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Just started writing a new novel a few weeks ago and wanted some critiques on the style of the first chapter. I know I have some grammatical errors on there which I'll go over after, but I'm more wanting to know what people think of the story so far with this brief sneak peak.
Thanks.
A Warning
Wisps of red hair swooping down the side of her face. Slowly they fall across her forehead and come to a rest at the corner of her lips. Saliva slowly starts latching to the tips before her left hand gently pulls the strands back behind her ear.
It’s the first and last thing that I think of whenever she comes to my mind. Reilly was that elusive enigma that no one could ever figure out. Like the Mad Hatter’s oft pondered riddle, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” It never made sense. She never made sense. But that’s part of the appeal that drew me in towards her ever since we met. She’ll never acknowledge it, but I know that secretly she loves that shit. Loves that she can’t be comprehended. Loves the fact that she’s like quicksand. You think you’re giving her everything you possibly got because eventually you’re going to succeed. Every ounce of your energy is spent trying to win this battle, this elusive goal of her unadulterated affection. At least I thought I was giving it everything I got, but now I sit here in this stupid coffee shop at Barnes and Noble sneaking looks at random people while trying to figure myself and our story out.
Traditionally, this is the point of a novel that’s suppose to draw you in and compel you to read further. The desire of the writer is to suck you in like a black hole. It’s supposed to be one of the most artistic points in the whole book. Trust me I know. I come to this same bookstore every week, roaming the shelves like an old French widow roaming a cemetery looking for the ghost of her former lover, hoping to feel some sort of connection that will instill her soul with the fulfillment she use to have. My usual pattern involves me looking at the covers of each book and determining which one might possibly hold my interest. During successful ventures I’ll pile up six or so in a stack and drag them back to a secluded chair in the corner of the coffee shop. Time is a commodity I often have an abundance of, so I read the first few pages of every book while slowly sipping some fancy coffee based beverage with whip cream on the top. Each set of bound pages is explored while I try to decide which book I might actually enjoy enough to warrant a purchase. Most books are crap, and despite what your elementary school librarian told you, judging a book by it’s cover is a completely viable way to find something that you like.
Well this is my book, and you’re probably in the same phase that I go through every time I’m debating where to invest my hours. My friend, I don’t know if you really want to get into this story because to tell you the truth there’s nothing here that is going to change your life. Maybe that’s what you need though. The world has been shaped by the actions of individuals just as much by the inactions of others. Take it from me, sometimes trying will only make you sink deeper.
Chapter 1
A dull coarse voice scratches it’s way out of a throat vibrating the words, “Thank you for choosing GAT Cable, this is Marshall, how can I provide you with excellent customer service?” A copper penny spins across the desk, rotating 3.4 times per second while the voice waits for a reply on the other end of the phone.
“Are you in America?” the voice on the other line demands.
Irritation creeps into my voice while saying, “Yes ma’am. I am currently located in none other than the greatest American city of all time; San Diego California.” I like to ham it up a bit with drops of sarcasm. It keeps me sane.
“Thank goodness. I don’t think that lil’ Asian boy understood a damn word I said.”
“It’s doubtful he did, but how can I help you?”
My name is Marshall, and this is what I do. A salary of $15 an hour compensates me for my valiant efforts in the defense of my company’s image. Atrophying away in a chair for eight endless hours a day, I pick up the phone when it rings, fake a smile in my voice, and do my best to get the customer off the phone as quickly as possible. Everyone in America knows that’s what customer service people do. It’s a time honored tradition. Yet for some reason the new kids in India and Asia make the most of their day by actually trying to help the customer with their problems. Their misguided efforts always make things worse, not because of their incompetence, but because they have to fight an American stigmatism that plagues each of us. Americans know that if you don’t speak with a proper “American accent” then your IQ score is probably floating somewhere around an 83, and you couldn’t possibly be able to understand how to fully interact with us. British accents get you a 110 IQ plus sex appeal. Australians are around 102. Irish 90. New Zealanders a 95. Asian English 80. Indian English 81. I won’t even discuss the Russians. This unwritten rule that we believe is probably completely false and we all know it, but we still like to go along with it. Hence the reason I get asked 14 times a day about my current location followed by the sounds of a brief and joyous celebration once I have confirmed that I am indeed located in the United States of America.
“Sex and the City was on at 7:30PM. My DVR was set to record it, but it’s not there! This is striking my last nerve with your company. Carrie and Aiden are just about to get into a relationship but then Mr. Big is showing up again and he and Carrie are sneaking around again! Can you believe that? But now because of the yahoos you got working there I missed my episode! You need to fix this right now. Call the guy, get a truck out here, do whatever you have to do. I’m tired of this stupid DVR screwing up my recordings.”
