“Dear Andrew, Congratulations on your approaching anniversary at Dunder Mifflin! In honor of your 10 years of service, please click on the link below to select your personalized gift! Dunder Mifflin thanks you for your hard work and dedication. We wish you continued success!”

*groooooan*

My cube neighbor stands up and peers over the divider, then sits back down slowly, silently.

The news of a free gift isn’t inherently bad, it’s just that things were supposed to be different by now. I had dedicated myself to making drastic change in all areas of my life. I was to be running towards life. (after getting fitted for proper orthotics first) I was to be galloping on horseback, shirtless, down the sandy beaches of change. (after first applying liberal amounts of sun block, of course) Instead I pretend to have doctors appointments to avoid the monthly Dunder-sanctioned mid-afternoon “Snack Attacks.”

I slowly unfurl myself from the fetal position and *click click click* select the Men’s Fossil Watch. Done, and done.

A few months transpire and one day, after imposing my will on a stack of TPS reports it hits me, what ever happened to my gift? It’s not that I want the gift so badly, I don’t even wear watches, it’s more the principle. I smell an injustice. And AndyMan, my injustice battling comic book hero alter-ego, emerges.

I hop on the world wide web and surf to the award site. I don’t have my access code to get in anymore. I call the 800 number and verify my identity with the customer service woman. (“I’m ANDYMAN! This is an emergency!”) I’m in. And after a round-robin of clicks and unintuitive links I finally find myself on a FedEx tracking page. It says my gift was delivered in February. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

Upon closer inspection it appears that the package was delivered to my old boss, who returned to India six weeks ago. Determined, I make a beeline to his old office and am surprised to find it nearly intact as if he was not in Mumbai after all but maybe at a weekly staff meeting instead. It takes me all of 10 seconds to spot a package on top of his filing cabinet. Could it be? *shake shake* I take the box back to my desk.

I slice the tape with my keys and open the box to find one (1) Men’s Fossil Watch. In addition I find all the accoutrements to present said gift to the deserving employee. I fill out the card and seal it. My left hand shakes my right hand. I reach over and pat myself on the back. I make a fist and give myself a playful yet approving nudge on the chin. Atta boy. I tear open the card. In big block letters it says “L-O-S-E-R!” in my own hand-writing.

I put on my coat, tuck the watch under my arm and head towards the door. On my way out I hit a pod of employees grazing on sponge cake.

“Andy, Snack Attack,” says one between plastic forkfuls.
“Sorry, phrenologist appointment. And I’m late. Gotta go.”

I take the subway downtown to the Boston Jewelry Exchange. I’ve been inside this building before and it is straight-up intimidating. A dizzying number of stores inside, all of which require you to buzz-in via an intercom to gain access. Some of the owners want to quiz you through the intercom before letting you in too. It’s not that they’re concerned that I’m a threat, they can see my Perry Ellis dress slacks and my Bob’s Big Boy hairdo through the video camera. It’s more that they don’t want to waste their time with you if they can determine that fact in advance.

I look at the directory and I see a business called “WTF Collateral.” Perfect. I take the elevator to the 3rd floor and buzz them. They can’t help me. WTF?! He suggests I try the business right next to his. I enter this store and state my business. They can’t help me. They suggest I try so-and-so on the 2nd floor. This continues for over half an hour with me bouncing from floor to floor, business to business.

These are people who do not know the phrase “customer service.” They’ll leave me standing at the counter for eternity without approaching me or they’ll yell at me from across the room and want me to broadcast my business to everyone in the store. This is something I’m not eager to do because to be honest I’m not even sure I’m in the right kind of store for what I’m looking for. It’s like walking into a store that has a sign in front advertising “10¢ shirts” and trying to buy 10 shirts for a dollar (what a deal!) only to be informed that they’re a laundromat and it’s 10¢ to clean a shirt, preferably one you provide them. Yes, I’ve done this.

It gets to the point where I find myself saying to business owners, “Well those are the guys that told me to go to you. Know anyone else to try?” It’s not a deliberate run around but I’m getting nowhere. Finally I’m directed outside the building. “Try Bromfield Street.”

I enter the Colonial Trading Company to find three men hunched over stacks of plastic sheets filled with multi-colored bills.

“Can I help you?”
“Yeah. Any chance you’d be willing to buy this watch?”
I pull out the prize and hand it over to him. He flips it over and reads the engraving on the back out loud.
“A.M.F.”
“My initials.”
“10 Years of Service.”
“Yay me,” I say in a dead monotone.
They laugh.

He’s willing to give me $25 dollars for it, he’d give me more if it wasn’t for the… “SOLD!” I cry out, cutting him off mid-sentence, slamming my palm down on the counter like I’m presiding over an auction.

Back on the street I’m thrilled at myself for having successfully completed my very first pawn shop transaction.* It takes the edge off the reality of my situation.

I think it would be most fitting, and funny, to use the $25 to buy a six pack of PBR tall boys and a bunch of scratch tickets, slowly alternating between the two purchases on the steps of the big church on Tremont Street. But I pass by the 7-Eleven and head back to the office instead. When I get there everyone is talking wildly.

“Andy, did you hear the news?”
“Yeah, I know. Snack Attack.”
“No, they just announced that Dunder is outsourcing the whole department!”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m serious. In a few months you’ll either be laid off or you won’t be part of Dunder anymore, you’ll be a part of some new company.”
“Turn and face the strange.”
“What?”
“Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!”

I don’t say it but I think it. “Win, Win.”

That night, and every night since, I perform a “Severance Dance” right before bed. It’s kind of a combination of an Irish Jig and a Native American thing. No word yet on the job situation but we just received a record amount of rainfall and there’s been massive flooding in some areas. I feel personally responsible. AndyMan to the rescue.

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