Vernon Story Tweets - May & June 2010

Looks like I totally spaced May's Vernon Tweets, so here's a two-fer:

Vernon had spent a total of six months living on his own in the past couple decades since graduating high school. His mom had kicked him out shortly after he graduated college, when it was apparent that Vernon wasn't looking for work. That's when his aunt invited him to stay with her. She thought he should pursue a career as a not-so-starving artist.

"I'm not sure I want to even try to write," Vernon told his aunt. "It's too competitive. Everything's been written already."

"See," my aunt said. "You're already writing. You're terrific at making excuses. Get 'em down on paper, nephew."

Vernon balked. "Aunt Joanie, nobody writes on paper anymore. This is the end of the twentieth century. Get with the times."

"Get with the times?" she said. "If you mean sponging off your relatives while you play around on the computer all day, no thanks."

Shortly after, his Aunt Joanie started to leave the classifieds and a pen lying around in strategic locations.

* * *

"Why do you want to work for Ubermarket, Vernon?"

He fumbled with his fingers. Only his aunt's face appeared as a possible answer. "It definitely has to be the opportunity to set daily goals and accomplish them," said Vernon.

The interviewer's face lit up. "What experience do you have with telemarketing?"

Vernon replied, "Only when they call my house."

"Excellent!" The interviewer made an exaggerated check mark on his interview sheet. Vernon did his best to hide his confusion. "So," the man said as he jutted out his jaw. "When do you want to start?"

Vernon's gut twirled and he sighed, "Tomorrow?"

The interviewer launched his hand out to Vernon and said, "You start at 8:00. Don't be late."

* * *

His aunt slept as he stepped out to the street, the lunch she had made him the night before clutched in his palm.

Orientation wasn't supposed to take all that long. That's what the interviewer told him. A guy near the office had chuckled. The door to the orientation room was exactly six steps from the entrance to the office space. A permanent sign diffused his confidence.

Three hours later, Vernon felt more tired than when he started. As he emerged from the room, the guy near the office chuckled louder. The whole orientation could have lasted 15, maybe 30 minutes tops. 'How long does it take to learn how to use a headset and program?' Aside from the technical aspects, his job responsibilities were best summed up as, "Make the call. Follow the script. Make the sale."

'Oh well,' thought Vernon. 'At least it was three hours of pay.' He followed his new boss to the cubicle he'd grow to detest.

With his tie slightly loosened and cocked to the right, his boss said, "I'd sanitize the handset before you use it."

As Vernon took a seat at his cubicle, he sighed. The other agents droned into their headsets, vacant stares in all their eyes. 'It's going to be okay, Vern.' For the next few minutes, he sat and glared at the monitor with his fingers poised to type.

"Woohoo!"

Vernon jumped at the sound of the guy two stalls down declaring a sale before running down the aisle for high fives. Within 15 minutes, someone else sounded off their success. Vernon had yet to make a single call, let alone make a sale.

An hour passed before Vernon managed to get an actual person on the line, only to have the recipient slam the phone down on him. The next time he got through, a lonely and presumably old woman started to sob on about how much she missed her sons.

After consoling the woman for a solid twenty minutes, Vernon sensed someone looming behind him. He turned to find his boss scowling and arms crossed. The man pointed to the sign and used his finger to underline "Follow the script." The squat man in the loud tie continued to hover over Vernon. His fingers shook as he reached to make the next call.

"Good evening sir. I'm calling tonight to share an exciting offer from Vitoptimum with you."

The man stood firm behind him.

Click.

Vernon turned to his boss, who smiled. "Sorry. They hung up on me."

His boss smiled in an unexpectedly warm way, then patted Vernon's back. "No worries. Just keep trying. You'll make a sale." The man jerked round and sauntered down the aisle eavesdropping in on the other agents, occasionally stopping to provide direction.

From that point on, Vernon always stuck to the script. It didn't seem to help though; it took a week before he made his first sale. After awhile, Vernon grew numb to the constant rejection. Most of the time, it took him nearly a 100 dials before he spoke to anyone. He was called all manner of obscenities. If most had it right, Vernon and his entire ilk were the worst of the worst.

