Scrapbook Page 5

  Mark tried once again to get the meeting underway, but Pip now seemed to have an awful lot of queries about the nature of the yacht and its current owners. This went to and fro for another half an hour, the meeting now in danger of running over by another hour with no logical end in sight.

  “Plus given the current state of the bespoke yacht market I find it hard to believe they didn’t push for a three tier rear docking step with chains.” Said Pip slowly. There was a short pause during which there was an almost tangible undercurrent of giggling tempered with a lingering sense of expectation. “Bad choice in my opinion.” The grin on Pip’s face widened even more. He was now in the zone with his form of advanced piss taking. It was in brief the realisation that absolutely everyone in the room knew that he was taking the piss, including Mark the trainer who was blatantly aware also that he was powerless to stop Pip. It wasn’t a rare feeling; but it was a good one. Well, for Pip anyway. The other agents too. Mark was not quite as impressed.

  “The three step option is always a -” Pip continued, but was not allowed to finish as Lucy, the current floor manager (completely failed degree in Egyptology - one professor on the course wrote on her coursework that she didn’t know her daddy from her mummy) opened the door and marched into the room. Creeping along behind her was one of the other managers, Andy (2:2 drinker’s degree in hotel management) his face still red from the presumed ear bashing he had already been forced to undergo.

  “Can we have everyone back on the phones please?” She glared at Mark who more or less stood cowering in the corner. “Any salient points not yet discussed can be forwarded by email. Please back to your seats, ladies and gents. The current queue” (for some strange reason she consulted her watch) “Is just over thirty people waiting.” There was a collective groan from the agents gathered there as this meant an instant call when they went back on the phone. Andy stood nearby behind Lucy, waving his hands about as if he was about to try and blow the gathered agents back to their phones Mary Poppins style. Lucy gave him an irritated glance and he scurried from the room nervously. The pace at which most of the agents would make their way back to their desks would put most catholic funeral processions to shame for a guaranteed call was waiting for every single one of them.

  Pip of course was having none of it. “I think you'll find Lucy that the legal points need to be covered orally or they aren’t valid at all.” Pip of course knew no such thing. He had just made it up on the spot. It sounded good though. Pip noticed to his satisfaction several of the agents hesitating as they made to leave the room, openly surprised by Pip’s new gambit. Lucy however, was having none of it at all.

  “You aren’t even on the scheme, Pip!” she snarled. “So if I were you I’d get my arse along the corridor and on the phone!” There was one thing about being a champion skiver Pip had learned over the years and that was knowing when to call it a day. It was after all one of the foremost skills required in his ongoing career of taking the piss. He notched the smile up several degrees just to annoy Lucy and sulked his way out of the door. Lucy gave Mark a final glare and left the room herself, hurrying the straggling agents along the corridor and towards their awaiting phones, like some kind of phone obsessed Bo-Peep. It would of course be another thirty-five minutes before Pip put on his headset, unlocked his computer and pressed his ready button to accept a call. Using his current alias of “Fuckbutt McGimble” he launched himself into his next session of ritual customer humiliation.

  At the back of his mind however the share option scheme continued to simmer on the back burner. He had heard tales of the massive pay-outs made to employees selling shares in the eighties, and although there was no comparison with the pay-outs made these days, it was still worth having, which sadly with his sickness record he was not allowed the option of signing up for. Still, he thought it was a waste of time being bitter, and so decided to take it out on his next customer instead.

  BING! Went the sound in his earphone. Pip slowed his speech down to more or less a slur and made his usual attempt at jumping through a hoop.

  “Thank you for phoning Regulus Media. You are through to technical support and my name is Fuckbutt McGimble.” This opening statement usually took Pip at least thirty seconds, the aim being if he said it slowly enough the customer would get bored and drop the call, or worse still try to interrupt him. This was completely pointless, as Pip would just carry on regardless until he got to the end of his name. He listened diligently for the third swear word too, as this gave him the excuse to prematurely end the call. As he crawled through his introduction he heard the irritated customer on the other end mutter, “For fucks sake” under his breath. “That’s one.” thought pip, marking a large red cross on the pad before him. He finished his introduction finally.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Is there a local outage?” the as yet unnamed customer on the other end of the line asked in irritation.

