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.

Worst. Job. Ever

By, Jill Jackson

I have two contenders for the worst job ever. Interestingly, they were both bad for exactly the same reasons: abusive bosses and toxic coworkers.

What I find interesting about this is that both these jobs occurred about ten years apart, and yet I found myself repeating the same emotional and mental patterns in the second instance as of I hadn't learned a damn thing the first time around.

Not that I'm blaming myself for my mistreatment. No. That blame lays squarely with the pieces of shit who saw fit to abuse me, and the assholes who stood by and watched it happen, happy that it wasn't happening to them.

But, I do have to admit that I could, and should, have made the decision not to take the abuse, no matter how much I thought I needed those jobs.

Because the fact of the matter is that after each boss got bored with kicking my as at work, and watching me twist in the wind, they fired me.

Whether I'd stuck around and taken their abuse or stood up for myself and told them to eat a candy bar out of my ass, the end result was the same.

So I might as well have gone for option 2. At least I would have gone out on my own terms.

At least I would have preserved my self-esteem and self respect.

Right now my work situation is good. Sure, I have some co-workers who can kiss my ass but, for the most part, it's good. And I have a boss who has my back, which is really important to me.

But, I have learned, and I will not let that lesson go to waste:

When things turn to shit, get the fuck out. Because they are not going to get any better, and you'll probably end up out of a job anyway.

Sure, ideally I will find some other form of employment first, but if it's bad enough then it's best to leave.

That may seem irresponsible on the surface, but nobody should have to eat shit on a daily basis, and have anxiety attacks about going to work. Nobody should fear their boss. Nobody should be bullied at work.

And if any of that shit ever happens again, I'm out.

Topic: A Foreign Country

A Foreign Country

Or, Dumb Things I Have Done

I spent a semester of my sophomore year in college in Rome, Italy with the University of Dallas. This gave me the travel bug and my ears perked right up when I subsequently heard, while in my Medical Technology internship, that it was possible to work as a medical technologist in Saudi Arabia. Rumor had it that the salary was great compared to what one made in the US, and it was tax-free as well. Also one’s only expense was food, as the hospital provided transportation and housing. Finally, it was a strategic location from which to base further travel -  Amsterdam was only a five hour flight, as was Bangkok. Africa was also close and I had designs on going to Rwanda and hanging out with some gorillas. 

The main requirement was two years experience, so literally the day I reached two years of employment as a med tech I sent off my application to the Hospital Corporation of America (HCA), in Nashville. It took about three months to hear back. Later I found out that most of that was a background check to insure I wasn’t of Jewish ancestry. Anyway, I got the nod and was soon thereafter on my way to Nashville for about a week of orientation prior to flying to Riyadh on Dec 12 1986. My contract was with the government of Saudi Arabia for a position at the King Faisal Specialist Hospital & Research Centre. 

The rumors turned out to be true. I made about double what I made in America, and it was tax-free up to $70,000 at that time (which I was in no danger of making!) Housing would be in a villa with two roommates, and the hospital took us to and from work in buses. This turned out to be a very good thing because they told us of horror stories during orientation, such as the one about a Saudi woman in a high-rise apartment building who inadvertently let her toddler crawl between the railings of her balcony. The child fell to his death, striking a parked car. The kicker was that the car belonged to a Western expatriate, who was later found guilty of the child’s death because, their reasoning went, had he not come to their country then something soft may have been on the street 17 stories below and if the child had hit that he would have lived. This is a true story and in general, ANY auto accident in which an expat was involved was found to be the foreigner’s fault, for similar reasoning - “Had you not come to this country there would have been no accident!” I was reminded of the line attributed to Mark Twain about arguing with a cat or an Arab - you either come away scratched or baffled.

Anyhow I was an avid musician, a drummer at the time. When I got over there I found there were no decent drums available to buy but there were plenty of synthesizers so I switched over to keyboards, using skills I had learned in organ lessons from a nun. The next step was to find a band after buying my first synth, a Roland Alpha Juno One.

