IT Intel 1

A good chunk of my job in the IT department at my company is to take calls from field managers where they are having issues with their local networks and servers. These managers are often better suited as managers than as computer technicians, so my team and I provide on the phone support for them for the tech aspect. As you can guess, as with any job out there, there are the technically illiterate people among us. That isn't to say they're not skilled or intelligent; they're just not great with computers. So much of my job is taking calls that end with simple solutions. Restart the computer, SHAZAM! It's fixed. That sort of stuff.

Most of these people on the other line, I've never met in person. I come up with images of them in my head, and ideas about what they're like. In fact, I have characters in my mind, and whenever I receive the call, I sometimes have to have them repeat what they said because I was busy daydreaming about their 'character' attempting to hit the computers with a ball peen hammer.

Other times, I wonder what's going on that I'm not hearing. Like the other day, I had a call from a manager who began to speak, but then was immediately cut off. I expected him to call back immediately, as they often do when they cut out, but so far it's been six hours and he's not responded. I tried to call him, and his phone rings for a while and goes to voice mail.

I chose to believe that he is, in fact, not just a manager with my delivery company, but an international super spy, and that the conversation would have gone like this in a narrative format:


"Patrick. I need your help, the computer just started--*click*" Jackson looked at his phone, bemused by the 'no signal' indicator which had, only moments ago, five bars. The silent air of the office filled with a low, rumbling laughter, and Jackson's eyes narrowed at the familiar sound.

"Agent Jackson... We meet again." The voice echoed from the doorway as Professor Malestorm turned and entered.

"Malestorm." Jackson said, closing the laptop in front of himself with one hand and putting down his ball peen hammer with the other.

"I wouldn't drop your only weapon, Jackson." Malestorm reached into his long silver lab coat with a gloved hand, producing a laser pistol. "I'd say this fight will last six hours, minimum."

Jackson cracked his knuckles. "Guess I won't be calling him back..." 

I mean, that's realistic, right?