  “Depends.” mumbled Pip nonchalantly.

  “On what?” spat the customer. Pip could almost see him shaking with rage down the other end of the phone. The thought that he had probably waited in a queue for at least an hour to get through filled Pip with glee.

  “Where you are.” Said Pip. “Local to me is here. You are there. Obviously. The burning question is whether here and there are erm… by your definition local.”

  “Don’t get fucking smart with me, son!” Pip smiled. The next ten seconds were easy.

  “I am afraid that is twice you have sworn at me. I have to warn you now if you swear one more time I will terminate this call.”

  “I haven’t sworn two fucking times, soft lad! I……”

  Pip smiled to himself, took ten minutes to write in his notes the deplorable language the customer had used (which was about seven minutes longer than he was meant to. This wasn’t Pip’s fault of course. He was currently investigating the possibility of suing Regulus for a severe condition known as “keyboard thumb”. It was an entirely fictitious condition of course, but he thought it best to get a bit of background in before he pursued it any further. Ready for the next call he pressed the “ready” button again.

  “Thank you for phoning Regulus Media. You are through to technical support and my name is Fuckbutt McGimble.” Pip waited. He could hear background noise on the phone. A television set was on apparently but the customer was quiet for a few seconds. Sometimes people wandered away from the phone as the wait was so long, so this in itself was not unusual. They could wander away as long as they liked as far as Pip was concerned. He would still sit on the phone, enjoying the silence.

  This was however unlikely. The queue for Regulus technical support was legendary, and usually involved at least an hour’s wait at any point of the day. Call centre legend speaks in hushed tones of the customer who rang Regulus who waited so long for help with his computer that by the time he actually got through to the agent he was dead. Regulus as a company of course deny this whenever it raises its face yet again, attributing it as urban myth. The billing department of course know better, and are still actively seeking payment for the thirty-six-hour phone call that was passed around the call centre from agent to agent as they finished their shift. Pip had been the recipient of one of those transfers, as Jimmy had called him internally before transferring it. Pip still had dreams of that conversation, which Jim had opened with the golden words, “Pip! I’ve got a dead guy on the phone here. Want him transferred?” Pip had agreed enthusiastically before agreeing to pass it on when his shift ended. This of course did nothing but enhance Pip’s reputation: Pip, call agent extraordinaire: talks to dead customers. All of the time.

  This was not one such call however, as the customer suddenly broke the silence with what could only be a sarcastic giggle.

  “Did you say your name was Fuckbutt?” Pip smiled. Hook, line and sinker!

  “Sorry?” he mumbled. The customer much to Pip’s delight decided to continue.

  “Fuckbutt. You said your name was Fuckbutt. I mean,
really?”

  “I’m sorry sir.” Pip said in a tone that was obviously not sorry in any way whatsoever. “But I am going to have to terminate this call as you have sworn at me three times.” Pip could almost see the customer beginning to realise the trap he had just fallen into.

  “I didn’t swear!”

  “You used the “F” word three times sir.” said Pip, his finger now hovering over the “end call” button.

  “But it’s your name! Fuckbutt… You…”

  The line went dead as Pip disconnected the call and sighed quietly to himself. This was definitely getting easier. He took off his headset with the call still connected, the dialing sound lessening as he removed it. Smiling to himself he knew it would be a good five minutes before the computer system registered the cut call.

  Making sure that his manager Chris was otherwise engaged he stood up from his desk and headed for the toilet. At the last moment however he veered behind a row of filing cabinets and headed for the lift that would take him downstairs and then outside. His last skive had been very nearly an hour ago now. It was time for a fag. Ah… he thought to himself as she shuffled to the lift. If the company belonged to him fag breaks would be compulsory.

