Announcing

BAGLADY-IN-FREE-FALL

Observing the summons of the Cosmic Clock

Flipping the dice on Life's Board-game of Snakes & Ladders. When last we saw Ashley Grimes, she was returning from the Old World into the great unknown.

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THE BAGLADY CHRONICLES

READ INSIDE THIS BOOK

BAGLADY IN FREE FALL

I was happily frittering away office time, drawing up a sketch map, preparing my bespoke 'Pioneer Pilgrimage' in honour of the historic StrongWomen of Ville Marie. The cobbled lanes, the greystone edifices, the quaint museum and chapel, the flower-bedecked horse-drawn calèches, the marketplace, the stone quay waterfront, the public square: a miraculously preserved tourist wonderland known as Le Vieux Montréal. At the same time, not neglecting the ever-soulful Pilgrim landmarks of Faint-heart Furrows and Pillars of Protection, Field of Faith and Forest of Fear, Blind-Terror Rapids and Righteous River, Farmhouse Fortitude, Mountain-slope Celeste and Courage Point—but then, abruptly, Mademoiselle de Maréchal charged in, seething with suppressed emotion.

"Cease and desist whatever you are doing, this frivolous endeavour of yours will never see the light of day," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard, momentous decisions are being taken, as we speak, behind closed doors."

"Isn't that what they always do, but then nothing ever happens?"

"Not this time, I'm sure they're conveniently waiting for Friday afternoon to spring it on us, les salops!"

"Spring what on us?"

"Our entire department is closing down. We're all losing our jobs."

"All of us?"

"Not Papa Bellefeuille, of course, he's drifting away to his golden-cloud retirement, and not the Élite Squad from Bureau Neuf, they're all getting their promotions."

"Well now, bless their sharp little Franglo tongues!"

I don't think Mademoiselle heard me. "Naturally, it's us worker drones, the disposables that are going to be chopped," she said.

"It can't be, I've not yet finished designing this pamphlet."

"I tell you, the guillotine is being erected as we speak. Management is preparing a grand purge, a bloodletting that has not been seen since la Terreure de la Révolution. Don't say you haven't been warned."

Heavens, could it be that, as my star fleetingly rose, that of the esteemed De Maréchal was in descent? Lately, had I been more attuned to the universal End-Times, I'd have realized that generalized public anger was now erupting through the assaults of a venomous press. Double-dipping, pork-barreling, wanton government waste, these were the accusations being hurled all around. Mademoiselle, of course, was aware of such dangers and racked by paranoia of losing her job. Her more-precious-than-life-itself job. Meanwhile, her desperate phone calls to me on the internal office line made me uneasy. It was so out of character and so incautious. After all, who amongst our privileged overlords might be listening in, recording our hushed conversations, taking notes?

And yet, in the end, it mattered not. Just as I had submitted my quirky, overly sentimental pamphlet entitled J’ADORE MONTRÉAL, I was obliged instead to salvage it, furtively, from a battalion of mops and brushes, Swiffer dusters and tipster bins. What a heartbreaking, unholy waste! For, in marched a reshuffled Top Team and, as they say, New Broom Sweeps Clean. It was no surprise when the current budget collapsed, our worthy program stalled, then was terminally withdrawn. In this climate change of recrimination and angst, Mademoiselle de Maréchal found her post redundant and, of course, in a bitter déjà-vu, I, too, was jobless again. Oy vey!

What a shock to the psyche! I confess, it was downright disorienting. I spent a few days, no weeks, limping through the classic stages of anger, denial, and all that jazz. And then, I could hardly call my blundering efforts at a dreaded Call Centre a job, could I, even though Mademoiselle de Maréchal was also reduced to the indignity of applying here alongside me. We were introduced to the congenial manager, Monsieur, le gérant, reputedly a veteran Cold-Call warrior himself. This was followed by a sneak-peek through the winding corridors of office cubicles equipped with monitors, keyboards, headsets, phone gear, all operated by a chain-gang of dedicated individuals, appearing genderless in their standard garb befitting Chairman Mao. As for Monsieur, le gérant, he looked comfortable enough, with the lumbering mien of a gentle St. Bernard hound, strapped into old-fashioned suspenders under a voluminous knit jersey, baggy corduroys and airline slippers. Without false modesty, he declared that he was a genuine living legend to success, proof of what could be accomplished by means of sweat, dogged labour and almighty persistence.

"But first, a word of caution," he said. "Of today's five or six recruits, by Friday of this week, if we're lucky, we'll retain one, perhaps two. Regrettably, those are the stats. The question is, who will they be?"

As if in response to his own musings, he stared at Mademoiselle de Maréchal who was looking awesome in glittering dark magenta, the last swish outfit she'd recklessly splurged on before losing her job.

