The type of work that is performed at a call center is not very physically taxing. Because of this, there is a very large population of elderly people working with me. Some of them are trying to stretch their pensions further into their golden years. Others are trying to help their grandkids pay for college. Some still are the kind of work-a-day Joes and Janes that don't know how to survive without punching a timeclock.
Helen was one of the latter. She worked for the wireless company as a second job. During the daytime, she worked for a state-funded mental health facility. One look at this woman tells you she couldn't see fifty in her rearview mirror even if she squinted really hard.
If you know anything about sociology, you know that people start to assimilate the characteristics of those with whom they are in close contact every day. Helen's close contact with the great unwashed of Shady Acres Mental Health Clinic for the Exceptionally Poor and Fecal Splattered has caused her to assimilate many of their grooming styles. If you got within ten feet of this woman, you would immediately be under the assumption that instead of a dresser, she stores her dresses in the bottom of her cat's litter box. She reeks of cat urine and, on her worse days, fresh shat.
Helen has been sent home multiple times for her odor. She is the only person in the company's history to be written up for personal hygiene. On several occasions, she has **** herself at work and then, with a complete lack of shame, yelled across the call center to her supervisor, "Shat myself again! Gotta go home."
But these are not the stories I want to tell you about. What I want to tell you about is Helen's last day. But I mention those stories because I feel it is very important that you get a clear picture of who I am talking about. This woman is, in all senses of the words, bat-shat crazy.
On her last day, Helen was wearing one of her trademark urine-soiled muumuus. On this day though, she must have forgotten to wear her rubber diapers, or her Depends, or her panties. Because there was nothing to stop the shat when it came out.
Only by the grace of God did she not shat in her chair. But when she got up for her last fifteen minute break of the day (and of her career with ******** Wireless), she had the pained look of someone trying to pinch back a loaf. And she walked with the pained steps of someone squinching their azz cheeks together so tightly that you could turn a diamond back into coal.
Helen did not make it to the bathroom. She got about ten steps off the carpet and into the linoleum hallway before she left what from a distance looked like a candy bar on the ground. My thoughts immediately turned to Bill Murray in Caddyshack. Three more steps down the hallway and another log dropped to the floor with a slight spatter. This one Helen stepped on.
And thus, her bowel functions having been relieved, Helen saw no need to continue on to the bathroom. She turned around and came right back to her desk, leaving shatty footprints like a trail of breadcrumbs to mark her path. She didn't go wipe. She didn't tell anyone what she had done. She just sat back down, put on her headset, and went back to taking calls.
I sat in my seat and stared at the shat in the hallway, trying to choke back laughter. I watched it for thirty minutes before anyone saw it. I watched as that person went and grabbed a supervisor. I watched as the supervisor double-clutched and choked back vomit. I watched as his eyes followed the trail to Helen. I watched as his face pulled down in a scowl. I watched as he stormed over to her, being careful not to step in her footprints, and told her to leave and not come back. Then I watched as he cleaned up her fecal matter for the rest of the day.
I hated being anywhere near Helen because of her stench, but seeing my supervisor on his hands and knees picking up human shat -- well, for that I will always love her. Thank you, Helen, wherever you are.
Helen was one of the latter. She worked for the wireless company as a second job. During the daytime, she worked for a state-funded mental health facility. One look at this woman tells you she couldn't see fifty in her rearview mirror even if she squinted really hard.
If you know anything about sociology, you know that people start to assimilate the characteristics of those with whom they are in close contact every day. Helen's close contact with the great unwashed of Shady Acres Mental Health Clinic for the Exceptionally Poor and Fecal Splattered has caused her to assimilate many of their grooming styles. If you got within ten feet of this woman, you would immediately be under the assumption that instead of a dresser, she stores her dresses in the bottom of her cat's litter box. She reeks of cat urine and, on her worse days, fresh shat.
Helen has been sent home multiple times for her odor. She is the only person in the company's history to be written up for personal hygiene. On several occasions, she has **** herself at work and then, with a complete lack of shame, yelled across the call center to her supervisor, "Shat myself again! Gotta go home."
But these are not the stories I want to tell you about. What I want to tell you about is Helen's last day. But I mention those stories because I feel it is very important that you get a clear picture of who I am talking about. This woman is, in all senses of the words, bat-shat crazy.
On her last day, Helen was wearing one of her trademark urine-soiled muumuus. On this day though, she must have forgotten to wear her rubber diapers, or her Depends, or her panties. Because there was nothing to stop the shat when it came out.
Only by the grace of God did she not shat in her chair. But when she got up for her last fifteen minute break of the day (and of her career with ******** Wireless), she had the pained look of someone trying to pinch back a loaf. And she walked with the pained steps of someone squinching their azz cheeks together so tightly that you could turn a diamond back into coal.
Helen did not make it to the bathroom. She got about ten steps off the carpet and into the linoleum hallway before she left what from a distance looked like a candy bar on the ground. My thoughts immediately turned to Bill Murray in Caddyshack. Three more steps down the hallway and another log dropped to the floor with a slight spatter. This one Helen stepped on.
And thus, her bowel functions having been relieved, Helen saw no need to continue on to the bathroom. She turned around and came right back to her desk, leaving shatty footprints like a trail of breadcrumbs to mark her path. She didn't go wipe. She didn't tell anyone what she had done. She just sat back down, put on her headset, and went back to taking calls.
I sat in my seat and stared at the shat in the hallway, trying to choke back laughter. I watched it for thirty minutes before anyone saw it. I watched as that person went and grabbed a supervisor. I watched as the supervisor double-clutched and choked back vomit. I watched as his eyes followed the trail to Helen. I watched as his face pulled down in a scowl. I watched as he stormed over to her, being careful not to step in her footprints, and told her to leave and not come back. Then I watched as he cleaned up her fecal matter for the rest of the day.
I hated being anywhere near Helen because of her stench, but seeing my supervisor on his hands and knees picking up human shat -- well, for that I will always love her. Thank you, Helen, wherever you are.