After asking around, one of my roommates turned me on to a dentist he knew, Dr. Steve, who played bass. Steve in turn knew an ER doc, Dr. Bert, who played guitar & sang. I bought a drum machine to program along with providing keys as backing and we were off. It turned out that there were all kinds of gigs available at embassies (think American, British and Australian) and private parties at big corporation (think British Aerospace) compounds. We anticipated being, and eventually were, very busy.

Anyhow at our first rehearsal Bert asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?” I said no problem, as I smoked at the time as well. Soon however the air filled with a very familiar scent that definitely was NOT tobacco. I was flabbergasted. “Damn, Bert, what the hell are you doing?!!” We were after all, in Saudi Arabia, perhaps the uncoolest country in the world in which to get high. “Don’t worry about it! No one suspects a thing like this from a couple of doctors!” Dr. Steve grinned and nodded assent as he took a righteous hit himself. 

So I gave in to the dreaded peer pressure & proceeded to get mightily buzzed. It was Thai weed, and it came in little matchboxes labeled Double Happiness. The dope came in on flights from Thailand and the Philippines, carried in the wheel wells. Filipino flight techs would unload it and then somehow distribute it. Ours always came in the Double Happiness boxes, which I thought was really cool. That is, until our connection’s Filipino supplier was caught and beheaded. We began to reconsider at that point.

But my drugging days in Riyadh weren’t over yet! I was soon to meet Crazy Ray, a RN who worked as a Dialysis Nurse but really made way more money playing pool professionally. I met him through Dr. Bert. One day he came over and pulled out some little squares of paper with pictures of Mickey Mouse on them. I immediately recognized this as LSD and sure enough he offered me some and shortly we were cruising around Riyadh on the public buses after the secret madness had come to life, laughing uncontrollably at the melting locals who smiled and nodded politely. I came down with some Valium I had brought back from a trip to Bangkok, where it was available without a prescription. 

So they say God watches over babies and drunks, and, I might add, some druggies as well! Those days are long gone now of course but actually I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Topic: Camp

The first time I really made camp, my college roommate -- another Jim -- took me to a lake near his home.  Of course, we were college students, so the only things we brought were beer and some college food.  Or maybe we just brought beer.

I remember seeing stars that I'd never seen. As a kid from the suburbs, being out in the dark was a real revelation.  I've seen better star fields since then, but this one made me hungry to see them again.

I remember having to make a fire to stay warm.  As a kid, I was in charge of starting fires in my home.  Yep, that does seem backwards when you think about it now, but whatevs.  This was the first fire I needed to make me feel alive, though.  By the early morning, we were both nearly huddled in the glowing coals, since we neglected to bring any sleeping bags or blankets.  We had beer.  I've made a lot better fires since then.  However, this one made me understand that fire can be life.

In the morning, we debated throwing some bare hooks in the lake.  We did remember two fish hooks and line, but no rods.  Jim figured we could probably catch some crappie and use those to catch catfish.  But there was a diner down the road.  I'd fished before, and I'd considered it a way to relax.  I realized that I relax better when I don't have to contemplate gutting an actual fish, so I opted to buy the breakfast.

These days, I carry my camp behind me in the truck.  I still don't fish, other than as a way to hide from people who want to talk to me.  I still make fires.  I still stare at the stars, looking for the Milky Way as proof that I'm far enough away from the world that my particular form of crazy is quiesced.

I think it's time for a trip.

Topic: Camp

Why we don’t camp. 

Jan and I were driving back from a wedding in Tazewell,Tennessee that took place on a houseboat in the middle of a lake in 92° weather.  After 3 hours on the boat the high point of our day included showering in our air conditioned room at the Holiday Inn and ordering a pizza. We imagined that our three hours on that boat probably felt like the torture some people refer to as camping.  Both of us have camped before we knew one another and today for the first time we spent a good hour discussing all the reasons why we hate camping and how it’s so cool to be a grown-up and how we will never go camping again. 