'A job I'm never likely to find again,' she muttered, standing erect beside me like a tragic memorial under flames.

"You are Mademoiselle de Maréchal, yes?" said Monsieur, le gérant, with an appreciative smile as he scanned his lists. "Now, you look as though you might have, excusez-moi, the requisite 'fire in the belly' to triumph through to the end. Well, we shall see."

Of course, his gaze skimmed directly over my near-invisible persona, for which I was grateful. But then, he frowned at the sight of a picturesque dark-bearded chap whose gruff professorial tone pegged him as a post-Colonial Franco-Algerian sophisticate. The fourth amongst us was a blonde-braided, bespectacled college gal, pale as ramen noodles, who looked as though she was juggling day and night shifts merely to survive. And then, along came a breathless latecomer, buttoning his shirt sleeves over his tattoos as he entered, just in time for a courtesy tour of the premises led by a hefty-looking staffer named Charlene.

"He's a true Father Hen, a real charm of a boss," whispered Charlene, as soon as we were out of earshot. "There's almost nothing he wouldn't do for the staff, not like the 'She-Vulture' who came before.

"Really?"

"Yes, the employee attrition rate was so high on her watch, this place was almost shuttered for good."

Gosh! Well, having navigated through the maze of workstation cubicles, we entered the staff comfort lounge, furnished with lunch tables and chairs, hot chocolate, home brew cafetière, sugar cubes, fake sweetener, tea canisters, chilled spring water dispenser, tranquilizing Valerian tablets and discreet little sachets of St. John's Wort.

"This is where we hold our counseling sessions, motivational talks, self-help clinics, meditation sessions, yoga, team building and support," said Charlene.

Indeed, it was reassuring to know that the great man truly empathized with the battered human psyche. Speaking of which, as we passed the vision window of some tiny cubicle, I discerned a tearful young gal receiving hot chocolate, face tissues, back rubs and free hugs. Good lord! Retracing our steps, we heard the rising hum of human ululating, the surround-sound of Cold-Call Warriors plying their trade.

"Good morning, my name is Céline. I'm calling to tell you that your name has just been selected for first prize: an all-expense paid luxury cruise to a paradise resort—"

"Good morning, my name is Shawn. Would you have just five minutes to share your hugely important opinion on our federal government? Would you rate their performance as: Excellent? Very good? Average? Poor?—Please, Madam, sorry, but I'd ask you kindly not to swear—"

"Good morning, my name is Mathieu, I'm calling to ask if you are a proud home owner or renting at present, because we have a tremendous mid-season sale on polar-vortex-proof triple-pane windows, guaranteed to withstand up to minus 40-degree Celsius temperatures, professional installation included—"

Mercy! Having passed through the labouring labyrinth, it was a relief to escape its agonizing chorus ever dwindling to faint, faint hope.

"So, let us begin," said Monsieur, le gérant, once we were all reassembled at our training desks, clutching our complimentary croissant and café au lait. "Allow me to guide you on how to approach your victims, pardon, your potential customers. You will, of course, stick to the typescript assigned to you. Your goal is to deliver that script, no matter how impatient the customer may become on the other end of the line. The golden rule: never concede defeat when conducting a survey or selling a target product until or unless the customer emphatically states NO!

"But even then, you must forage for a tiny opening to ingratiate yourself with the said customer, try to forge a shred of human connection. It has been known to work wonders and is a mere matter of instinct and timing. For instance, you detect a customer's sneeze, insert a benign remark about the weather; you hear a dog bark, mention your adorable pet schnauzer. Bearing in mind, at the Suicide Prevention Hotline—(excuse my graveyard humour)—it's essential to keep the victim talking. In other words, you must do whatever's necessary to prevent your potential customer from slamming down the phone."

Monsieur, le gérant paused and smiled. He was awaiting the half-hearted protests and moral posturing from his captive audience, we, the benighted trainees.

"On the contrary, there is nothing moral or amoral about it," he responded, with a shrug. "Telephone sales is a bona fide profession, as is nursing or street-cleaning, firefighting or space travel. In fact, it's the life blood of the economy. So, consider yourselves Transfusionists or, in some cases, First Responders. It does help, though, to develop a blinkered, phlegmatic demeanour or else a fiery enthusiasm, depending on the situation. And a convenient memory-wipe function helps, too. Even if you rack up a hundred rejections today, you start off tomorrow fully pumped like the definite winner that you are, or could be, in the end."

And despite the Cold-War aura of the place, Monsieur, le gérant seemed quite keen on fraternizing with the decidedly 'hot' Mademoiselle de Maréchal. As we were learning at the foot of the Master, success, whether in business or pleasure, hinges on fortune, chance, desire, strategy, motivation, greed, and a steely determination to 'seal the deal.'