The REP

By Terrence Damon Spencer

New and Revised for 2021!!

My new editor made some significant changes and corrections needed, to make this novel a much better read!

We have all felt it at one time or another, the anger towards a rude customer who aggressively demands the attention of a customer service represen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreams To Paper
• Release date: Apr 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998145631

Terrence Damon Spencer

Terrence Spencer was born in 1971 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin where he attended and graduated Custer High School at nineteen. Later joined the U.S. Marine Corps, attending boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in Camp Pendleton, CA. He traveled the world to places like, Japan, Philippines, Korea and Thailand, absorbing the many Asian cultures and languages. At thirty, he terminated his career with the military to settle down with his family in Denver, Colorado. Photo taken in 2015 by Tabitha Tapia Other than writing, Terrence Spencer's has a number of other different hobbies. Shooting small firearms at the gun range, vehicle repair, spending time with family and friends are just a few. He also enjoys working out at the gym and a good cheeseburger from Crave's Burgers in Castle Rock, Colorado. Not to mention a good scary movie on a stormy night. Terrence decided to explore his love for writing after being told many times that he should place his thoughts on paper. "I'll never forget it!" says, Terrence. "My kids, Terrence, Damien and Victoria were sitting in a movie theater next to me, when the preview to a children's movie produced by Blue Sky Studios came on screen. My kids gasped, then all turned to look at me; their jaws dropped open. "Dad that's the story you used to tell us years ago." my son Damien said." After that day, Terrence refuses to let a thought go without placing it on paper. Two of those thoughts, "Strong" and "The REP" are published and available today, with ten others summarized and ready to be born. Stay tuned! Terrence Spencer currently resides in Pueblo, Colorado, but ultimately would like to retire in Tempe, Arizona with the love of his life Tabitha Tapia. There, he hopes to continue his writing career full time while enjoying the warm temperatures they crave.

Book preview

The

REP

A Novel

By

TERRENCE DAMON SPENCER

Copyright © 2016 by Terrence Damon Spencer

All rights reserved.  No part of this fictionalized book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval

program, or exchanged in any liable form, or by in any way possible without the cleared, physical

written consent of the Publisher/Author.

This is the work of fiction.  The events described are imaginary.

The settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent specific places or persons.

Any actual persons, living or deceased in comparison are only a pure, coincidental

resemblance.

Graphics and cover by Dreams To Paper Publishing

P.O. Box 9241, Pueblo, Colorado 81008

Copy Editing by Erica N. Guerra

Author’s Photograph: Tabitha Spencer

Revised 2nd Edition 2021

Also

by

Terrence Damon Spencer

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Strong

The beginning of a series

and

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Premises

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

"Eat it, eat it, eat it!" a group of fourth and fifth graders chants.

They surround me and another boy, who is three times my size, on the school playground. Dean Miller has me pinned to the ground, his knees pressing into the top of my biceps. I am weak and helpless as he dangles a long, fat earthworm, clumped with mud, over my mouth.

The only way you’re gonna gain weight is if you eat. So, eat it stick boy—eat it! Dean orders, as he drags the squirming, soiled creature across my tightly sealed lips.

I turn my head from left to right to escape it, struggling, and kicking my feet to get free. However, his 10-year-old obese body is crushing my scrawny nine-year-old one to the asphalt.

He twirls the worm in a circular motion over my mouth, just as another child, anxious to see me eat it, kicks me in the ribs. The sudden, sharp pain knocks the wind out of me, and I gasp, my mouth now wide open. Dean seizes the opportunity and drops the worm, dead center inside, where it lands at the back of my throat.

I abruptly awake, choking and sweating as if the dream were real. It always feels real, all the countless times I have had this nightmare. It haunts me at least once a week, along with several other dreams that I have learned to live with, since they started about a year ago, despite what Gram says about receiving therapy.

A brisk morning breeze blows through the open window of my one-bedroom apartment, the cold, early October weather heralding the approaching winter season. My skin is damp and cool and my blankets are bunched up at the foot of my bed, probably from my response to the dream.