Here is our short and not all inclusive list of why we don’t camp. 

1.    The heat. We have friends who report that they camp in air-conditioned campers. What’s the point? Our condo has great air-conditioning, a ceiling fan, and a small pedestal fan to provide white noise conducive to good sleep. 

2.    Bugs and bug bites. Our camper friends will argue you for the use of citronella candles, Off and bug zappers. Here’s an idea.  Sleep inside where the bugs can’t get you. 

3.    The bathroom situation. Usually camping involves an outhouse. Jan points out that if you really want to feel like you’re camping, you could always take a shit in your backyard. Note: For condo dwellers like us, shitting in the backyard is not a viable alternative.

4.    Food prep is a bitch.  You have to build a fire or take one of those Coleman stoves with the invisible flame where Jan laments that you end up “ burning the shit out of yourself cause you can’t see the flame.  Trying to cook a burger to a safe and palatable “ medium” takes about an hour and a half.  We can have a burger in ten minutes at home. And then you have to schlep a big ass cooler full of ice to keep your mayo and your cheese cold and safe to eat. Our fridge does that, just saying.  And then there’s the fun of washing pots and pans without running water. 

5.    We’re getting old and there is no mattress or bed that is as comfortable as our own.  We had to sleep on an air mattress last month when our air conditioning went out and we fled to the basement where it was cooler.  At our age we feel it for days when we sleep on a non-supportive surface.  And that was just one night! Imagine how long it would take to recover from a week of camping. 

6.    The packing for camping is much more intense than for a business trip or a cruise.  You not only have to figure what you’re going to wear but you’re basically packing up your entire home and everything you need in it and dragging it outside someplace out in the middle of nowhere.  Why?  We just don’t get it. 

We don’t camp.  We won’t  camp.  You can’t make us. 

Paris Burned a Long Time Ago

by Drew Oetzel

My son Jackson (currently 17 years old)  and I are always clowning on slang terms. I tell him something that was au courant when I was a teen and he laughs and translates it into current teen speak and then I laugh. Whenever I learn some new thing “kids today” are saying I try to use it around him in the most uncool way possible - both to bug him and make him laugh. “Um, no dad. Just don’t. You can’t say that at your age” are words I love to hear!!

A few months ago Jackson and I were up to our usual banter. Not sure what we were talking about but at one point I said: “Ohhhhhh you tryin ta throw some shade huh?” 

He stops and does his “No dad, you can’t say that. Old people can’t say that.” Only this time I was shocked. I thought to myself “throwing shade” belongs to the us, the gays!! I’ve been saying that since before he was born. Nothing to be done in this case so I just went full drag queen on his ass. Snapped my fingers twice and said: “Oh no you didn’t! I was saying that before you were born - way back in 1990! Where did YOU get that term from?!?”

Him: “All the girls at my school say it. They got it from RuPaul . . .”

UGH! Full disclosure, I’ve never seen an episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race but I certainly was steeped in drag culture starting with the 1990 film Paris Is Burning about drag contests in New York City. (The subculture depicted in the film famously inspired Madonna’s song Vogue at the time.) One drag queen even explains “throwing shade” in the film. Slang from that movie made its way into main stream gay culture throughout the 90s. We’ve been “reading” each other and “throwing shade” since before Bill Clinton played the sax on MTV. The thought that mean girls in high school are now quoting the ultimate mean faux-girls made me shudder. I didn’t like it - at all. Camp culture belongs to us! The gays! How dare these ostensibly straight teens Columbus it from us?!?! 