* * *

"How was work today?" asked Vernon's aunt when he collapsed into the couch. He stared back with glazed eyes and shallow breath. "That good, huh? Well, you got to make a living somehow, right?" Vernon rolled his eyes toward his computer and sighed.

'Something has to happen,' Vernon thought, 'Something exciting, or this whole story that is my life is going nowhere.'

CHAPTER 3
Beneath the slim smear of grime, a glow emanated from the City Lights Bookstore door window. The wind picked up and rattled the door.

Vernon looked up and down the street again. 'Nope,' he thought. 'Nothing's different. They all still look like they're stuck in 1950.' He rubbed his eyes, gave his surrounding one last look, took a deep breath, then turned the door knob to the infamous bookstore.

All around were books, some ramshackled others sparkling new, lining the simple wooden shelves. It took Vernon by surprise. The smell of fresh ink and musty pages mingled in his nostrils with the smell of over-boiled coffee grounds.

Someone shuffled pages from behind one of the racks, rose to their feet and cleared their throat before rounding the end of the shelves. It was the man he ran into on the street. He had combed his hair down, cleaned his glasses and tucked in his button down shirt. He also wore the uniform of those in the literati: a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. His coffee mug steamed with weak coffee and copious amounts of dry creamer. He cleared his throat and began to speak. "Have any questions? Speak up if you do. I'm working back here." He turned and rounded the shelves. The sound of scribbling ensued.

Vernon rose his hand slightly and began to gape like a fish out of water. He tried to speak, but nothing would come. He rubbed his eyes, took a gander around and found that nothing changed. 'Should I pinch myself, or would that be too cliché?'

"Too cliché," he muttered.

The scratch of writing ceased and the man in the back said, "What's that?"

"Um..." Vernon searched for the right words but found none. "Nothing." He walked toward where the man sat, and then loomed there.

The man at the desk tapped his pen, staring at Vernon and waiting for him to say something, anything at all.
Vernon Story Tweets - May & June 2010
Looks like I totally spaced May's Vernon Tweets, so here's a two-fer:

Vernon had spent a total of six months living on his own in the past couple decades since graduating high school. His mom had kicked him out shortly after he graduated college, when it was apparent that Vernon wasn't looking for work. That's when his aunt invited him to stay with her. She thought he should pursue a career as a not-so-starving artist.

"I'm not sure I want to even try to write," Vernon told his aunt. "It's too competitive. Everything's been written already."

"See," my aunt said. "You're already writing. You're terrific at making excuses. Get 'em down on paper, nephew."

Vernon balked. "Aunt Joanie, nobody writes on paper anymore. This is the end of the twentieth century. Get with the times."

"Get with the times?" she said. "If you mean sponging off your relatives while you play around on the computer all day, no thanks."

Shortly after, his Aunt Joanie started to leave the classifieds and a pen lying around in strategic locations.

* * *

"Why do you want to work for Ubermarket, Vernon?"

He fumbled with his fingers. Only his aunt's face appeared as a possible answer. "It definitely has to be the opportunity to set daily goals and accomplish them," said Vernon.

The interviewer's face lit up. "What experience do you have with telemarketing?"

Vernon replied, "Only when they call my house."

"Excellent!" The interviewer made an exaggerated check mark on his interview sheet. Vernon did his best to hide his confusion. "So," the man said as he jutted out his jaw. "When do you want to start?"

Vernon's gut twirled and he sighed, "Tomorrow?"

The interviewer launched his hand out to Vernon and said, "You start at 8:00. Don't be late."

* * *

His aunt slept as he stepped out to the street, the lunch she had made him the night before clutched in his palm.

Orientation wasn't supposed to take all that long. That's what the interviewer told him. A guy near the office had chuckled. The door to the orientation room was exactly six steps from the entrance to the office space. A permanent sign diffused his confidence.

