Wherein Pearl Harnesses Her Inner Parrot

Ring.  Ring-ring.  Ring-ring.

“Good morning, Acme Grommet and Gravel, a Worldwide Octopus Company, Pearl speaking.”

“Good morning, Pearl.  I’ve some questions regarding your gravetrational feebleblinking.  Do you have a moment?”

I frown.

I’da never taken this job if I’da knowed how much work it was going to be.

Ten years here at Acme Grommet and Gravel, and with the new job?  Like starting at a new place.

“Of course I do,” I say, “as long as we’re both cognizant of the fact that I’ve been in this newly created position for just under three weeks.”

“Oh, no worries, no worries.  I have some pretty basic questions.”

We both laugh.  Ha ha.  Work is funny.

“Okay,” I say.  “Fire away.”

“Well,” he says, “It’s like this.  We’ve got a four-to seven-spindled farquardt running about three clicks below harmanfletcher.  I’m just wondering if you’ve got a stop-gap measure we can get our mitts on.”

I close my eyes, reflect on that subsistence-farming thing all the kids are raving about. Maybe it's not too late to buy a goat, start wearing sensible shoes?

“I’m just going to take some notes,” I say.  “I’ve got concerns about your farman – your marfen – your thing there.  How many clicks did you say?”

“About three,” he says, a sound of relief in his voice.  Clearly, things are happening.  “And my biggest issue here is what with spring threatening and all that I’m going to access the vengravoored brakken intake-valve and end up with a drainage problem.”

I laugh.  “Oh, man,” I say.  “If I had a nickel for every time I couldn’t trust my vengravoored brakken intake-valve.”

He doesn’t respond. 

Maybe I’ve overshot.

“All right then,” I say, “I’m going to dig into this a little bit and get back to you.  Can I have your number, please?”

He gives me his number.  We hang up.

I look at my notes, wander over to my boss’s office, as I have done several times an hour, every work day for the last three weeks.

“Stacy?  Can I talk to you?”

She looks up from her computer.  “Sure thing,” she says.  “What’s up?” 

I look at my notes, cock my head in that endearing way I have, frowning slightly.  “Something about a four-to seven-spindled farquardt?  Concerns about an intake of some sort?  That sound right to you?”

 “Ah, rats,” she says, pushing away from her desk.  “It’s not operating below harmanfletcher, is it?”

I nod sorrowfully.  “Yep,” I say, pursing my lips.   “Right there below the ol’ harrmanfletcher.”