Topic: Camp

Author: Chris Dunn

My flight leaves in the morning, but before I can get any sleep, I must stand by the open bag counting my shirts by days, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and spare…” Then pants. Why, you ask? Some OCD ritual to ensure the plane doesn’t crash, perhaps? Well, let me take you back in time to a young scout’s first days at Camp Friedlander…

Camp Friedlander was the local scout camp for my troop of cub scouts, and this year – rather than risking another unpleasant year at Fort Scott camp – I choose to camp with the boys. The main advantage scout camp had over regular camp was that I knew everyone. I’ve never been the kind of person who takes well to strangers. Seventy-five percent of my personality is tailored specifically to ingratiate myself with my current crowd, so when I first set in with strangers, I don’t know who I am. Sure, it doesn’t take me long to catch the vibe of the group and figure who I need to be to fit it, but with the scout troop, that was already decided. Scout Chris is helpful, friendly, takes direction well, and knows who all the bullies are and how to make them laugh so they leave him alone. Without that umbrella of protection, camp can be as harrowing as traversing a mine field.

Another pro of Scout camp was the structure. Activities were regimented and timed. A well-established hierarchy informed the chain of command. We took care to police our campsite every night and treat the woods with respect. That was the party line anyway, but even at our most riled we were better behaved than the kids at normal-people camp. Along with this discipline came an increased level of responsibility. We got to do things outside the bounds of the normal, litigation-concerned corporate structure. Why the first day we arrived, we spotted a massive, fallen tree halfway down the slope of a nearby ravine, and the scout masters postulated that if we could retrieve it, that it would make a fine center piece for our campsite, providing sitting space for at least 5 scouts.

Now retrieving the log was I’m certain much easier in theory than it turned out to be in practice. Logs don’t look as heavy on the ground as they do just an inch off of it. And this one was ten feet down a rather steep muddy slope. But do not underestimate the power of twenty, properly-motivated twelve year old boys. We worked with ropes and backbones, even as the light faded and the sun was replaced by hand-held flashlights and hooded lanterns, until with much fanfare and back-slapping, we rolled our fallen foe to its noble resting spot beside a budding camp fire.

Sitting on the ground near the log, dripping in the sweat of our shared victory, I took a moment to look down and realize I was covered in mud from shoulders to shoes. I indicated to my buddy (the buddy system was there to ensure no one got lost in the woods – see my March 4^th entry for how well that worked out) that I was going to go change before we started into the smores and campfire songs portion of the evening. I followed the bobbing light of my flashlight all the way back to my tent, working hard to keep my imagination in check in a world of shadows. But as I was pulling my pack from beneath my bunk, a specter of dread began to creep up my spine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew what was wrong, but it wasn’t until my beheld the nearly empty duffel that I realized what it was. I hadn’t packed any pants OR shirts!

How had this happened? I cast my mind back to the previous day’s packing. As I said, the scouts were big on structure. Each scout had been given a specific list of all the things he would need to bring. This was so you wouldn’t forget little things like bug spray and a canteen. First on the list, was 7 changes of pants and 7 shirts. They were first on the list! How could I have forgotten them? Then it dawned on me. That was just it. I could distinctly remember my thought process, “Sure, sure. Pants and shirts… Who’s going to forget those? Let’s make sure I get all the other shit in line first, and then I’ll pick out my clothes. Fox 40 Whistle – Check! Flashlight – Check! Comb – Now where did I put that...” They were all there, all the nicks and nacks packed neatly beside my “warm socks” and “long underwear” I had my dress uniform and the clothes I was wearing, but that was it.

An embarrassed dread filled me as I made my way back to the light of the fire. I didn’t want to inform the scout masters, but what else was there to do? I was certain that they would notice after a few days that the stench of my soiled clothing preceded my arrival by several minutes. I had to suck it up. The scout masters were a mixture of amused and flabbergasted, but in the end it all worked out. Even though I was small for my age, there were more than enough spare shirts for me to borrow, and a sturdy pair of jeans can go a day or two without washing. Also it turned out - though we were in the wilderness - laundry facilities weren’t as far away as camp made it seem. Still the laughing stock of the camp. From that day until I finally abandoned the scouts several years later there were always mocking voices saying things like, “And, of course, don’t forget pants!”

So to this day, some forty or so years later, I check and recheck my bags several times before any travel. I’m never taking that shit for granted again.