“Thanks. Should you reconsider, please give me a call.” Andy disconnects and leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh. The only ring on his phone since ten this morning and it went absolutely nowhere. He shakes his head, both frustrated and disgusted. The automation was only supposed to cut into his department’s sales by twenty or thirty percent, but it’s been more like eighty.
At least he still has a job. Two of his close friends lost their jobs when the robotics took over most of the assembly section.
With another shake of the head he flips his screen between Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, only to see that the scumbag he’s been “arguing” with, “Red Rider2,” has posted yet another incendiary comment.
“Listen you socialist libtard, all your candidate will be doing with his communistic rhetoric is making this country into another Venezuela. Have you noticed how well THEIR economy is doing?”
Andy hisses under his breath. Libtard...he hates that label. Teeth grinding, he again leans back in his chair hoping, praying, that the phone will ring and tear him away from the building anger he feels inside. But it sits quiet and he finds his gaze wandering across to Clarissa Mallow, his favorite distraction.
With the phone to her ear, she stares at her screen, an intense focus reflecting that her department, like his, is undergoing a lot of change. And the stress is showing. The difference for her is that she’s the department’s director, and the pain of the losses of personnel hits closer to home, as she has not only had to make the tough decisions, but worse, be the bearer of bad news.
She’s about his age, maybe a year or two younger, and though her forehead is crunched, he can tell her skin is soft, her heart is big. She’s thin – probably likes to run or workout like him – and wears her brunette hair shoulder-length. He sighs wistfully – he’d love to ask her out, but knows she’s way out of his league. Even the little things, such as the Yale diploma that hangs from the wall of her cubicle, as compared to the Cal State Fullerton he sports, make the possibilities ever less likely.
Besides, as a director, she’s three levels up from him; he can hardly see her “slumming.”
He sighs again and turns back to his screen and types. “You know, you illiterate hillbilly, you really need to take that glowing red neck of yours right back to the 1950s where it belongs. In case you haven’t heard, there are a couple of other countries out there that have socialism.”
* * *
Clarissa sets her phone down – more bad news about layoffs – and, nearly in tears, looks to her screen as a new post pops up from that liberal loser, “Make-a-Left.” Illiterate hillbilly? Really? What a jerk! She slips up closer to the keyboard, her mind racing. This deserves a proper “reply.”
At least he still has a job. Two of his close friends lost their jobs when the robotics took over most of the assembly section.
With another shake of the head he flips his screen between Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, only to see that the scumbag he’s been “arguing” with, “Red Rider2,” has posted yet another incendiary comment.
“Listen you socialist libtard, all your candidate will be doing with his communistic rhetoric is making this country into another Venezuela. Have you noticed how well THEIR economy is doing?”
Andy hisses under his breath. Libtard...he hates that label. Teeth grinding, he again leans back in his chair hoping, praying, that the phone will ring and tear him away from the building anger he feels inside. But it sits quiet and he finds his gaze wandering across to Clarissa Mallow, his favorite distraction.
With the phone to her ear, she stares at her screen, an intense focus reflecting that her department, like his, is undergoing a lot of change. And the stress is showing. The difference for her is that she’s the department’s director, and the pain of the losses of personnel hits closer to home, as she has not only had to make the tough decisions, but worse, be the bearer of bad news.
She’s about his age, maybe a year or two younger, and though her forehead is crunched, he can tell her skin is soft, her heart is big. She’s thin – probably likes to run or workout like him – and wears her brunette hair shoulder-length. He sighs wistfully – he’d love to ask her out, but knows she’s way out of his league. Even the little things, such as the Yale diploma that hangs from the wall of her cubicle, as compared to the Cal State Fullerton he sports, make the possibilities ever less likely.
Besides, as a director, she’s three levels up from him; he can hardly see her “slumming.”
He sighs again and turns back to his screen and types. “You know, you illiterate hillbilly, you really need to take that glowing red neck of yours right back to the 1950s where it belongs. In case you haven’t heard, there are a couple of other countries out there that have socialism.”
* * *
Clarissa sets her phone down – more bad news about layoffs – and, nearly in tears, looks to her screen as a new post pops up from that liberal loser, “Make-a-Left.” Illiterate hillbilly? Really? What a jerk! She slips up closer to the keyboard, her mind racing. This deserves a proper “reply.”
