“Hello?” says the voice on the phone.
“Hello,” I repeat. “Could I speak to Gray-ham, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Cedric. I play squash at the Country Club and…”
Toot. Toot. Toot. She hung up. For the third time.
How can I ever move up in the squash ladder if I can’t schedule a game with the player that’s above me in that ladder? So unfair.
This is week three of my internship in the Forest of Dean, England. I’m trying hard to blend in and get a social life but my Frenchness keeps getting in the way.
Take my first day at work, for example. While officially tasked with designing an innovative air filtration system for asbestos removal worksites, in reality I have two higher-importance duties as an intern: 1) make tea for everyone every two hours, and 2) answer the phone.
I quickly learned the proper way to make tea, including how much milk and sugar each coworker wants, but twenty years later I still wonder why any English businessman in their right mind would ask a fresh-off-the-ferry French student to be the voice of the company, greeting customers when they call in.
“Could you please say that again?” I ask politely.
“I would like to order a pool tank,” repeats the voice on the phone. I heard right the first time, but this makes no sense at all. The company offers asbestos removal services and builds a unique contraption to inject some advanced chemical into asbestos-contaminated materials, which can then be handled and disposed safely because the moisture captures the microscopic harmful particles. And this gentleman wants a stupid pool tank. I decide he must be high on crumpets.
“I’m so sorry, sir. We don’t sell pool tanks. Have a pleasant day.”
Slightly confused, the wannabe-customer apologizes for his mistake and hangs up.
“Oh,” says my boss when I recount the conversation at the next tea break. “Pity I didn’t tell you, really. We make pool tanks as well, on occasion. And other things too. Steve learned a lot about plastics by building the asbestos stripping system. Our first units were leaking under pressure. Now they are perfect, and Steve can make anything with plastics.” Next to me, Steve beams with pride. His smile misses a tooth.
I sink into my chair, hands desperately grasping for my invisibility cloak. I don’t have an invisibility cloak. Pity, really.
Two weeks later, I still feel like an alien. Except I am no longer alone. Evan, the new salesman – the first and only salesman – quickly became my ally. He teaches me useful cultural lessons, like the little-known fact that Guinness beer was invented in Wales. And most importantly: he’s teaching me Cockney Rhyming Slang. Like “Ham and Eggs” meaning legs.
Thanks to my China Plate Evan, with a bit of Friar Tuck, I’ll stay out of Barney Rubble when I take a Bowl of Chalk down the Field of Wheat and run into a Pot and Pan who got all Mum and Dad after the Rub-A-Dub ran out of Pig’s Ear.
“May I tell you something, Cedric?” asks Evan.
“Of course,” I respond, eager to sink my teeth deeper into British culture.
“You don’t need to pronounce the ‘h’ in Graham. It’s silent.”
“Really?” I am not sure if Evan is being serious or if he’s just pulling my Ham and Egg.
“I know, it makes no sense. You can even spell it G-r-a-e-m-e. Sounds the same.”
Very useful tip.
I’d better stop calling my boss Gray-ham.
~Cedric, April 2020
(Internship in the Forest of Dean: Summer 1996)
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