Stupid questions

You know how when you’re talking to someone who assumes they’re in a power position so they get to ask you all sorts of ‘probing’ questions?

Fuck those people.

They’re nothing but sheep in shit clothing.

I don’t know why it is but, when people contact me to do something I assume they know what they’re getting. They contacted me. That means they’ve seen my work. I don’t think I’m so subtle they can miss my, ah, subtext.

If I sought them out, okay, I might let a dopey question or two slide. But I think I’m pretty upfront about what my unique abilities are and how my, let’s just say, Zellian way of going about it are. Even if they got the lead from someone else I’m pretty sure that conversation went something like this,

“Oh yeah, Chris’ll be great for that. . .but. . .”

Which is followed by a series of sometimes real, sometimes fabricated, ways I’ll go about satisfying some random fucks needs. The fact is, my skill set is so specific, if I say I can do whatever it is you’ll want, I’m 100% sure I can do it. So relax. I don’t need hand-holding; I don’t need encouragement; I don’t need you hovering.

What I need is as much information as possible to do what you want to achieve. That’s it. I’ll say thank you or nod or grunt, something to let you know I grasp the concept then I will get to work. I will do my best, give it back, you’ll give me your changes, I’ll do what you say, you’ll have more changes, I’ll do what you say again, you’ll have more changes, I’ll do what you say until you’ve taken out everything I was hired to do and you’re left with a generic piece of shit anyone could have done.

Then I gladly cash the check.

But it’s when they have to ‘get to know me’ before the project starts I begin to smell something mephitic. It’s usually not even the person I’ll be doing the work for, I mean, working for. They’re usually happy enough to have someone doing it they’re more than happy to leave me alone.

But no, it has to be some middle-management, or worse HR puke, who has to get all touchy/feely with me.

Note for future people, Chris gets touchy when people get feely.

That’s when I begin to bristle. I’m no danger to the company pride, I’m not going to sully your ranks, I’m not going to tend to my crop in your cube farm. I’ll be sitting alone in my office, on my computer, out of harms way of everyone in your work family.

But they have to poke, don’t they?

I’ve been answering politely. Short, tight, specifically generic responses. But I can sense the ‘what tree would you be?’ line of questioning begin. That’s when my resolve breaks. Oh sure, I bark, but I’m not a tree. I guess my frustration is why this has to be done, to anyone, in the first place.

Are you trying to get a peek into the psycho-business attitude of your employees? Looking for future stapler thieves? Do you think the best psyche test you can give me I can’t break down with a series of answers so disturbing you’ll begin to shake uncontrollably?

‘Cause I’m pretty sure I can.

I don’t. Mainly because, as much as I’d enjoy it, I never let it get that far. Once it begins I gauge the asker. I don’t want to say something so bad I lose the work. Just something that gives them the impression we should move to the end of questions and let Chris get back to scaring children and shaving puppies. Or away. However they want to phrase it is fine by me.

“What strength,” she begins. “Has your biggest drawback?”

What the fuck does that even mean? See? That’s why it makes me crazy. What am I supposed to say?

“My strength that has the biggest drawback, for me, is my ability to sit here listening to your stupid questions without grabbing that stapler and piercing your face a couple dozen times.”

I’m no expert but I’m sure that’s not the right answer.

So I go for something a little more subtle.

“Well” I say thinking up something just odd enough to get the work but make them understand this may end up a long, winding, increasingly dark road they shouldn’t be traveling.

At least not with me.

“I know sign language but I stutter when I do it.”

I must admit to loving that nervous, ‘is he for real?’ chuckle that builds deep in their bowels and gets stuck in their throat. It’s the perfect soundtrack for escape.