A simple mmmhmmm-ing acknowledgement is all I give the customer in reply while the steady rhythmic noise of typing on a keyboard is broadcast into our telephone conversation.
In all actuality we’re not here to help you out. We don’t care if you get your money’s worth of whatever service it is that you’ve paid for. We’re completely flawed just like the rest of the human race and naturally we’re looking out for our best interests rather than yours or our employers. As long as I make the customers think that the company cares about them then I keep getting my check for $487.63 every Friday, and that’s what it’s all about to me. Most of us that work here aren’t delusional. Thoughts don’t pound across our mind that maybe if we try really hard and put in a little extra effort it will get noticed by the management and then we’ll climb the corporate ladder and one day be the CEO. Those are false dreams that management wants us to believe but they’re only able to fool about 5% of the workforce while the rest put in the minimal effort required to keep our jobs.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience that we’ve caused you ma’am. Let me see what times are available to have one of our Service Techs come out there and see what’s up.”
Ten more minutes go by before Ms. Skjelstad hangs up her line feeling somewhat satisfied with the service provided, leaving me vulnerable to receive the call of the next irate customer who wants to complain so that they feel better about their life.
“Yo M. What you got after work? Me and Dontae gonna hit up The Improv at 8,” a voice belonging to a guy named Donald calls out three cubicles away.
Donald is a tall African American in his mid-twenties who just moved out here from Detroit. He’s built like an ox (no literally, an ox is the best animal that could describe his physical appearance), and has a laid back demeanor that is comforting, but at the same time depressing when I realize I’m a bit too much like him.
Feigning interest I reply, “Oh yeah? Who’s performing there tonight?”
“D.L. Hughley. Dude’s hilarious.”
I really have nothing better to do after work, but that still doesn’t stop me from replying in jest, “I don’t know if they let white folks like me into shows like that. Plus, dude hasn’t been funny since his guest appearance on the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”
Donald quickly scoffs at my reply, “Ah come on, ‘The Hughleys’ was aight.”
“Meh...it wasn’t terrible. Cosby’s show was better.”
“So you comin?”
I’m leery to commit. “Just us three? Like a triple-date? Or is Dontae bringing his wife?”
Dontae also happens to work for GAT and also happens to be a person of dark skin color, and he also plays basketball with Donald and I on our days off. If I were to use an animal to describe his appearance I would go with a panda bear instead of an ox, because well, he’s nicer than Donald and seems softer, almost cuddly. You would feel like you’re disgracing nature if you ever attempted to give him a hug, yet you’re still compelled to do so but also know that a bear is still a bear and can bite your face off if you try anything funny. He also is a budding amateur rapper, so maybe a panda isn’t the best comparison, but it’ll do for now.
“Yeah. His chick be outta town a bit. Just da three a us.”
Pretending to be important by checking my phone and reading new text messages that I haven’t received, I bide my time for a few seconds to think before explaining to Donald that I think I have something going on tonight with a girl (even though this is completely false), and that I will hit him up later tonight once I find out what’s going on (even though I have no intention of doing so).
Donald, who has slowly walked over to my cube during this brief interaction, nods his head in respect, says, “Alright cool,” without pronouncing the L’s, and we exchange a brief hand gesture that’s somewhere between a high-five and a handshake. I’m still uncertain as to the proper methods of performing this gesture, but he and Dontae never say anything, and I suppose that it’s the effort that counts.
“We for sure need to hit up a basketball game again soon,” I proclaim as Donald starts to walk backward to his cubicle. “Lakers vs Suns is in a few weeks.”
“Or Clippers vs the Pistons next month.”
“Man, Clippers suck.”
“Dem Lakers tickets be expensive though.”
A small red light starts flashing on my phone followed by a low ringing noise indicating my next call is waiting to be answered, and also signaling the end of our conversation.
It’s not that I don’t like hanging out with Donald and Dontae. On the contrary, I actually feel like they’re fun to be around and enjoyable. We’ve hung out a few times outside of work, namely, an Ice Cube concert where my friend Nacho and I were the only two white males in the crowd not wearing baggy pants, a sports jersey, or aspiring to be the next Eminem. We play basketball together on Tuesday mornings down at the Rec Center where Donald always carries his team to victory. The last few minutes after the game are mostly capped off with a good laugh and making fun of Dontae and his busted knees. Poor bastard is only 25 years old but hobbles around like an old man in need of a stroller.