The sun is just coming up, providing very little light into my room. Nothing I can see is in clear yet, so I grab my rectangular, black-framed glasses off the nightstand as I climb out of bed in red and gray plaid boxers. I use my bed sheet to clean the fingerprints off my spectacles, and attempt to make out the blurred numbers on my alarm clock. A quarter after six finally becomes crisp and clear. The depressing reality that this is Monday, and the beginning of the week, slowly sets in. Lord knows I hate Mondays.

I approach the full-length mirror near the foot of my bed, to perform a morning ritual I’ve done since childhood, poking at my exposed ribs and hoping that I’m heavier or more muscular. Every morning I am disappointed to see there has been no change to my six-foot-two-inch frame, despite all the YouTube workouts and weight training I’ve done. I have been this way since I can remember. For years, I have researched all sorts of bad online advice about how people with my body type and condition can gain weight, even going so far as to consume tons of calories. I am 31-years-old and I am yet to escape the skeletal figure I’ve been cursed with.

I run my fingers through my dark brown hair. It’s about time for a haircut. I usually keep it around an inch and a half in length, but it has grown to twice that long, and is now spiked up and messy from a rough night’s sleep. My beard and mustache are rough and full. I grew them out longer to give myself a fuller, heavier appearance. Sometimes co-workers tease me about the beard by calling me the anorexic version of Grizzly Adams, who apparently was a tough character in a 1970’s television show.

Suddenly, I feel something gently tickling my toes, and tiny, sharp nails clawing gently up my leg. It’s Tilly, my albino pet ferret, indicating she wants her morning meal. However, she’ll have to wait.

I adopted her from a shelter months ago. It gets pretty lonely in my tiny apartment, and I’d wanted some companionship. Since my landlord doesn’t permit dogs in the building, I went searching for a cat at the local animal shelter. Before I could get to the kitty section to pick and adopt my new furry feline friend, Tilly caught my attention with her snow-white fur and red eyes. She followed my movements while pawing at her glass prison. It almost seemed like she was smiling at me. I couldn’t resist her.

At night, she is like a little ghost, scurrying about on the floor, disappearing under or between inanimate objects. Ferrets are not nocturnal creatures, so I assumed she would sleep at night when I do. Yet, every night, she’s up tearing through the apartment, leaping on the bed and sniffing my face while I sleep. She’s special, I guess.

(6:45 AM)

This morning’s hot shower is extra soothing on my cold skin. If I could remain in here all day, I probably would. Unfortunately, duty calls on the worst day of the week, with four more torturous days still remaining afterward. I dread the thought of every argument I have to endure with our customers while I am held to the ridiculous office standards and unreachable goals of the Easy Auto Acceptance Company.

As I stand with my back to the shower, motionless, the hot streams of water massaging my skin, I spiral into a state of existential crisis. What is my purpose in life? I believe everyone has one, even if it is simply to serve the purpose of someone else. I feel trapped and sometimes cheated, as if my existence is meant for something more than the futile conversations I have with customers over their unsettled balances. No, there is no way I’m here on Earth for something as meaningless as this. I don’t feel respected at all, and feel I’m merely a tool, waking up day after day to help some CEO accomplish their dreams and goals to fatten their pockets. I’m told what to wear, where to be, how to think and how to speak, as if I am some puppet with the manager’s hand shoved up my ass. My existence feels hollow.

I must’ve been standing here thinking for quite a while since the water temperature abruptly changes. It goes from hot to lukewarm and then grows colder by the second. I need to wash quickly now, before I find myself standing under soul-piercing streams of water.

(7:02 AM)

I grab my red polo shirt and khaki slacks, pressed and prearranged where they have been hanging on the doorknob of my closet from the night before. It’s one of the routines I adopted from my father to always be prepared. I wonder what else I could have learned from him if he were still here with me.

Standing in the bathroom mirror, combing my hair, I gaze into my own eyes, wondering what it is that other people see when looking at me. I’ve often been told to smile more. Even Gram would tell me to always start my day with one, no matter what. Therefore, I force a smile, as I do every day. It never works.

