PATRICK WALSH: FEBRUARY 2004

Continued from here. 

Coming off the Valentine's fiasco, my desire to get out of the "Test Prep" game and onto my goal of working in television grew stronger and stronger.

We had a weekly staff meeting where about 50 people would cram into this little conference room and we'd get pep talks about sales and staying competitive or something like that. I never paid attention. During one of these meetings, Jeff (the very same manager from the Valentine's saga) was blathering on about this and that, and then he said he'd like to make a very special announcement. 

JEFF: As all of you know, we keep a very close eye on how many calls each employee answers in a given week. This office has been around for many, many years so it's always incredible when someone on staff manages to break a record. A record has been broken this week. The previous record for calls answered in a week was 240. Last week, one of our employees answered an astounding 560 calls. Everybody please put your hands together for...Patrick Walsh!

An audible gasp went up around the room. I was barely paying attention so I didn't even really know why my name had been announced or why everyone was clapping.

JEFF: And not only did he answer all those calls, but he did it with a customer satisfaction rate of 97%.

I was shocked. Totally shocked. A lot of the brown nosers in the office were visibly upset. This big angry guy, Pete, looked particularly upset. Pete scared me.

I knew why I had so many calls. Most people work 40 hours in a week, I was working 60, even working Saturdays and Sundays to avoid my roommate situation and loneliness. Naturally, with all those extra hours I'd answer more calls. And I was pretty good on the phone. But this blew my mind.

JEFF: We're going to give Patrick a $500 bonus this month, and he also gets first crack at our monthly pinata!

CASH MONEY BITCHES! AWESOME! Wait...what? Did somebody say pinata?

Sure enough, there was a pinata hanging from the ceiling. Weird. But it gets weirder. Taped to the donkey's face was a picture of some smiling middle-aged dude. 

ME: Whose picture is that?

JEFF: It's _____!

ME: Who is that?

JEFF: He's the head of The Princeton Review!

ME: What's that?

JEFF: The Princeton Review? Only our biggest competitor! 

ME: And you want me to hit this man in the face?

JEFF: Yeah!

Jeff handed me a wiffle ball bat.

ME: Just because he runs a successful company?

JEFF: He's our main competitor!

The room was on edge. I couldn't believe I was being asked to bust open a pinata at work. With a man's face on it. At noon on a Tuesday. 

ME: Oh. Thanks. But somebody else can do it. 

JEFF: I'm sorry?

CAROL: Just...hit it!

PETE: (screaming) YEAH!!!!! HIT IT!!!!!

ME: That's OK. Thank you for the award, but I really don't need to hit the pinata. Thank you, though.

I extended the bat to Jeff. He did not take it back.

JEFF: Patrick. It's a tradition. Just hit the pinata. Please.

I let out a heavy sigh. You've heard the expression "half-assed." I hit this pinata with roughly 1/16th of my ass. An armless newborn could have hit this thing with more force. The pinata barely wobbled on its string. I handed the bat back to Jeff.

And then the booing started. Oh, how they booed. These people simply couldn't wrap their minds around the fact that someone might not want to bash a pinata. I laughed, thinking the booing was in jest, but when I looked at some of the faces in the room, I realized they were very serious.

JEFF: I'LL show you how to BUST a pinata!!!!

You would have thought this stuffed donkey had raped Pete's mother. The force with which he tore into that pinata is not something I'll soon forget. The room erupted into cheers as little boxes of Nerds and Dots burst forth to the floor. And then the employees, grown men and women in ties and dresses, got down on their hands and knees and began picking the candy up off the floor, laughing and carrying on. In my mind everything turned to slow motion, people tearing into Tootsie Rolls with spittle-covered lips, like rabid dogs.

And still, long after it was empty, Pete beat that pinata. Something inside him broke as he wailed on that defenseless paper mache burro. And the whole time, the smiling face of The Princeton Review stared me in the eyes, as if to say, "Please. Save yourself. Get out of here."

I walked out of the room a different person. The orgy of violence, hatred, and mini-Twix behind me, I walked to the phone and called NBC. This time I wasn't going to take no for an answer. Disembodied Head of the President of The Princeton Review was right. I had to get out of here.

tags: story of my life  temp  work  pinata  

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