Jabba at Work

I come in through the sliding doors while fixing my tie, Jabba sits in the back of the room and waits for me.

“Are you going to be able to switch and work nights now that your days are clogged with temp work?” Jabba asks, over the crowded room.

It’s a crowd I’m trying to yell over, too– a crowd actually of people: mechanics, copier-repair lugs, boast-faced killers, McGraw-Hill reps poaching the old literature and in with the new, and the admin. class, freshly promoted from downtown office to show off here. In weird blazers they look like Scientologists at a language school.

“No, can’t do it” thinking now would be an ideal time to attempt a bait and switch: two dollars more an hour for a shiftchange, seeing as how they didn’t give me even a penny more last year, “though I do have a price,” I say.

“Jabba no bantha,” she responds. “Solo, you should have requested this at our meeting last week.”

“Thanks Jabba,” I say. Realizing my slip, knowing that no one calls Jabba Jabba to her face.