It was a particularly noncommittal day weatherwise when our unassuming hero Stiji arrived on foot at the place of his voluntarism. Outside volunteer circles, work was always vocalised as ‘volunteering’, for reasons relating to the respectful and awestruck looks one receives upon stating that ‘yes, it’s true, I’m a full time volunteer. I volunteer’. The conversation inevitably wraps up prematurely upon further questioning, lest the respectful and awestruck passersby ask exactly how much the volunteer wage is.
Upon arriving at the office soon after 8, Stiji found the door locked. This was by no means an uncommon occurrence. In fact, the more astute percentage of the population will make an uncannily accurate statement, examples of which include: ‘that door is still locked at 8 as often as the sun rises in the east’; or ‘that door is as likely to be open by 8 as tits on a bull’. Unfazed, Stiji sat down in the kitchen, where he waited for the usual 40-45 minutes before someone arrived bearing the incredibly rare/possibly unique office key.
Entry was gained with a little more than seven hours of the working day remaining, and Stiji, sporting a rather lovely (yet blister-inducing) new pair of flip-flops courtesy of his sister, sat down and prepared for his day. He spared a morose look for the other half of the small desk, which up until the day previously, he had shared with another volunteer. Due to lack of space, they had often played involuntary footsie, and recently signed the Treaty of Orangedesk, ending the Elbow Wars for the sixteenth time. George’s absence was possibly for the best, as the fifteen previous treaties had maintained peace for no more than 72 hours, and the numerous violations of the Geneva Convention, namely the inclusion of elbow-mounted shivs, pointed towards imminent mutually assured destruction. Still, the morose look was pointed and drawn out in an overly dramatic fashion, and then Stiji got to enjoying having a whole desk to himself.
It is a well-known fact that Stiji’s place of employment/voluntarism (dependent on the reader) was a dreadfully entertaining place to work/volunteer, in a sort of tear-your-hair-out-in-order-not-to-pay-for-haircuts, bang-your-face-against-the-wall-because-broken-noses-look-dashing way. Previous chuckle-worthy misadventures have included Stiji being asked to ‘push a button’ to get more funding; writing a letter to a bank asking for a tent for Deaf people to sit under at the highly celebrated Hibiscus Festival; and most recently, writing a letter asking for 13 chickens to be donated to cover monthly office costs.
This day, with the noncommittal weather, was no different. Stiji found himself being the only hearing person in the office. Whilst this had happened frequently in the past, George had previously always been present to share the onerous tasks of answering the phone and feigning ignorance whenever someone came into the office wanting something. However, being considered somewhat of an ‘old hand’ at this volunteering thing (the term ‘old hand’ officially becomes part of one's handle upon volunteering for six months), the daily chores became a little more complicated. Unfortunately, Stiji’s knowledge of sign language had not increased at the same rate.
Interpretation of the first query went something like this: “Can you call….check…Tina….pay”. With that knowledge in hand, Stiji made the call. Fortunately, it was engaged. Next job was to call Tina directly. The Tina who, at that very moment, was interpreting at a workshop in Nadi and would in no way answer her phone. Still, Stiji tried four times, exercising a level of patience which he thought he still needed several thousand more XP points for. Tina eventually called back to remind Stiji’s office colleagues what she had already told them a few days earlier.
The proverbial icing on the cake, which for the record, Stiji had not enjoyed for quite some time now, was interpreted by Stiji thus: “Can you call this number ask for number for bags chicken”. Thinking on his newly-blistered feet, Stiji worked his sign language magic in an attempt to further clarify. He signed: “What?” Slowly, more information was dredged to light. Communication reverted to pen and paper, but now confident what to ask for (the number for the bags of chicken), he made the call. It went something like this: “Yes hi, um, hi, I’m calling because someone here faxed a letter last week asking for bags of chickens, and we need the number for it. You’ll put me through to marketing? Great, thanks….Yes hi, um, hi, I’m calling because someone here faxed…no wait, sorry, mailed, no, hang on, ah, he came into your office last week with a letter. Yep, so there was this guy that came to your office last week with a letter asking for donations of bags of chickens. And apparently we need a number for that. What kind of number? You got me. Yes! Like a reference number! A reference number for the bags of chickens so we can pick them up on Thursday. You don’t give out reference numbers. OK. Great. Any chance you can just give a random selection of numbers I can give to my colleagues? No, you’re right, that would be wrong. So you don’t – wait, hang on. We’ve found it. We’ve found the number. It was on the bottom of the letter we sent you, filed in the filing cabinet exactly where it should’ve been. Why am I calling? He said he lost it. No, you’re right. I would’ve looked exactly where it should’ve been first too. Thank you for your time. Thanks. Buh-bye”.
Minutes later, Stiji decided his hair was rather long enough, thank you very much, and proceeded to tear it out in a precise and methodical manner. He had had, after all, plenty of practice.
Apparently this kind of thing is bloggable. I’m not so sure, but hey, why not. If you can't laugh, you cry, right? I really need you all to laugh so I'm laughing like a maniac on my own.
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