I’m in the middle of a heated job search, thus the sparse posting. During college, as my time of graduation approached, I like most white suburban kids, had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. My political science degree was pulling its weight by attracting countless political think-tanks, just lining up waiting to pay me big bucks to put my opinions of the political machine workings down on paper. But I wasn’t sold on that, so I followed the intellectual nomad route and headed to law school. Three years and a lot of dollars later, now, not only could I pontificate on the shortcomings of our society, but I could argue my points like an Ancient Greek philosopher. Fantastic.
Gone now are the political think tanks and mega law firms waiting to pay me for my sculpted mind. So I have been turning to my other job skills and experience to review what careers might be a good fit for me. I bypass my first job experience in the restaurant industry. While Circus Pizza did provide me the culinary training equivalent of a year in France, the glut of cooking shows leads me to believe there is a whole sector of white suburban kids aiming for the cooking field, already having established a head-start by preparing red-wine reductions and their best rissoto fusions in high school home-ec.
I turn to my next work period, my summers during college. Without a lead on any job whatsoever, and Circus Pizza having been sold off to Chuck-E-Cheese, I pursue the next logical opportunity, and I head down to the local temp office. After presenting my newly polished resume, coming straight out of the college career services office, I vehemently deny that I have ever been convicted of a felony, and I am placed on the roll of temp workers, the length of which rivals the church directory. I spend the next three days calling the temp office every morning asking for work opportunities. The recruiters there, obviously worn out by my insistence, finally place me for a temp job to begin the next week.
At the appointed time and date I have my mother drop me off at a non-descript warehouse in a remote suburb. I see that I am in good company as several other shady looking individuals are being dropped off by wives, girlfriends, mothers, probation officers, friends, etc. We gather in a warehouse where pallets of boxes are stacked, awaiting attention. There are nine of us. I am by far the youngest. And I am by far the most educated simply by having my high school diploma. And, I am by far the most sober. I now understand why the temp office kept asking if I had a felony record. It turned out I would be the first to grace their office with a clean record.
The foreman approaches us with the grit of a prison guard and barks out the orders for the project. Twice. We will be breaking down pallets of boxes, and reordering them so that the boxes with a common destination will all be on the same pallet. Simple enough. I don’t know that twice was necessary, but no harm.
About four of the workers immediately attempt to take charge of the situation and set an agenda and process for the work. None of the proposals actually makes any logical sense to me, but that doesn’t concern me, as I’m paid by the hour. One of the workers, Davis, includes in his plan that he will be the supervisor to make sure the boxes are reaching the correct pallets, but he won’t be doing any of the lifting. Davis is a mid-thirties “construction worker”, currently on probation for something, living with his girlfriend who actually has a full-time job.
The battle for power sputters out as the other five of us simply start tearing into the pallets. However, the need for direction becomes apparent in the next thirty minutes, as three pallets designated for Denver are formed, with each one containing less than five boxes. The foreman is eventually called in to create a system for us. I find it best to keep my head, and logic, down in these situations. It’s similar to what I think prison would be like, minus the awkward showers.
We eventually make it to the lunch hour without much disruption. However, the lunch hour now presents unforeseen difficulties. I had assumed that this location would be within walking distance of some fast food establishment. It was not. Seven of the other workers assumed the same thing. There were seven of us with money, no food, and no car, and one, Davis, who even failed to bring any money. At least I was in good company. We all turned to the one man who had a car, Rodney. Now Rodney looked to be early forties, but he could have been much younger. The smell of alcohol and body odor indicated an affinity for unbounded drinking.
After a discussion over the intended fast food restaurant, which included more expletives than I thought necessary for a decision on lunch, Rodney departed with a pool of money to pay for lunch for the seven of us, Rodney, and somehow Davis. Davis’ argument for why we should cover his lunch did include the fact that he was supervisor of this project and entitled to special benefits. I fully anticipated never seeing Rodney again as the lunch money probably amounted to more than we would make on the project. To my surprise Rodney did return with lunch. I’m assuming I can thank his probation status for that.
After an extended lunch the foreman finally rallied us back to work. I spent the afternoon working side-by-side with Steve. Steve was a good co-worker. Didn’t complain, worked hard, and showed a competence in basic hygiene skills. Steve and I shared a love of basketball, we both voted for Wendy’s at lunch, and we both lived with our parents. The difference was that Steve was 47. After spending four hours with him I could not definitively say that Steve had anything wrong with him. This worried me. How could a 47 year old man be living with his parents and working menial temp jobs? Could Steve simply be me twenty-five years from now?
Quitting time came none too quickly. Six of us lined up to use the phone. Rodney, of course, could immediately leave in his own car. Davis and another worker had convinced Rodney that they lived close enough that he should give them a ride. I’m sure Davis’ supervisor status also played a role in his getting a ride. For the rest of us, calls were made to our appropriate caretakers to come retrieve us from this hole. We then lined up outside on the curb as the office needed to lock-up.
One-by-one our rides arrived to carry us home, until it was just me and Steve. We talked the T-Wolves chances of making the playoffs in the coming year. He also gave me the low-down on other types of jobs to expect from the temp agency. Finally his ride arrived, and then my mother. Sweet relief. Getting in the van I didn’t say much about my day.
Given my mom’s own work history in a factory I don’t think she needed to ask. As we drove away I pondered what my future might hold for me. The infinite possibilities that had existed in high-school had been quickly dispatched by the fellowship of the warehouse. And I couldn’t help but feel my presence at this job did not bode well for my future employment opportunities. But at this point money was money. Eight hour day at a temp warehouse - $80.00. Lunch - $5.00. Taxes - $15.00. Total take for the day $60.00. I didn't realize my dignity was so cheap.
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