800 Miles

I’m going to tell you a little story about someone I used to know. It’s a long story, not very crafty, and only relationshippy if you kind of stretch your definitions. But I think it’s worth sharing. I was inspired to share this tale with you by Ginny and her Tupperware Story, because nothing is more awesome than tales of woe about people who pissed you off in your past. This is the tale of a douchey girl, how she pissed me off, and how I kicked her ass at life.

I was about six months out of my first year at university, in which my aim had been Forensic Psychology. I still love the topic, but math makes me angry. A lot of other factors were involved, but long story short, I went a little crazy and flipped university the bird.

So! That summer I went back to work at the Bubblegum Factory. I won’t get into these details right now, but suffice it to say that working from 7pm to 7am in fluorescent lighting and a white jumpsuit really isn’t good for your failing and flailing mental health.

And yet it was better than uni (though clearly not for very long with those hours), so come September, I asked them to extend my contract for another six months so I could earn buckets of cash while figuring out how to turn my new interest (painting up models for photographers) into a career.

After wisely drinking away most of what I earned at the factory and taking out a huge loan to pay for three months at a private makeup school, I was broke like nobodies business. Things are back on track now, but the makeup thing didn’t work out. Turns out everybody and their mother is a makeup artist in Toronto, and frankly I wasn’t in any kind of mental shape to start my own business.

And so, like so many, I resorted to the world of telemarketing. My first gig was calling up people who had filled out a form at some trade show for what they believed to be a free vacation because they didn’t bother reading the back of the form. My job was to call these people up, listen to them excitedly tell their toddlers that they were going to fucking Disneyland (it wasn’t actually Disneyland, it was somewhere with dolphins but I’ve blocked most of it out) and then hear their disappointment after telling them that it wasn’t free, it was just seriously discounted and of course they had to pay their own airfare and sit through a presentation. 

Ami was an admin assistant there. Eventually, we both left the company, and wound up selling gas contracts. It was a difficult sell given the dip in prices at the time, but those fuckers would be laughing now. The difference now is that Ami was my manager. And she was terrible at her job.

This is where I became friends with Talea. She was the quiet office manager who also answered all the phones. She ran the entire office from her little desk. When we became friends, she had me bumped up to reception because it was too much work for her. I quickly began to realize why. Everything Ami touched went wrong. Not a week went by where she claimed to have never received an email despite the record of it having been sent from Talea’s or my own computer. Not a day went by where I didn’t have to set aside forty five minutes to fix something she had fucked up. Not a day went by where I didn’t look over at her desk and see her surfing through cute animal pictures. Not an hour went by where she didn’t spend ten minutes in the bathroom reapplying eight coats of whore red lipstick and adjusting her tight-bottomed skirt. Talea later told me that she had initial doubts about talking to me because Ami was my friend and frankly, Talea can’t handle stupid people. Thankfully, neither can I, so Ami and I were destined to part ways eventually.

To be fair though, Ami wasn’t skanky, despite the ill-fitted skirt. No. She was a relationship whore, the kind of girl who doesn’t seem to know who she is unless she’s in a relationship. She was never Ami, she was always Ami-and. Ami-and-whoever.

Ami had a friend at work. His name was Scott, and he did the recruiting. Recruiters for shitty telemarketing jobs are, by the very nature of the task at hand, soulless little fuckers. But I liked him. We got along, watched some games, drank some beer, and before long, had a casual little thing going. Before it could go anywhere, Ami’s boyfriend dumped her and moved out of their apartment. She took back her psychotic ex from years ago, and within a week he had moved back to Toronto from Montreal to live with her. Woah nelly, a little fast do you think? “I’m not afraid to just jump in,” she would explain. Well, I hope she’s afraid now. It took about a week before she realized what a terrible idea it was and went crying to Scott.

Scott turned to me while I was sitting next to him on the couch one night while we were all hanging out at his place pretending to be friends, and told me that he was going to be with Ami now. Ami was in the other room, passed out from their mutual love of too much booze. I got to share the cab home with her. Less than a month later, they had moved out of their apartments and into a nifty little townhouse together. Woah nelly, a little fast do you think? And very expensive too, she admitted. They had decided that instead of spending money on going out, they would spend that money on their cute little home.

Well. Isn’t that darling? Just fucking precious.

Now here’s the thing about me. I’m very, VERY vindictive. But the details of how I plotted to overthrow her, my careful documentation of her every screw-up are not necessary here. Because another thing about me is this funny luck I have where things just work out.

This happened in late January, I would say. In early March, our division shut down. We were given 24 hours notice but assured that interviews had been arranged for each of us in other departments of the parent company. Talea was moved to the other side of the building and I missed her terribly all of five minutes away. I was kept in the same position at reception – seems they decided to give the little project one last go with new people. Scott quit in a big huff.

Ami was given a ‘no hire’ on her resume, and was very quickly out of work.

I went over to their new place one evening in some vague effort to patch things up back when I still thought that “that’s what you’re supposed to do.” Scott was snippy at her for not being able to find a new job yet, while he was at least looking. He was miserable, she was sick. She didn’t get that job at the vet’s office she had hoped for, since they chose someone with more education. She was considering getting a job as a cashier at a grocery store. They were broke, drunk, and a lot of tension was in the air. I left, knowing I would never be back. If nothing else, their place was damned inconvenient to get to.

But, as is often the case in Toronto (which means ‘meeting place’, by the way) I’ve seen her here and there in the subway system. I don’t know if that was her latest boyfriend she was walking beside, but it sure as hell wasn’t Scott. I saw her again a few weeks ago during rush hour, and Talea saw her just the other night. I don’t know if she is working, but if she is, it’s not in any kind of corporate environment.

Whatever she has tried to do, she has failed.

Me? I’m doing great. I have a great job (my clients can be difficult, but the job itself is sweet), I make decent money, I have good benefits, and I work with my best friend. My apartment is cute, cheap, and all mine. I have an amazing boyfriend who showers me with more love and affection from 800 miles away than any man has within the city limits, and yet still knows when to just let me be retarded. I love him dearly, and one day we will be together. One day we’ll even be married, with inevitable little hell-raisers nipping at my heels. But we’re not rushing into anything because frankly we are smarter than that.

We’re smarter than Ami. I’m smarter than Ami. Talea is smarter than Ami. Your left shoe is smarter than Ami.

Ami sucked.

And I won.