Caleb moved quickly, securing the cables together with zip ties every few feet and separating out cables as necessary. They were not marked, he simply knew which ones were which. It started as a thick rope of dozens and ended up with a single plug at the end. Along the way each of the workstations was tethered to the network.
“You’re not going to write down which cable goes where?” asked the fat, balding middle manager that hovered entirely too close to Caleb as he worked. “What if I need to do something with them?”
“You won’t,” said Caleb.
“Sure, you say that, but what if you messed it up.”
Caleb clipped the tail off the last zip tie and stood. “I did not,” he said. “And if I did how would it help you for me to write it down? It would still be wrong.”
The man gaped for a moment then said, “Hey, I was just saying. This is my office. I might have to fix–”
“You won’t. You couldn’t anyway. You aren’t smart enough.”
The man’s face flushed. “Wait a second. You can’t talk to me like that. You’re just a contractor.”
Caleb sighed. He knew what he was supposed to do in these situations: apologize, get the work order signed and leave as quickly as possible.
“Yes,” he said, ignoring his own internal advice. “I am a contractor. That means I do not work for you, which is good, because I am not sure I could take eight excruciating hours of your useless micromanaging and inane yammering every day. You are obviously talentless and very probably the cousin, brother in law or nephew of someone far more important than you, otherwise you would be failing at managing a MacDonald’s.” He held the work order out to the exasperated man.
Purple jowls trembling with incredulity, the man signed the work order while muttering something about Caleb’s future on the unemployment line.