DespeRatt: I am salaried, but this is nonsense, IMHO. Time is time, for everyone, salaried or not. Every hour is a tiny little sliver of our lives that they rob us of. So what if I’m salaried? I shouldn’t want to have a life, or need rest — a fucking break, like I am entitled to? I have to go nonstop, like some nightmarish automaton, for eight, nine hours in a row without needing a fucking break? Yes, LostGirl, I am salaried, but so the fuck what?’
LostGirclass="underline" I am sorry, dear Ratt, I really am. Didn’t mean to upset you even more. I totally see your point.
DespeRatt: I apologize too. I know you mean well, you always have.
Slave19: Even with cars you have to stop the engine when refueling, right?
DespeRatt: Right. Didn’t think of that, but yeah, absolutely.
Slave19: Because they could blow up otherwise.
DespeRatt: Very true. This is precisely what happened to me today.
LostGirclass="underline" Are you in management? Are you able to influence these decisions?
DespeRatt: No, and no. I’m an engineer, LostGirl. I never wanted to be in management, still don’t. I… I’m not really a people person. Ideally, I wanna be left the fuck alone to do my work. A good workday is a day in which I interact with people remotely, not face to face. Oh well… nobody’s perfect, right?
LostGirclass="underline" Are you socially anxious?
DespeRatt: I guess you could say I am, although I’d call it much more comfortable alone. Plus my work doesn’t get interrupted by others every minute or so.
Slave19: I know an exercise that can help wipe that frown off your face. Let’s plan revenge.
LostGirclass="underline"
DespeRatt: Huh?
Slave19: Just virtually, of course. If you had all the power in the world, what would you do with the offenders at your job?
Quentin caught himself smiling, the first time in countless hours.
DespeRatt: Ahh… let me think. The asshole with the working lunch — I’d prevent him from having a non-working lunch for at least a month. But he might like that. Huh… What would you suggest?
Slave19: How about having him serve lunch to people as a career? Wouldn’t he look just great as a waiter in some cheap diner?
DespeRatt: Totally. You’re so much better at this than I am. Let’s continue; my migraine started going away.
Slave19: Glad to hear. Who else is on your shit list?
DespeRatt: My boss, of course. The biggest idiot who ever walked on this planet with an MIT degree. Entitlement meets arrogance but fails to meet any superior brain function with this guy.
Slave19: Thinking… Arrogant, you say?
DespeRatt: And then some.
Slave19: How about street vendor, selling hot dogs right in front of your corporate office?
LostGirclass="underline" ROFL.
DespeRatt: Gotta give it to you, you have talent! If I’ll even be in a position to think of real revenge, I’ll know who to ask.
Slave19: You will. Life circumstances change every day. Soon, your time will come. Just hang in there.
DespeRatt: I will. Thanks, you guys, you’re awesome.
Quentin closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. Yeah, this was fun, and helped him forget the miseries of the day, but it was definitely not progress. His résumé still needed a little tweaking, and that’s where he should have spent his time instead.
He rubbed his forehead for a minute; his migraine was returning with a vengeance.
…26
Under the cafeteria’s flickering fluorescent lights, Jeremy Weber waited for the coffee machine to finish brewing his second fix of the day, then headed back to his office.
“Hey, Weber, SAC Taylor was looking for you,” one of the operational support technicians said, passing him in the hallway.
“When?” Jeremy asked?
“Just now,” the tech replied and disappeared behind a door marked Special Investigations.
Jeremy left the coffee cup on his desk and walked right out, heading for his boss’s office.
Special Agent in Charge Taylor was a procedural investigator, more focused on the procedure manual than on following his gut. Jeremy rarely interacted with Taylor; both of them liked it that way. Jeremy’s way of thinking, of following leads and uncovering information, was more in line with what one saw in old detective movies than in the standing FBI procedures, despite his almost twenty years with the bureau. All that mattered to Jeremy was the truth and catching the bad guys as fast as possible. He routinely followed his gut and forgot to file the paperwork. That’s why Taylor wasn’t his biggest fan.
He knocked on Taylor’s open door.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Come in, get the door,” Taylor replied, pointing at one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Jeremy closed the door behind him, then sat on the indicated chair.
“Before we start,” Taylor said, “please note this is the final verbal warning you’ll get from me. If I have to repeat today’s spiel ever again, it will be in writing and it will go on your permanent record. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” Jeremy replied, clenching his jaws. He felt his palms starting to sweat.
Taylor opened a file and started reading from his handwritten notes.
“You have interrogated a minor without a legal guardian present. You have used borderline excessive force during the interrogation of the Mortimer kidnapping suspect, and he wasn’t even the right suspect to begin with. He’s filed a lawsuit. All this, in the last month. Oh, here’s a real gem. You drove off and left your partner at Starbucks, where he was buying you both breakfast, and didn’t return to pick him up.”
“I’d just received a tip from one of my informants in the Wilson case. I thought human trafficking takes precedence over donuts, sir.”
“Don’t be a smartass with me, Weber. Your partner wasted half his day, waiting for you, covering for you, then taking a goddamn cab to get back to the office. Now he’s filed a request for reassignment.”
“Oh, I see… ” Jeremy whispered.
“Yeah… how many times have we been on this path, Weber? How many partners? No one wants to work with you, and I understand why. You don’t care about your partners. They believe you don’t have their back, and they don’t trust you!”
Taylor ended his tirade forcefully, slamming the folder on the desk, and his open palm on top of it. Jeremy almost flinched, but remained quiet. There was no point in arguing.
“You’re not a cowboy, Special Agent Weber,” Taylor said after a minute or so, “You’re not some Midwestern small-town sheriff who thinks he is the law and nothing else matters. You are a federal agent. And it’s about goddamn time you start behaving like one.” Taylor paused, waiting for Weber to respond.
“Yes, sir.”
“People smarter than you have written our procedures manuals. Follow them at all times. If in doubt, don’t break protocol; just follow the manual, without any exceptions. And learn how to be a team player. There’s no way I’m gonna allow you to work without a partner; it’s in the manual for many reasons. So find one who’ll work with you and do whatever it takes to stay in his or her good graces, because one more reassignment request from one of your partners and it goes on your record. Is that understood?”