(7:20 AM)

Four pieces of toast with strawberry jam and eight scrambled eggs take up all the space on my breakfast plate. I hover over it, hoping my increase in calories will someday, somehow, allow me the change in body mass I desire and cause me to bulk up. As a child, I could never eat this much. As an adult, I still can barely eat half of what is in front of me.

I remember when I was younger, my father used to sit at the dinner table waiting for me to finish the rest of my meal, even after his plate was clean. I had eaten all of my spaghetti noodles, leaving the unwanted meat from the sauce shoved to the side. It wouldn’t take long for him to notice. Many times, I tried to sneak away from the table with no success, yet I still tried. I turned my back to him with the neglected morsels on my plate hidden in front of me in hopes of making it to the trash could before he could catch me.

Tommy there are a lot of hungry children in the world that would love to eat what you have, he said, stopping me only two steps away from the dinner table, and peeking out from behind his newspaper. Your mother created an awesome meal for you, yet you’re picking at it and frowning as if she handed you a plate of poop.

I spun back around and placed the undesired portions back on the table, setting the glass plate down with a little more force than needed. I wouldn’t dare slam the plate. The old man would whoop my ass for sure. I giggled while I pushed around the chunks of slaughtered cow with my fork. Any six-year-old child that heard the word poop would not be able to resist the urge to laugh. Dad didn’t see the humor and pounded his fist on the table, startling me.

Damnit! Eat it, Tommy! He yelled.

I began shoveling chunks into my mouth.

You’re never going to get any bigger if you don’t eat some protein, son. You’re going to be a sick, weak little kid. You don’t want to get picked on in school, do ya?

Mo! I mumbled—my response muffled by a mouthful.

Then, eat it, Tommy—eat it! He ordered. And you’d better not throw it up again, cramming that in as you are. Don’t waste food in this house. He ordered, as he disappeared behind his newspaper once again.

I had no idea how much I would hate that phrase later in life. Eat it is all I’ve heard, over-and-over again, as if it is the magical solution to my problem.

I notice the time and begin eating quickly, choking down chunks of egg, toast, and butter. I get full pretty fast, so this isn’t just a race against time, but also a race to consume all the food I can before my body orders me to stop. Here I am, like I’m a child in front of my father, gulping down my food like a pelican with a purpose.

As I am halfway finished with my plate, I feel the pressure in my stomach building, climbing to the top of my throat. It doesn’t stop me though, even when I feel the urge to purge. I pause for a moment, only to take a deep breath and allow my food to settle back down. I continue my assault, cutting huge hunks of toast and egg together, then stuffing them in my mouth with a fork.

I read online, that if I consume a lot of calories, I’ll eventually end up gaining weight. The eat it concept is the only idea I can afford, versus the expensive option of purchasing supplements others have advised. That analogy is, of course, not right for everyone. In one day, I can consume at least five-thousand, or more, calories; that is twice the amount I should have in one day, according to the online calorie calculator I found. So, why am I still in this condition?

One person said that I just have a fast metabolism and should be thankful I can eat what I want without penalty. They just don’t understand that I would give my left nut, maybe even both nuts, just to have a little muscle and a little more weight on me. Hell, I would even accept a little fat at this point—anything to hide the protruding bones on this poor-excuse for a body.

Before leaving, I place Tilly’s favorite food in her bowl—cat food. Then, I crank the volume of my television up more than halfway to the max. Not enough to disturb the neighbors in the building, of course, but just sufficient enough to give the impression that someone may be here at home. There have been quite a few break-ins recently on the north side of Milwaukee, including a few in this building. With no alarm system or security to prevent people from coming into the building, I’ve started leaving my television on, in the hope the sound will deter any further criminal efforts.

Stay away from the toilet paper little lady; I don’t want to find it all over the living room again, okay? I order as I scratch the top of Tilly’s head. I then grab my keys and rush out the door.

