Part 19 (1/2)

”Still, sounds like you're doing everything right, so what's the problem?”

”There are a few factors working against me. First off, thousands of other jobless people are doing everything right, too. Plus, it's the end of the year, and no one's hiring until they get their budgets in January. And rumors about war certainly aren't helping the overall employment situation. For lateral positions, I used to make too much money and priced myself out of the market.”

”Maybe your resume is too good? What about downplaying your experience just to get a foot in the door?”

”I already dumbed-down my resume, but it hasn't helped. For better jobs, employers can s.n.a.t.c.h up formerly expensive, experienced people for a song. Thus my services aren't wanted.” I fortify myself with another giant slug of wine. ”And when I interviewed for lesser jobs, employers are convinced I'll be bored. I even tried to get a part-time position with a dog-walking company, figuring the exercise would help me lose weight, and the owner said if I couldn't give him a year's commitment, he wasn't interested. So here I sit in my pajamas, drinking bargain wine, completely out of ideas.”

Shayla opens her backpack and takes out a business card. ”Here's my temp agency's owner's number. His name is Chuck and he's a nice guy. Tell him I sent you, and you'll probably get a placement right away.” Shayla tries to hand me the card, but I'm hesitant to touch it. ”Take it. It won't bite you. Call him.” She looks me up and down before adding, ”Now.”

With much reluctance, I accept the card. ”I remember a time when I used to like you.”

”Self-pity and elastic waist pants do not suit you. Call them. You'll thank me when you cash your first check.”

Fletch and I discussed it and determined I should give temping a whirl.129 What it boils down to is I temp or we'll have no choice but to move to a cheaper neighborhood. Yes, we've talked about moving, but we should move because we want to, not because we have to. Our rent is taking a huge bite out of Fletch's severance package and our strict budget doesn't allow for extras like Christmas presents or wine in bottles.

I sucked it up and called Shayla's temp agency. And here I am, going through the intake process, ready to take my timed typing test. For the first time, I feel fortunate to have attended a s.h.i.+tty high school that taught typing on IBM Selectrics and not computers. I just watched the last two people blow their tests because they didn't know where to place the paper or how to operate the return carriage. Plus, they showed up for their intake a.s.sessment wearing JEANS, while I'm clad in a striking pin-striped pantsuit with a starchy white collar and my hair's in a fabulous French twist. HA! I'm about to blow these kids out of the water.

I position myself in front of the typewriter, hands poised over the keys. Jill, the office's receptionist, stands behind me with a stopwatch. ”OK, you're going to type for the next sixty seconds. If you make a mistake, just keep going. And...three, two, one-go!” she says.

I'm off! My fingers fly across the familiar old keys, and I bang out entire paragraphs in record time. Smoke practically rises from the machine and the motor hums while the printwheel strikes perfectly againandagainandagainandagain in rapid succession. The whole desk vibrates with intensity, each stroke bringing me closer to the t.i.tle of Miss Typewriter 2002. By the time Jill calls stop, I'm spent with the exertion of having transposed the entire Gutenberg Bible. Victoriously, I rip the sheet out and hand it to her, waiting for my accolades. She examines my work.

”Well?” I ask expectantly. My dad's old secretary could type 120 words per minute. He'd beg her to type more slowly because she'd burn through a typewriter per month.130 As fast as I just went, I'm sure I've tied her record.

”Looks like you can do about thirty words per minute,” Jill says.

LIES! Tremendous lies! Acknowledge my prowess! ”That's impossible. I flew through those paragraphs.”

”Yes, and they're riddled with errors. You'd have been better off going a little slower. Subtracting typos, you're at about thirty words per minute, and honestly, I'm being generous. I'm sorry to tell you that you won't be eligible for a lot of our open jobs-most require at least forty-five words per minute. But you're welcome to come to our office anytime so you can practice and improve.”

Pfft-I should get extra credit for even knowing what an IBM Selectric is. Whatever. ”What's next?” I ask.

”We're on to the computer-skills a.s.sessment now. If you want to grab your briefcase and follow me, we can get started.”

Maybe I didn't rock the typing test. Big deal. I will OWN the computer part. I am the reigning Queen of Spreadsheets. Sorting? I can ascend or descend by make, model, and serial number. Summation? Child's play. You want a formula to add a 37 percent margin to base pricing, but only on select column items? Bring. It. On. And, shoot, I can do things with an Access Database that would make the baby Jesus cry. Or how about a Web page? I've got the mad HTML skillz, yo. I taught myself how to program back in the Midwest IR days when I designed the portfolio management interface. Feel free to call me Jennifer Lancaster Gates from now on.

