gets a little startled whenever I slip him tongue.

“Oh, look at that. He dropped off the call,” Beth singsongs as she pulls off her headset. “I wonder if his wife came home. Dickhead.”

“All right,” I grumble as I tuck my pictures into my purse. “Who wants an ergonomic standing desk? My cubicle is officially up for grabs.”

“I would, but I have to stay close to my pod,” Brooke grumbles. “Pod,”she reiterates. “Like we’re a freaking team of orcas. They are really pushing the team camaraderie lately.”

I smirk at her. “Probably because turnover is expensive, and they don’t have enough reps as it is.”

They both frown, but Beth is the one to speak up. “We’ll miss you. Let’s do drinks on Friday on the Strip. That new club, Ventura? The minute we’re off work, okay? We’ll come get you.”

I nod. “Okay. Sounds good.”

It’s a nice sentiment, but it probably won’t happen. We’re always making big plans and then bailing because a long week at this place sucks the life out of us. Lately, on the weekends, I stay in, watching movies until I fall asleep. Alan works nights and weekends, so I usually pal around at Finn and Avery’s place. They never make me feel unwelcome. Unless they’re itching to have loud, wild sex. I can usually tell when their game of footsie on the couch is getting a little too intense, and then I see myself out.

“Babes, get back to work before you guys get fired too.” I blow a kiss to my friends. “See you on the other side.”

“Let us know what sunshine looks like, okay? And fresh water and real food,” Brooke says from behind me. “We’re going to miss you here on death row.”

I’m laughing at her dramatic sarcasm all the way to the building’s front lobby. I say bye to the receptionist and tell her to have a great day like nothing’s wrong and I’m simply at the end of my shift. I won’t lie, there’s a little pep in my step. You know a job isn’t right for you when you’re now officially broke with no insurance and no other job prospects…yet you still feel elated.

---