A Day at the Office
“I can’t take this job anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Sanchez asks in a polite tone. But still a tone that manages to sound accusing.
“What I mean is, I hate the owner, and the manager. I hate most of the people I work with. Present company accepted.”
“I hate this city, the shitty hours, all the travel, everything.”
“So I could guess you’re unhappy?”
“Are you actually going to tell me you’re not unhappy? I’ve seen how they treat you too, and I make a hell of a lot more than you. No offense.”
You’ve only been here two years, I’ve been doing this crap for fourteen years. Fourteen fuckin’ years, imagine it.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“C’mon Sancho, doesn’t the stress get to you sometimes? It’s like we are the last ones to get any real credit for success, but we get most of the stress. I mean when the shit hits the fan, we pull their asses out of the fire, right? Am I right?”
“I guess so.”
“That’s what we’re paid for though.”
“They don’t care about us, they care about what we can do for them. But if we aren’t producing, we’re gone. This job sucks!” I know they’ve been looking to replace me, I’ve heard the rumors. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”
“I try not to listen.”
“Sancho, you are happy-go-lucky.
“That’s nicer than stupid grease ball.”
“Godammit, here he comes again!”
“Is he ready Sanchez?” Owens asks as he nods quickly to Sanchez.
“Why don’t you ask me if I’m ready, I’m right here?” Benson is stunned at his own defiance.
“Well are you?”
“That depends what you want.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? After fourteen years, I have to explain to you what your job is!”
“He’s ready.” Sanchez interjects. Always the diplomat.
Benson, takes of his jacket and stands from his chair, he thinks about saying something rude and crass to Owens but misses his chance as Owens turns and heads toward the door.
“Just get in there and do your job!” Owens says as he leaves.
Benson stands hunched over, face covered with sweat. At 37 he shouldn’t feel old, but in this job, he’s lucky to have been around this long.
“Are you kidding? He thinks to himself. “This guy knows what’s coming. Let me get some shit done my way.”
Another signal comes, two fingers, like an inverted peace sign.
“Curve ball? What kind of a dick does he think I am?” “Fine, here’s your curve ball.”
Benson winds up and lets loose.
The ball is fouled into the seats to the first base side about twenty rows back.
In the stands, 12 year-old Ricky Hersch is at his first major league game with his father. He makes a great play to catch the foul ball.
“Look Dad, I caught it.”
“You know what, when I grow up, I wanna play baseball, it must be the best job in the world.”