Topic: The Worst Job I Ever Had…

Author: Chris Dunn

I searched the side of the building for something, anything, which might indicate what lay inside, but it looked like a bland, unadorned warehouse, not too different from the countless others surrounding it. No signage indicated what business might be found within, few cars filled the parking lot, and little traffic came to this neck of the woods. Still my directions - scrawled on a piece of paper in the days before universal GPS - indicated this was the place, and even though this particular building didn’t have any numbers on it, its identical twins along the dusty road leading here hinted that this place should fill the numerical vacancy and match my orders. With a heavy exhalation, I put my car in park and exited. As I approached the only exterior door on the building, trying to fight down my imagination’s efforts to populate the structure with everything from drug dealers to mafiosos to shadowclaws with long hollow tongues which fed on bone marrow, the door opened. A confused bearded man in collared shirt and khakis gave me a powerfully confused look. No words were necessary, the look said it all. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”

“Hi,” I said, holding up my directions like a talisman before guardian spirit. “I’m with Manpower. I’m your Temp.”

Every now and then the US economy gets so shitty that even the Wallmarts of the world don’t have enough positions and our #1 national employer becomes a temporary agency. The early 90s was one of those times. College finally behind me, I had moved out on my own and away from the managerial position at the drugstore across the street. I needed something new, something stepping-stoney, something that would fit my limited skill set yet still pay enough to cover burritos, gaming supplies and rent. There were surprisingly few options. I’m not sure which of my friends suggested Manpower first, probably Drew (He’s gotten me most of my jobs…), but I soon found myself taking the typing test in a tiny cubicle while an office-assistant-type called on my references and checked my background.

Typing is the one school class that I honestly am glad I took. I use this skill every day and outside of being forced to sit in front of a machine for an hour every weekday for an entire semester, I doubt I would have picked it up. Whenever I see someone hunting and pecking, even at a fast pace, I feel an inner swell of superiority. Sure, I can’t play the guitar or change my car’s oil, but I can type, goddamnit!

“72 words a minute, and your background all checks out. We’ll give you a call as soon as something opens up.”

Temp-to-Perm, those were the dream assignments everyone coveted, anything else was just diddling around. Go in for a few days, barely discover where the coffee machine was located and you’re done and on to the next one. One thing I discovered about myself after my first few assignments, I had a terrible understanding of where anything was in this, my one and only hometown. Still don’t! Roselawn? Mariemont? Hilltop Acres? In truth, there’s only one way to learn where things are, go there, and since I hadn’t gotten my driver’s license until I was 22, I had gone very few places. Sure, I had been carted all over, but that never required my attention. “We’re here.” “About time! Where is this place?” Every assignment I received required a set of direction and a trip to the back of the yellow pages – where maps used to live. I learned a lot about our tiny town and its 100+ subcommunities after a dozen, or so, assignments - none of them temp-to-perm.

Khaki-pants led me inside what turned out to be a greeting card company warehouse. He had a confused look on his face and led me to a hallway where I was allowed to stand while he entered a series of tiny offices to have short conversations with other similarly confused people. They had to call the agency to find out the person who requested my presence was not in the office that day. I was sent home with only the relief of knowing I wasn’t in the wrong and pay for four hours’ time. The deviant side of my nature logged the fact that one could likely pose as a temp and gain access to a variety of business establishments – look and dress blandly enough, and you would have access to all the free coffee you could drink and all the post-its you could pocket.

Home, getting high with the crew, I lamented my lot. This was not the job for me. I don’t do well with new people, and this was nothing but new people. Every few days… Every assignment… I hate it! And this job, standing around with only my scrawled directions to justify my presence. “Look somebody told me you guys were here. Do you think, I came here on my own?” They had bought it, but it was still humiliating, and going nowhere. I heard of people who loved the freedom and variety and all the new people and experiences, and I assumed they work for the agency. No one could like this work, and no one could hate it more than I did!

When I went back for day two, khaki-pants handed me off to a generic-secretary type. She put me to work assembling a couple display racks in the warehouse while she “checked on some things...” Thankful to have something – anything – to do, I dove in noting that my experience managing the drug-store actually prepared me for this. By the time the display racks were complete the woman - let’s just call her Genera - returned. She led me to the parking lot while explaining that they didn’t know why Thom had hired a temp, and they didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing, and they didn’t even know whose budget I was being paid out of. They were going to straighten it out, and I might get a call back.

Another fours’ of pay for nothing but a long drive, and I was headed home early to a bong with my name on it, but even so, I decided somewhere along the way, I was never going back.