(7:30 AM)

As I exit the rear of my apartment complex to the parking lot, some teenagers are startled by my sudden appearance through the back door and begin to frantically fan away the smoke that surrounds them. One of the boys is leaning against the rear of my sky-blue pick-up truck, while a girl and her boyfriend, who are partially embracing each other, stand in front of him. The thick smell of marijuana suddenly invades my nostrils.

Do you mind? That’s my truck! I demand.

The boy leaning against it makes eye contact with me, then pauses for a moment. He stares at me, sizing me up, and then puts his joint out on my polished, chrome bumper. The three slowly move away from my truck as I approach. I would have loved to kick his ass for his offensive behavior; however, the boy was underage, which would have probably landed me in jail. The fact of the matter is, he probably would’ve kicked my frail, white-ass instead.

Despite the random crap like this that I deal with, my neighborhood isn’t too bad of a place to live. Forty-fourth and Hampton Avenue is kind of a ghetto suburb to me, with the housing projects being only a half mile south of my apartment, and the worst public school in Milwaukee the same distance north of me. Most of the teenagers from the housing projects attend this school and, unfortunately, pass by my complex to make it there. Occasionally there are fights, yelling, dancing or just plain old loitering in the parking lot and sidewalk.

If you travel east on Hampton Ave. for just a few streets, it becomes apparent you’re heading towards more dangerous territories. The lower the street number, the deeper in the ghetto you are traveling. The streets become somewhat busy with suspicious-looking African Americans wandering around in small groups or hanging out by corner stores—as if looking for something, anything, to get into. I’m not racist, but I know what people to stay away from, especially at night.

I pose no threat to anyone in this neighborhood. I’m what people of color would consider your typical white dude. I’m not very flashy when it comes to my attire. I don’t care about designer names, Jordan’s or the latest fashions. Most of my clothes are purchased from Walmart or TJ Maxx from their clearance aisle. Yes, some are designer names, but older styles. Most are Polo shirts and khakis, whose prices were knocked down for whatever wardrobe defect they possess.

Lucky for me, casual business attire is the dress code for my company. Most employees find the dress code uncomfortable or a hassle, but it’s an everyday thing for me. Despite my lack of desire for the latest fashions, I feel that I take great care of what I do have. My slacks are always pressed, collars crisp, and shoes clean and polished. Grandma says I get it from my dad, who had always prided himself in his appearance.

I adjust my rearview mirror, given the adolescent potheads are still behind me, and then turn the key in the ignition. My engine rumbles and shakes the ground as it warms up. Suddenly, a little, dark-gray exhaust cloud fires out from my exhaust pipes at the unsuspecting teenagers behind it. It usually takes a few minutes to warm up the V8 engine, but with the angry coughing group approaching my driver’s side window, after tasting a little smoke of my own, I have no time to let the engine heat up, or even clear the frost from my windshield.

Quickly, I cover my wrist with my coat sleeve to wipe away a clear spot—just enough to see—and peel out of the parking lot. Something hits the back end of my truck. When I look back in my rearview mirror, I see the boy that was leaning against my bumper standing in the street with his middle finger extended. There’s a fist-sized rock tumbling end-over-end on the concrete road behind me. I don’t stop to see the damage he may have caused. Hell, you’d have to do a lot to even put a dent in the body of this old thing.

My grandmother gave me this truck, which was owned by my grandfather before he passed away. It’s an old, sky-blue, 1971 Ford F100 pickup. It has little to no rust and is slightly beat up around the body. It’s a beast and runs great for being such an old piece of crap. I keep her clean and polished as best as I can.

My cell phone startles me. It vibrates loudly in the cheap plastic, dollar-store cup holder I have hanging near my driver side window. There can only be one person calling me at this time of the morning. To be honest, she’s the only person that calls me.

Hi, Gram—how are you? I say with a smile, I’m always happy to hear from her.

