End of Day 3

I manage to stay another fifteen minutes past my end shift. It comes with the job, I accept it. I managed to pull out only 38 calls. Not bad but not good either.

I grab my coat and my back pack, and walk out to my car. Once I exit the building, I see Bogart smoking a cigarette. He has blonde frosted, puffed up hair. He never shaves but his beard never grows any thicker. He also is constantly wearing those reflective sun glasses. In the right light, he looks like George Micheal, circa 1985.

I am not a smart man but I am pretty sure that is not a good thing.

"Going home, Jason?" he asks.

"Yeah. I did my best today."

"How many calls did you pull out?" he asks.

"38." I reply.

"That's not bad for a weeping melon farmer like yourself. I personally am sitting pretty on 39."

"Really?" I smirk, " How many did you sleep through?"

"I helped the customer!"

"There is a difference between helping the customer and transfering them to another queue. I am pretty sure I picked up most of your transfers."

"We'll see tomorrow. Won't we?" Bogart glares at me.

"Yeah, we will." I say, walking away.

"I hear Iron Lung was struggling today." he calls to me.

"He'll make it." I call back.

"You seem to have a lot of faith."

"In my friends?" I glare back, "Always."