2008 Woodie Awards
The Deserted Bandwagon
Matt Kunzweiler
Issue date: 2/17/05 Section: Features
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It takes a lot out of me to feign enthusiasm, which is a major social setback sometimes. If someone who really loves the movie "Con Air," asks me what I thought of it, and I remark that "the action scenes were very well choreographed," I'll hate myself, and my face will divulge this. If someone asks me how a social house party was, and I respond, "Fantastic!" I'll be exhausted for the next few minutes. I'll need water. Fresh air. Some alone time.
Ironically enough, one of my fellow interns at the non-profit institute where I worked this summer was fired, and upon her dismissal, I found myself taking her place at the reception desk. Reception - the fate was too cruel to be anticipated. I never thought that someone responsible could knowingly place me in such a position.
But the next thing I know, I'm answering phones with rehearsed chiming monotony, forwarding calls and smiling ridiculously at the trustees of the institute. Forty hours a week of faking perkiness almost destroyed me. The sound of my own voice going chipper took me to the brink of breaking down. I had sold out. The man was sticking it to me.
At first, I tried to compensate for this sad realization by driving back from work recklessly, deliberately cutting off expensive SUVs that were likely driven by some incarnate version of the man. I soon realized this was stupid and on par with pre-teen rebellion.
I contemplated quitting my job, but without a paycheck I couldn't afford rent, food or beer. I contemplated working harder (gasp) and sucking up (ditto) to get a promotion, but I remembered that I was an intern, a position without upward mobility.
So, I resigned myself to work. I spent the next two months becoming more and more programmed. I perfected the courtesy laugh, the mercy laugh and the polite reserved chuckle just right for acknowledging the oh-so-clever witticisms of affected donors. When asked, my day was always "Fine, and yours?" Yes, I was a tool. But I was on the payroll, damn it.
After the summer, I retired my slacks and habit of shaving regularly. I packed up my car and drove a couple thousand miles to Vermont. Within a day of my return, I sat at my desk, typing an e-mail at my computer, and the phone rang. I don't know how it happened, but I picked up the phone and in semi-trance I chimed, "Good morning. This is Matt, how may..." and there I caught myself. I hung up the phone before I knew who was on the other end. I sat at my desk for a while. My hands were shaking.
I never found out who called. I hope I never do. It was probably my mother, but she's too kind to ever bring it up. She knows it would crush me.
Ironically enough, one of my fellow interns at the non-profit institute where I worked this summer was fired, and upon her dismissal, I found myself taking her place at the reception desk. Reception - the fate was too cruel to be anticipated. I never thought that someone responsible could knowingly place me in such a position.
But the next thing I know, I'm answering phones with rehearsed chiming monotony, forwarding calls and smiling ridiculously at the trustees of the institute. Forty hours a week of faking perkiness almost destroyed me. The sound of my own voice going chipper took me to the brink of breaking down. I had sold out. The man was sticking it to me.
At first, I tried to compensate for this sad realization by driving back from work recklessly, deliberately cutting off expensive SUVs that were likely driven by some incarnate version of the man. I soon realized this was stupid and on par with pre-teen rebellion.
I contemplated quitting my job, but without a paycheck I couldn't afford rent, food or beer. I contemplated working harder (gasp) and sucking up (ditto) to get a promotion, but I remembered that I was an intern, a position without upward mobility.
So, I resigned myself to work. I spent the next two months becoming more and more programmed. I perfected the courtesy laugh, the mercy laugh and the polite reserved chuckle just right for acknowledging the oh-so-clever witticisms of affected donors. When asked, my day was always "Fine, and yours?" Yes, I was a tool. But I was on the payroll, damn it.
After the summer, I retired my slacks and habit of shaving regularly. I packed up my car and drove a couple thousand miles to Vermont. Within a day of my return, I sat at my desk, typing an e-mail at my computer, and the phone rang. I don't know how it happened, but I picked up the phone and in semi-trance I chimed, "Good morning. This is Matt, how may..." and there I caught myself. I hung up the phone before I knew who was on the other end. I sat at my desk for a while. My hands were shaking.
I never found out who called. I hope I never do. It was probably my mother, but she's too kind to ever bring it up. She knows it would crush me.