Three hours later, Vernon felt more tired than when he started. As he emerged from the room, the guy near the office chuckled louder. The whole orientation could have lasted 15, maybe 30 minutes tops. 'How long does it take to learn how to use a headset and program?' Aside from the technical aspects, his job responsibilities were best summed up as, "Make the call. Follow the script. Make the sale."

'Oh well,' thought Vernon. 'At least it was three hours of pay.' He followed his new boss to the cubicle he'd grow to detest.

With his tie slightly loosened and cocked to the right, his boss said, "I'd sanitize the handset before you use it."

As Vernon took a seat at his cubicle, he sighed. The other agents droned into their headsets, vacant stares in all their eyes. 'It's going to be okay, Vern.' For the next few minutes, he sat and glared at the monitor with his fingers poised to type.

"Woohoo!"

Vernon jumped at the sound of the guy two stalls down declaring a sale before running down the aisle for high fives. Within 15 minutes, someone else sounded off their success. Vernon had yet to make a single call, let alone make a sale.

An hour passed before Vernon managed to get an actual person on the line, only to have the recipient slam the phone down on him. The next time he got through, a lonely and presumably old woman started to sob on about how much she missed her sons.

After consoling the woman for a solid twenty minutes, Vernon sensed someone looming behind him. He turned to find his boss scowling and arms crossed. The man pointed to the sign and used his finger to underline "Follow the script." The squat man in the loud tie continued to hover over Vernon. His fingers shook as he reached to make the next call.

"Good evening sir. I'm calling tonight to share an exciting offer from Vitoptimum with you."

The man stood firm behind him.

Click.

Vernon turned to his boss, who smiled. "Sorry. They hung up on me."

His boss smiled in an unexpectedly warm way, then patted Vernon's back. "No worries. Just keep trying. You'll make a sale." The man jerked round and sauntered down the aisle eavesdropping in on the other agents, occasionally stopping to provide direction.

From that point on, Vernon always stuck to the script. It didn't seem to help though; it took a week before he made his first sale. After awhile, Vernon grew numb to the constant rejection. Most of the time, it took him nearly a 100 dials before he spoke to anyone. He was called all manner of obscenities. If most had it right, Vernon and his entire ilk were the worst of the worst.

* * *

"How was work today?" asked Vernon's aunt when he collapsed into the couch. He stared back with glazed eyes and shallow breath. "That good, huh? Well, you got to make a living somehow, right?" Vernon rolled his eyes toward his computer and sighed.

'Something has to happen,' Vernon thought, 'Something exciting, or this whole story that is my life is going nowhere.'

CHAPTER 3
Beneath the slim smear of grime, a glow emanated from the City Lights Bookstore door window. The wind picked up and rattled the door.

Vernon looked up and down the street again. 'Nope,' he thought. 'Nothing's different. They all still look like they're stuck in 1950.' He rubbed his eyes, gave his surrounding one last look, took a deep breath, then turned the door knob to the infamous bookstore.

All around were books, some ramshackled others sparkling new, lining the simple wooden shelves. It took Vernon by surprise. The smell of fresh ink and musty pages mingled in his nostrils with the smell of over-boiled coffee grounds.

Someone shuffled pages from behind one of the racks, rose to their feet and cleared their throat before rounding the end of the shelves. It was the man he ran into on the street. He had combed his hair down, cleaned his glasses and tucked in his button down shirt. He also wore the uniform of those in the literati: a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. His coffee mug steamed with weak coffee and copious amounts of dry creamer. He cleared his throat and began to speak. "Have any questions? Speak up if you do. I'm working back here." He turned and rounded the shelves. The sound of scribbling ensued.

Vernon rose his hand slightly and began to gape like a fish out of water. He tried to speak, but nothing would come. He rubbed his eyes, took a gander around and found that nothing changed. 'Should I pinch myself, or would that be too cliché?'

"Too cliché," he muttered.

The scratch of writing ceased and the man in the back said, "What's that?"

"Um..." Vernon searched for the right words but found none. "Nothing." He walked toward where the man sat, and then loomed there.

The man at the desk tapped his pen, staring at Vernon and waiting for him to say something, anything at all.