Tunnel Rat posted on February 9, 2009 22:58

In the movie Papillon, Steve McQueen’s character attempts to escape from Devil’s Island by making a raft out of coconuts. He throws the raft over a cliff and dives into the ocean.

Jump, bitch
I am preparing my own escape, putting the finishing touches on my metaphorical bag of coconuts. The phone interview with the big local company went well today. Of course, I nailed it. I haven’t blown an interview in almost ten years.

If you are qualified and your resume is not full of shit, interviews are a breeze.

Now, on the other hand, if you are a freshly imported H-1B, you have to find someone else to do the phone interview.

The recruiter called back within an hour.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“It went well,” I whispered. I was in my cube, next to Chinaman. Two Desis were bickering in Hindi in the next cube.

“Good. The client said so too, and they want you back for a face-to-face. It sounds like now is not a good time to talk.”

“No, it’s okay.” We set up the appointment.

I started to mentally check out of the Desi concentration camp.

It has started get worse, here in my third week. Chinaman and I had come in Monday morning and couldn’t compile the project after getting the latest. The Desis had been mucking around with everything all weekend.

And now we had to sign in and out, like the FTEs. In the morning, at lunch, and at the end of the day. Penal colony shit.

I’m sorry, but if you are a white-collar worker in the United States, you are expected to be at your desk between 10-ish and 4-ish, with a little time before and after to make it about eight hours. None of this sign-in/sign-out shit. What if my sign-ins/outs add up to 8 hours and 15 minutes? Do I bill for that time exactly? Hell no, it is an even eight. It all comes out in the wash.

But I have learned that the Desis are the cheapest pricks in the world, and ironically, calling someone “cheap” is their most favorite insult. Can you say “projection?”

Russell Peters even has this bit where he talks about an Indian walking into a store with a pocket knife, just to cut a hole in a shirt and get a discount. Peters is funny as hell.

So finally 5:55 comes around, the time that would give me exactly eight hours in the Desi shithole for the day. I’m wrapping up, and the architect comes in the pod, looking for Chinaman.

“Is he gone?”

“Yeah, left about 10 minutes ago,” I told him. Being the end of the day, the place was erupting in Hindi banter.

“Umm, did he check in his changes? He broke the build.”

“Yeah, he always checks in his changes and shuts down his box.”

“Do you have his number?” the Desi architect asked.

“No sorry.” And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you, curry-breath. This is the guy that still hasn’t figured out how he wants me to have this damn upload control work. It’s only been a week, dumbass. The “best and brightest” and all that, you know.

What kind of shit is that? The slumdogs break the fucking build three times a day, but now you are going to harass Chinaman on his drive home? Fix the build yourself, fuckface.

But Chinaman was losing the Desi Gladiator match. He just didn’t have the tact and charm I have, and the Desis didn’t really care for him, I could tell.

Man, I was getting tired of this place.

And if I get the offer after the next interview, I am SO leaving that curry-den. No notice, nothing. After all, this is an “At-Will” engagement. And they could always hire my single-dad buddy and not miss a beat.

I can just image the conversation with my recruiter. She will be PISSED.

“What exactly is the problem?” she would say.

“Uh, well, just between you and me, I DON’T LIKE BEING THE ONLY FUCKING WHITE MALE ON A TEAM OF FIFTHTEEN PEOPLE...And these people don’t know what they are doing, and this is a sweatshop....And no one talks to me, not even the white Desi dicksuckers, and it is obvious I am just a token or a scapegoat.... And I have to sign in and out. and I can’t get anything done, and they treat people like shit...And everybody gives me the stink eye. And…ah, fuck it, I am just leaving. Sorry. ”

To be continued…

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