Shoot, outside of my small circle of real best friends, Dontae and Donald are the best friends I got. Here’s my dilemma though. If you want to excel in the world can you really hangout with people that are content with just getting by? The worst part about that sentiment is how hypocritical it makes me feel. Two guys from completely different backgrounds, lifestyles and cultures than my own have openly extended a hand of friendship to me despite my complete lack of basketball ability, rapping prowess, smooth game with the ladies, sneaker affection, video game skillz, or anything else that suits their interest. We don’t have much in common other than our current occupations, and yet they still want to be friends. Yet I’m too self righteous to actually be a true friend because it might bring me down, or something like that.
Stationed lackadaisically at my desk, calls come and go taking their irritated customers with them throughout the day. Anticipating the clock about to strike 3PM I hurriedly close out of all the programs on my computer. A brown messenger laptop bag sits in the corner of my desk which I hurriedly grab, wind up the cord to my phone charger and shove it into the black abyss along with an old copy of Confederacy of Dunces that I’ve been carrying around for five days even though I’ve only read the first six pages. The buckles click firmly into place right before the brown blurs around me as I swing the strap over my arm and onto my shoulder.
“Hey man, I’m gonna go watch some movies at this new chick’s house tonight. Met her the other day in Hillcrest. So I’m a no-go for the Improv,” I sluggishly state while knocking my fingers against the cold metal border of Donald’s cube.
Donald quickly mutes the microphone of his headset unbeknownst to his customer who is probably continuing their diatribe as to why GAT ought to change the compression format of their HD channels to insure a better quality picture for their customers so that he can more fully enjoy the NFL Network.
“Ah that’s what’s up?” Donald says nodding with a smile like he’s in on a secret. “She hott?”
Red flashes from my cheeks, embarrassed in my lie that Donald is unaware of.
“Yeah, ya know, she’s alright. Not like O-M-G hott, but pretty decent.”
“Aight man, we’ll hit somethin up the next time then.”
I quickly nod, turn and walk away through our almost-vaccant office building. Loneliness slowly seeps in through my skin while walking across the dimly lit fourth floor of Global American Telecom’s second largest corporate office building. What was once a bastion of hope for the company has now been reduced to a feeble struggling outpost shortly before the Great Recession hit due to the company’s inability to quickly morph their identity with the competition in a rapidly changing market. Their cable TV services didn’t take off like they thought they would so GAT was forced to cut 670 call center jobs two years ago when people stopped buying land line telephone services.
Back in the glory days, every floor was packed with happy workers feeling secure with their employment status. Now instead of smiles and “good to see you’s,” all that greets me on the long walk to the elevator are infinite rows of empty cubicles. The remnants of a once dominant company that is now struggling to stay afloat. Stacks of discarded keyboards and empty desk serves a brutal reminder of what once was. Grateful that we’re not out on the streets like so many others struggling to find a job, the 72 of us that remain slog through the emptiness day after day.
Four months ago the Customer Service team asked to move up to the third floor after being stuck in a windowless basement for 14 months. GAT keeps the lights on in our small corner of the building, but every where else on the floor is covered in darkness to conserve electricity and the company’s money. Two months ago they sold off 400 of the remaining office chairs to some community college up the coast.
The fourth story view is actually one of the few perks of my job. Sitting on a hill we’re able to see most of downtown San Diego and can even watch the boats take tourists on short excursions around the harbor. I brought Reilly up to the roof once on a date to watch the sunset out in the ocean. I thought it’d be romantic, like in the movie Titanic only without the catostrophic death scene at the end.
It’s funny how depressed this building can make us feel, and strangely at the same time the view gives us hope. Working in a place like this makes you feel like nothing interesting could ever happen to you. Sure, I have my moments, like last year when I beat Nacho at the charity hot dog eating contest, and I’ve won two writing contests for my short stories, but when it comes down to it I’m just another number. I’m nothing special. Everyone wants to feel special. I mean, come on that’s the only reason movies exisit. Movies instill people with something that’s liberating and poisonous at the same time. Just when I start getting down on myself, Hollywood, in it’s infinite mercy, comes out with a new Batman or some other super hero movie. That’s the point where I start thinking, “wait! Luke Skywalker. Harry Potter. Frodo-fuckin-Baggins? Those guys were nowhere near as cool as me when they started out. There’s hope.”
That’s what Reilly is. Hope.
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Kidding.