Glades Thorpe, my 81-year-old grandmother, is the only one left in my life that I love. She’s short, sweet, generous, and caring, with a head full of shoulder length, curly, white hair and thick, burgundy, Peabody-style glasses. She’s the stereotypical vision of an old, white grandmother. When my grandpa died a few years ago, she became extremely dependent on me to do things around the house for her. She needs me more than ever now, and I need her. Most of the time, Gram creates things for me to do so that I’ll come over. She is alone out there in the suburb of Oak Creek, Wisconsin, with her closest neighbor living nearly a half-mile away.

Hi, Suga, I’m okay. This doggone medication the doctor has me on for ma hip ain’t working though, she says with her sweet, shaky, smoker’s voice. Are you still coming by to clean out the shed? I need to get rid of some of that old trash your packrat of a grandpa left behind.

Yes, ma’am, I can be there before the end of the week. What about the woodchipper? Did you sell it yet—or do you need it moved still?

Uh huh, could you please? I wanted to put it on that internet, but you know I can’t work that doggone computer for nothing. Hope it wouldn’t be too much for you to move it for me, darling.

Not at all, Gram, come on. Anything you need, you know I’m there. You know you’re my sweetheart. I’ll even post an ad on the internet for you, if you want.

She laughs, then pauses. I can hear her struggling with something. The scraping sound identifies what it is she may be trying to do. She inhales deeply, followed by a slower relaxing exhale.

"I got some chicken, corn, and smashed potatoes here, sweetie, She laughs. Remember when you used to call them that when you were a young boy?"

Yes, ma’am.

"It was so cute. You should come get something to eat. I gotta feed you, you know. I always told your momma, Lord rest her soul, that she didn’t feed you enough. That’s why you’re so flipping skinny.

And… "

Gram, are you smoking? I interrupt.

She pauses for a moment. I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she tries to come up with something to tell me.

Well, you know, baby, I won’t lie. I ain’t got much else to look forward to since your grandpa died. My smoking helps me cope with things, okay? In addition, what did I tell you about interrupting people when they are talking. That’s just the rudest thing. Stop it, hear?

Yes, ma’am. But come on, you don’t need to smoke though, Gram, you’re gonna kill yourself. I still need you here with me.

Baby, if the Lord hasn’t called on me to his side in 81 years, I’m not worried. Grandma’s lived a long life. It’s the little enjoyment I have left; so, don’t take that from me.

So, you get more joy puffing on that cigarette than seeing me? I snap, somewhat jokingly.

If you don’t stop nagging me about my cigarettes, then the answer is, yes! She chuckles.

Chapter 2

FIRST CALL

(7:59 AM)

I pull into the parking lot at the call center—a two-story building made of dark-brown brick and black tinted glass. I rev my engine as I pass the director of our company’s 2012 Acura TL. The sound of my loud, 5.0-liter, 302 V8, high output engine vibrates his windows and sets off his car alarm. In my rearview mirror, I can see his vehicle, along with a couple of others next to it, partially cloaked in the thick, light-gray smoke my exhaust pipes emit. His parking lights blink brightly to the rhythm of the honking horn, accompanied by the whirling and piercing sound of the car alarm.

I know my actions may seem somewhat petty, but I’m a firm believer in starting your day with a smile— so, I do, entering the office with a falsely innocent, yet devious grin. Call it a perk to the beginning of my day.

The call center is quiet when I first enter. All the reps scheduled for this shift are either printing off their reports to see who has paid their accounts the day before or needs contact for immediate payment.

Freddie, a tall and slender, 52-year-old Caucasian woman with short curly brown hair, is slowly preparing a cup of coffee, while Colleen, a 30-something, short Korean woman, listens to stories of her weekend sexcapades with a young Italian man half her age. Colleen patiently awaits her turn to pour her coffee, enduring the very reason the entire office calls her Freddie Cougar. I listen in.

"So, we ended up at my place for the evening. I really didn’t want the night to end so quickly, so I invited him in for a drink. As firm as his arms were, I wanted to see what he had hiding under that red, V-neck shirt that hugged his biceps and shoulders so well. He, of course, accepted right away, staring at my cleavage like a thirsty…"

Colleen makes eye contact with me as I pass by and then