What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Women?

For a certain portion of my checkered past, I worked for the Missouri Division of Employment Security. I did not help people find jobs. That was the other side of the office. I was an enforcer of sorts. I started as a an E.S. Deputy, and rose through the ranks to the lofty job of E.S. Technician. Deputies filed the claims, and inspected the work search logs of claimants every four weeks. Face to face. Pressed for time. Moved the masses. Technicians were the judge, jury, and wanna-be executioners. They worked mainly by phone, with a headset, calling employers and claimants to get both sides of the story on separation details. Occasionally a claimant would come in to give a statement in person.

A technician had a finite number of cases to adjudicate. Once that was done, he could be pulled to assist with the deputy duties, or catch up the filing, or help with the mail. I loved that job. If you had any kind of people-reading skills at all, it was a fascinating process. Sometimes it was obvious that both claimant and employer were lying through their teeth. So you  were swayed to the side of the lesser liar. We had a protocol for denials and the assessment of penalty weeks. The key thing to remember was that every decision had to be made based on the last incident that caused the separation. Didn't matter if Bob had been late nineteen times that month, and was told that he'd be fired the next time he was late. If he had a flat tire and called in per company policy to report his impending lateness, there were no grounds for dismissal in our book. No penalty.

My cubemate was a classy lady we'll call "Grace." We sat at the two front cubicles of the double row of technicians. Like pilots. Engineers. Facing the cabooses of the deputies and their supervisor. The public did not come back to our section unless scheduled to give a statement. We were pretty much left to our own devices. The technicians scheduled for a two-hour call block were not to receive incoming calls unless asked for by name. When not making calls to gather information, we made decisions and wrote out our reasoning. It was common to look over the rose-colored fabric partition made through the sweat of the brows of Missouri Department of Corrections inmates and ask for input from a cubemate on borderline cases.

I was a relative newbie, and Grace was a seasoned veteran. She was a throwback to more genteel times. She wore died-to-match pumps. Tasteful wigs. A skirt and sweater set every day. Pastel. She was quite prim and proper, always polite, looked up to by the rest of us. I was quite comfortable under her wing, learning the ropes.

Throughout the day, a technician would catch bits of one-sided conversations, some mundane, some titillating, some a doggone cryin' shame. But we were fair to a fault. Always followed our guidelines, even though one might mutter, upon disconnecting, "No wonder that guy got fired." Or, "That story won't fly." Or, "They were just looking for an excuse to get rid of him."

Three months into the job, I felt like I knew Grace. I saw her swivel her chair to face me across the shoulder-high partition. She was just wrapping up a claimant statement call. She thanked the person on the other end of the line for the information. Unplugged her headset wire from the phone. And said clearly, though not loudly, "XXXX XXXXXX." Sorry. I can't bring myself to type her actual words. Let's just say that it was an expression describing one who might, for a share of the purse, ride upon the back of a beast found in arid regions of the eastern hemisphere, known for its ability to store water in a protuberance found upon its dorsal side.

My mouth dropped open. Grace's blue eyes met my hazel. She smiled, and turned to write up her statement.

It was as if The Baby Jesus had been kidnapped from a church nativity scene, taken on a bar tour of the neighborhood, and returned talking like Triumph, the Insult Comic Dog.

Grace had not been kidnapped.

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of women? Val knows.