  “I wish…” laughed Pip as he climbed into the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. The lift was full of senior managers who suddenly felt more than a just a little nervous as Pip stood facing them, smirking but not saying a word.

  “I wish…” he repeated loudly as the lift reached the ground and the doors opened, the managers leaving the lift in almost a panic in order to put as much distance between themselves and the still grinning Pip.

  **

  I must admit that I stifled a grin. There was no doubt that Pip was a rogue, if not a loveable one, but once again I could think of no particular way that I could grant him a wish that would be finely crafted in its execution and at the same time grant him ease from this “call center” sickness that he seemed to be suffering from.

  Once again I wandered about the place, familiarising myself with the technology and computers. It was really all rather exciting to one such as I, and I feel that I did linger rather longer there than perhaps I should.

  Eventually however I had to get on and complete my punishment. It was time to pay my three people one last visit, and so I faded, only to appear in the hairdressers one more time. Les however, was just about to leave for the day by the look of it.

  ***

  Les turned the key in the door and locked the hairdresser's shop up for the day. He had let Sally go home half an hour earlier as trade was pretty much non-existent.

  “Looks like rain.” he had said to her. “Get yourself off home love. I’ll lock up.” and she had left gratefully. It had been a pretty quiet day all round, and like most quiet days it had dragged, and now he was more tired than if he had been rushed off his feet all day. Still, as he replaced the keys in his pocket and tried the door one more time just to make sure it was locked he made his way across the green. Trying the door one last time was a habit, he knew, and from time to time he would taunt himself with the fact that it was behaviour bordering on OCD. Still, best to be safe than sorry. He followed the pavement and then went to cross the green in the dark, leaving the barely lit street lamps behind him. It was his usual route, and although now it was getting quite dark he had no qualms. The green was completely flat and empty of any objects. He knew his way.

  As he made his way he saw the lights of the pub on his right across the grass, the lights shining brightly in the dark. He considered a quick drink before going home, but the music in there was not really to his liking (he preferred something a little more, well, sedate with electric pianos, drums and so on) and so he decided against it. He stopped to button up his coat. It really was quite chilly now, and as he fastened the buttons he glanced up. Sky looked quite angry too.

  Les sighed deeply and increased his pace. Perhaps he would have a look at his reviews when he got home. Maybe not. He may leave it until the morning. Maybe things would look better in the morning he smiled. He hoped so.

  Les walked on, kicking a stone from the gravel path that eventually led to the village pub, which as per usual seemed completely deserted. Les stood beneath the pub sign considering his acting career. One day maybe. One day. Daydreaming over he wandered back towards the salon, his mind wandering through the daydreams of his coming glory. Maybe he would do a soap opera. Or a film. He could do both. A soap opera and a film and a quiz show and a series and a drama and … well anything, really. He wished, yes he really wished that he could do one of those things, that yes, he could be famous.

  ***

  Ah. Finally, a wish. I clicked my fingers and Shaitan appeared before me and I explained the nature of what I was going to do. The Shaitan did not show any expression at all, merely writing down my intentions in his ledger.

  “That will satisfy the requirements for the first wish.” he said, and I nodded. I closed my eyes and it was done. No fancy gestures were required, no sparks or clouds of smoke. I released a thought and reality bent itself around it.

  It was done, and now it was time for Rudge, who finally was not in a smoky cellar, praise be!

  ***

  Rudge notched the jukebox up just a little more to rid the lounge of the one remaining person who was sitting supping his pint in the corner of the room at the furthest point away from any of the speakers in a vain attempt to minimise the sound of Lemmy and Motorhead more or less rattling the plaster off the ceiling with the constantly looping sound of “The ace of spades.” The bass shook the floor almost, and Rudge thought he could see a small amount of plaster dust drift down through the spread of one of the lights on the ceiling, drifting to the ground almost casually.

