More Letters!
Late for the Party
And This Too Shall Pass?
Love the Man in the Uniform
A Morning in the Life
Give This Man a Flamethrower
Being "Sticky" Is Not Enough
Don't Me.Com
Under the Volcanoes
The Cyberslouch
e-Slacking
Stock-Suck

7:42 am: That first step off the bus, oh boy. My right foot slaps the wet pavement and the mist from a pressure washer hits me in the face. I give a grunt-like utterance toward the overalls on the sidewalk, a plea to put down the hose. His finger releases the trigger, and I spryly step into another day as a "startup" Customer-Service Rep. Four blocks, three wallet swipes, two elevator buttons, one Hanson's Energy Drink. Let's Rock.
     Striding to my chair, I glance at my phone. A green light, and a red light. The red light is a good sign; it means somebody returned my call. Closure: it is good.
     It's the soothing lime-green light that's intimidating: new inquiries. Seven new messages, a few from customers questioning credit-card charges. A couple of hangups (a dial tone is bliss this early). Yup, here it comes. Before the end of the first syllable, I recognize the New York accent, which always comes with an "I'm gonna sue you" attitude. Even at other support positions I've held, it was the New York accent that put me on the defensive. And that guy just made the bottom of my list of eight calls to return by 10am. Don't mess with me dude; this is my world.

9:54 am: Click. Big deep breath. Time to cut loose. Queue the music. Everything is in slow motion as I step from my personal com center on a mission. You can get affirmation just by eye contact (if you know someone well enough), and when I get that from Connor, I know it's on. Need two. It's time for foosball. We case the maze looking for accomplices. As we make our way to the back door, we pick up Barry and Eamon with just one word: "Ready?"

10:12 am: Back at my little com center, note to self: "Practice your five-man shots." Time to check the email queue. Not too bad; we should have these kicked out by the end of the day. I turn on the air-conditioner, slap on my headphones, and insert Moby into my CD-ROM. I turn to my homie and discuss how we should attack the queue; then the phone rings. Moby will wait for a few; it's time to provide real-time customer support. I click Onyx on my toolbar, insert my earpiece, and pick up the phone: "Thank you for calling, this is Joe. How can I help you?"--Anonymous