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and headed for the door. Like rock stars they waved to their fans, while our GM and his assistant served as their security escorts. More festivities followed inside, and by the time lunch arrived, the nausea had grown so bad I nearly passed out.
    Okay, maybe that’s a little exaggerated. But it really was distasteful. And to think we’d be doing it again Friday. Tomorrow.
    I arrived at the center just after 9:00 a.m. this morning. My lead agent and our team of fifteen CSRs (customer service representatives, for those unfamiliar with call center lingo), were busy with the Lysol and Clorox wipes, cleaning every topical surface in our cubical area. Laughing and chasing one another through the aisles, apparently they were excused from taking calls for the next hour or so. Such joyful ecstasy in their faces I’d seldom witnessed—definitely never when tethered to their computers with headsets.
    “ Well, hey there, sexy!” cooed Shikira, one of my more precocious and flirtatious young reps. “Dennis says we don’t have to be back on the phones until ten-thirty.”
    She nodded toward my assistant, who handed out more Clorox wipes to the rest of the team, with Tammi and Nikki—Shakira’s closest cohorts—in tow behind him. The prettiest threesome in the center, Dennis had become their unwitting pet, completely wrapped around their pinkies for some time now. Yeah, it’s completely inappropriate for a forty-year old man to cavort about like this, and the looks on several of my other reps’ faces confirm the dangerous line he treads. Especially two middle-aged ladies, Suzanne and Marietta, who make me worry every damned day about a possible lawsuit.
    Have I talked to him about it? Several times, actually. His stated commitments to act more mature have all evaporated into the massive germ-infested ventilation system coursing through the center. I can hardly wait for the next team realignment and my emancipation from the three little vermin and their pathetic puppy dog.
    My head’s throbbing, compounded by lack of sleep from the night before.
    Just great. Just frigging great!
    Smiling weakly, I determined to hide my intense irritation as I moved over to my desk, stopping briefly to greet Suzanne and Marietta. I offered much warmer smiles to my older girls. As usually the case, their perturbed expressions melted away, and I tried not to picture the sordid images of me flourishing behind their wanton looks. At least Dennis can keep his job one more day.
    “ I need your status reports for last week by noon on my desk,” said a harsh, husky voice from behind me.
    Matilda Jones, my direct manager. She slid around to face me before I laid my briefcase on my desktop and sat down. Matilda is a wonderful lady and the only coworker of mine whom my wife admires and respects. The feeling’s mutual between them too. Fiona has performed card readings for her on a couple of occasions. I often kid Matilda as being an Aussie from Queensland, Australia, greeting her with a hearty ‘G’day!” on most mornings, though she’s never even been outside the states, hailing from Flint, Michigan. Barely five feet in height, she’s an attractive fortyish lady of West Indies descent, whose affinity for fine chocolates is the only reason she struggles to keep her generous curves in line.
    “ I’ll get em’ turned in on time—Dennis should have most of what you need done already,” I told her, pausing to look at several paper towel bundles from the nearby restrooms stacked on top of my desk.
    Two more cans of Lysol and another container of Clorox wipes sat next to my mouse pad. Just enough room to squeeze my laptop into its docking station, while I laid my bike helmet and backpack under my desk. No status reports from Dennis, however.
    “ By noon, Fabio, and don’t be late,” Matilda reminded me, after glancing at my desk. She smirked, but the look she gave me as she headed back to her office reinforced her seriousness.
    Very funny. I