  The man caught Rudge’s eye and looked away almost in disgust, making a big wide grin spread across the inn owner’s face. The man suddenly lunged at his pint glass as the vibration from the jukebox caused his drink to tremble its way across the small table. There was a second during which Rudge thought it was going to be a fifty fifty thing but sadly (for the customer at least) this was not the case. With a loud smash the remains of the pint splattered across the floor in a slowly spreading puddle of glass and beer. The man stood up angrily and stormed out of the pub. Rudge smiled and picking up a small brush and pan from below the counter made his way to clear up the mess. The room thudded violently with the sheer wall of noise erupting from the speakers, but Rudge didn’t notice any of it at all. He had his ear defenders in. He would take them out when he went to check on Smoker’s Club below of course so he could hear what all his deliriously happy punters down there wanted for their next rounds, but for now he was protected from the noise that now filled the deceivingly empty lounge.

  He wished it wasn’t the case that he had to actively drive people away from his pub of course, but the people gathered in the cellar below puffing away furiously on their illicit cigarettes, cigars and pipes were his most lucrative market. As he leaned down to brush up the pint glass he reflected (and not for the first time by any stretch of the imagination) that maybe, just maybe he had been born at the wrong time for the trade he was in. That is to say any time at all that involved the smoking ban. It had definitely driven people to stay at home, and several of his friends in the licensing trade were now either out of work or working in a completely different job. Like poor old Freddie Hampshire from “The Lamb and Wool”, for example. He was driving lorries now, and poor old Bill Stepworth from “The Drum and Flute” had gone into plastic bags. Not literally of course, but selling bags to shopkeepers was hardly a decent trade for an ex-licensee now, was it? A nice little inn would do. Even fifty years ago. Then he could earn a nice little living and not be concerned in the slightest about having to conceal his customers in the cellar. Smoking club, he concluded, was a little bit crazy, but it worked. It most definitely worked.

  As he stood back up, crisp packet in hand he glanced at the pub sign that swung ever so slightly in the bree
ze above his head. He really wished that he didn’t really have to hide his customers in the cellar. He really really wished that.

  ***

  Another wish! I paced the floor of the drinking establishment, my mind a blur. I knew the obvious solution, but was looking for something a little more substantial. As a Jinnie I always found that it paid to think outside the box as it were, and as I neared the jukebox, the noise from it threatening to cleave the building in two I made my decision and clicked my fingers.

  Once again the Shaitan appeared and I informed him of what I was to do. He wrote it down and once again spoke.

  “That will satisfy the requirements for the second wish.” he said, and I once again smiled and made it so, a wide smile appearing on my face as I did so. I hoped that my wish would give this man what he wanted, but now it was time for the last person that I was required to grant a wish for as part of my punishment, and I could not help but think that it was going to be the most difficult of all, even if I did enjoy my visits to these “call centres” for they seemed to be so much fun! Fading, I closed my eyes, and then lurched forward, banging my head on the windscreen of the inside of the small silver car as it suddenly increased in speed.

  ***

  Pip pulled out of the car park at Regulus Telecom, another eight hour shift under his belt. Well, he had been on the premises, so to speak. In terms of actual recorded work done that had been at the decidedly miniscule amount of just under fourteen minutes, which was fourteen minutes too much as far as he was concerned. That still however managed to equate to just one call, thirteen minutes of which the customer had been put on hold “while he found a manager”. Pip reflected on the fact that any person calling a call centre and demanding to speak to a manager must at some point during the lengthy on hold waiting period wonder why call centres seemed to actively hide their managers. They never seemed to be around. The caller could be forgiven for concluding that perhaps the managers were leapt in a cage in the basement and it was currently feeding time. The truth of course was for the thirteen minutes the customer was on hold Pip was actually outside having a fag. Eventually he wandered back to his desk.