Yesterday I received a very terse email from the American Express Corporate Card Collections Department in Mexico, to say that bills remain unpaid and the card is now suspended.
Mexico. Go figure.
Not long after that, Maria walked past my desk so I asked her what it was all about:
Maria: "Oh - well yes I don't know. Maybe I put down on the expenses claim for you to be paid in cash and so they didn't pay the credit card company because it went to you. Next time I will put pay by credit card but now too late. So Mr Anthony have you been paid this money?"
-- "I don't know."
"Why don't you know Mr Anthony? You should know already from your bank account if the payment has gone through."
In one swift turn, she had sliced a piece of blame off the bone and handed it to me. I braced as chewed on it, waiting for another piece.
Me -- "I don't know. I just haven't checked it lately. But anyway where are the Amex bills? Why haven't you received them? You're supposed to manage them aren't you?"
"Yes I should get them. But I didn't" [pause] Oh. Wait! No! I checked last week and they told me that these are now put in your pigeon hole instead."
-- "I have a pigeon hole?"
"Yes you do."
-- "Where is it?"
"I don't know."
-- "Why do I have a pigeon hole?"
"I don't know. But you do."
"Well don't worry anyway because right now you have this one so you're responsible for this one only."
She pointed to the empty drawers under my desk which she had, for some reason, recently arranged.
-- "But I still have a pigeon hole?"
"Yes."
-- "So aren't I also responsible for that ... as well?"
"Yes."
-- "And aren't my Amex bills in there?"
"Yes."
-- "So now that I have these drawers [point] I have to check 2 things for mail and carry 2 keys?"
"Yes."
She used that "once more for the dumbies" tone to her voice, making the Her "yes" rise, then fall slowly. This was to imply that she had arrived at this conclusion some time ago, and I was slowly catching up.
-- "How can I find out where it is?"
"Where what is?"
-- "My pigeon hole."
"Oh. Wait. Yes! I someone told me on Friday. Come with me."
Maria never admits to forgeting anything. She is quick on her feet and
repackages any oversights as recent, late-breaking news. It's "yesterday" or "just this morning" that she discovered some new piece of information that I had been waiting on for weeks. She
was just waiting for me to be out of meetings so she could tell me. She would have told me already if I didn't rudely interrupt her with all these questions.
I followed Maria around the office, looking for the pigeon hole. I was trailing behind with my head bowed like an insolent child. Hers was held high and there was no doubt who was the boss and who was in the wrong.
We reached an oasis of white lockable things.
My pigeon hole turned out to be a large locker with my name on it. The surname was slightly misspelt so that my name doesn't just sound the same as "fuckwit" in Indonesian ... they've adopted the Indonesian spelling as well.
The locker itself is located at the end of the row, hugging a thoroughfare. This ensures that most people who work in or visit this area get to chuckle at my surname and therefore my expense.
No wonder everyone knows who I am. Here's me thinking it was because I was white, and eligible.
It could be worse. I have a colleague whose first name is Asfaq. This makes it difficult for him to run workshops in English speaking countries (and almost impossible for me to introduce him to people without smirking). Sometimes I like to imagine Asfaq working in Canberra, at one of those large porno supermarkets - supervising and restocking aisles 7 and 8.
"Why am I always put on aisles 7 and 8?"
-- "Because on your first day when you introduced yourself, the boss misunderstood your accent and thought you were asking to work in this section."
"Oh no. Not again."
Back to Anthony Fuckwit.
We needed to find a key to my locker, which pretty much tied Maria up for the rest of the day.
This morning I sensed that someone was at my desk and looked around to find Maria staring at me, stoically holding up a key between her right thumb and index finger. The look on her face indicated that it is possible to be both smug and bored at the same time.
Me: "Good morning Maria. What's this?"
Maria: "Your key Mr Anthony. The pigeon hole."
This comment was delivered in monotone, with a machine like quality. Maria often adopts this machine speech pattern, usually when she has the smug/bored expression appears. It's as if she's using it as a type of speech make-up - slapped on at the time, to match her face.
Off we went again to my "pigeon hole", again with my head bowed. As I went to use the key, we realised that it was already opened.
Inside it we found 8 American Express envelopes and a warning note from our Workplace Security which said that I had failed an audit at 19:00 on 14 July 2010.
My surname was misspelt. Clearly the Workplace Security department had decided to adopt the Fuckwit Spelling convention. They also referred to me not as a person, but as a violator.
Anthony Fuckwit, the Violator.
I showed this to Maria, who rolled her eyes and said "We call this a love letter".
Then she picked up my Amex envelopes, assured me she would take care of everything and took off.
She did not head in the direction of her desk. I expect she took my envelopes for a smoke.
