What I wanted to do was show up at one class each day, neatly dressed, bright eyed, smiling and participating. I’d sit in the front row and raise my hand for each question. Then one day, I’d stumble into class late, unshaven, in a bathrobe, scowling and clutching a cigar in my teeth. And I’d sit in the center of class and just glare.
Sadly, I never got around to living that dream. The closest I ever got was in my senior year I carried a flask around to class with me for the last week or so. And let me tell you, to the untrained public speaker, the flask is a brutal weapon.
Now, my last month at school I got a letter declaring that I had to attend a lecture held by a bank about the importance of paying back loans. If I didn’t go, I didn’t get to graduate. Now, I don’t know a lot about finances, but I understand this basic premise: I’m fucking poor. And if I don’t pay what I owe, they’re going to send someone to break my legs.
Seriously, my parents handled all my student loan debt and I’m beginning to wonder who the fuck they borrowed money from. I owe money to some bank that doesn’t even have a website. Frankly, I’m shocked they even accept checks. I’m 90% sure that this “bank” is one guy who doubles as a bookie somewhere in Albany. Someday, I know I’m going to get a letter informing me that I have to make my next payment in an unmarked envelop in a back-ally somewhere. Pretty much, it’s the Bank of Joe, and he operates out of his trunk.
So because of the grief that the bank had put me through, when I was told I had to attend some dumb-ass lecture, I just snapped. They want me to waste an evening I could have spent hitting on drunken freshman girls? Fine, they were going to feel my wrath.
So I showed up at the meeting, dressed in a sweatshirt. And I proceeded to sit down, front and center as the rest of the uninspired looking poor kids filtered in. Finally, the bank representative strolled in and stood before us. She was young, and fresh looking. Blonde hair, tied back, and a black business suit/skirt neatly adorning her. She looked like she was so eager to begin her struggle up the corporate ramp. I could tell by the glint in her eye that she believed that she was going to be the one to break through that glass ceiling.
And then I went and crushed her dreams. I waited until she was about five minutes into her speech and then I pulled out the flask. What followed was an absolute train wreck.
The first rule of performance is “the show must go on.” Apparently, this girl had never heard that rule. Because as the smell of Jack Daniels wafted through the room, and all eyes turned towards me, Ms. Banker suddenly had problems remembering what the fuck she was trying to tell us about credit scores and differed payment options.
She kept stuttering her way through her presentation, and I kept taking blatantly obvious gulps from my flask.
I know what some of you are thinking: Why would you do this to some poor girl? If you like, I can send you a copy of my monthly payment plan. Let’s just say that I’ll be paying these people off long after the continents have merged into a new land mass. So I’ll repay my debts, but I’m not going to thank them for it.
All in all, it was a valuable lesson. I’m tempted to try to repeat the experiment next time I have to sit through a meaningless meeting here at work. That should make for an interesting sit-down with the CEO. Christ, I don’t believe I haven’t been fired yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment