The Last Mile

This post is part of the series titled, "Waging War At Work." The table of contents for this series is listed below in chronological order:

“She’s still here Linc.”

I blinked a few times. “Are you @#$% kidding me?”

“I kid you not.”

I hung up my cell and threw it across the room. The woman almost drew a gun on my relative (who also works the same job), and they expect me to work in the same section as her???

3 weeks of this crap. I called my union. My union thinks I’m the bad guy. But after hounding their fat hairy asscans for days on end, they finally talked to the bigwigs and my union rep assured me she would be moved out the day after Thanksgiving.

She lied right to my face. Motherfrick useless union whore. I called her cell and left an urgent message, but of course she never called back.

Well that’s it then. I donned my uniform, grabbed my audio recorder and headed out the door. I was going to make a visit to the Commissioner’s office and see the big man himself. I had enough.

After I pulled up alongside headquarters, I took a long, deep breath. In seven years I had never gone in to see the Commissioner. Hell I didn’t even know what his office looked like, but I would soon find out now. Rather appropriately, the commish’s office was at the end of a long hallway on the second floor, and as I walked that last mile, I knew I was putting my job on the line. I was going over the heads of all my bosses and bypassing my union altogether. I paused for a few seconds outside the door, trying to gather myself and keep myself from visibly shaking. I prayed hard and asked God to watch over me.

And then stepped inside.

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