Jill boots up the computer and opens Microsoft Word. Once we're in the program, she hands me a heavily formatted doc.u.ment and tells me to replicate it. Ugh, why? I'd rather die than allow a hideous note like this go out under my letterhead. There are inserted tables and graphs and columns and about fifteen different type styles and sizes, along with breaks and footnotes and page numbers.

”Okeydokey, I'll be back in five minutes.” Jill returns to the reception desk. I proceed cautiously, relying heavily on the happy animated Microsoft paperclip. The a.s.signment's not hard-it's just tedious. If my boss ever handed me something like this, I'd sit him down to discuss aesthetics and the concept of less is more, rather than allow him to endorse such a schizophrenic mess.

A nanosecond later, Jill is standing over my shoulder. She prints out my work and examines it. ”This is terrible! I can't believe how bad this is! And you're so slow. Your Word skills are negligible. Have you even worked in an office before?”

”Yes, I have,” I reply with a clenched jaw. I just tried my hardest and now a receptionist is d.o.g.g.i.ng to me? I don't think so. ”Of course, I was a vice president, and I used to have girls like you who did this for me.”

Luckily Shayla placed a call to Chuck, and her recommendation is the only reason I get a placement. For the next week, I'll be supporting the advertising sales manager of a huge home decor magazine. OK, how lucky is this? I would love to do advertising sales. My friend Kim is VP of advertising at Midwest IR, and she's always flying somewhere fun to entertain potential clients at high-end bars and restaurants. I'm witty and charming, and clients find me delightful-I could easily sell ads. Not only am I superpersuasive, but I love this magazine. I would be a perfect fit here, and I'm going to work my hardest to make sure the sales manager takes notice.

I arrive promptly at the reception desk at eight forty-five a.m. and am greeted by a cranky old smoker named Pat. She looks and sounds exactly like Marge Simpson's sisters, and I notice she keeps her cigarettes in their own needlepoint carrier attached with a plastic chain around her neck. ”I'll take you back to where you're working, but first, you can put your coat in here.” She gestures to a walk-in closet that smells like a stale ashtray, so I a.s.sume this is where Pat stows her coat, too.131 I follow Pat to the end of a long hallway and she shows me my work s.p.a.ce. ”You'll be filling in for Kathy while she recovers.”

”So she's sick, not on vacation?” I ask, in an effort to make friendly conversation.

”I'm sure that's none of your business,” Pat replies. OK, so much for conversation. ”You'll support Jerry, the advertising sales manager. Mainly you'll answer the phone. Here, let me show you how to work it.”

”This is a Lucent PBX with Audix voice mail, right? I used this kind at all of my old jobs, so I'm pretty familiar with them.”

Completely ignoring me, Pat continues to demonstrate every single one of the phone's features, half of which she describes incorrectly. I don't bother taking notes because I've used this system a thousand times. I have no need to transcribe an erroneous refresher course. ”Hey, you should be writing this down.”

”Like I said, I've used this system extensively and-”

”WRITE IT DOWN,” Pat growls. ”If you screw up the phone, Jerry's gonna be on my a.s.s.”

”No problem.” I'm slowly learning to choose my battles and figure this isn't the hill I want to die on. I pull a portfolio out of my briefcase and begin to take notes.

”When the phone rings and Jerry isn't there to answer, you pick it up and hold it to your mouth like this. You say, 'h.e.l.lo, Jerry Jenkins' office.'”

I write: When phone rings, place receiver next to your word hole and not your hoo-hoo or other bodily aperture, and say, ”Shalom.”

”Then you say, 'I'm sorry. Jerry isn't available. Would you like to leave a message?' If they do, you have to ask them who they are, what they want, and find out their phone number.”

I write: Tell them Jerry went for a ma.s.sage, and here's my phone number.

”Then you have to make sure to give Jerry the message.”

I write: Tell Jerry someone called about something important, and they sounded mad, so I hung up on them.

”That's about it on the phone. Now Jerry might need you to make copies. If so, the machine is right there.” She points to a copier located directly outside Jerry's door.

”It's a standard Xerox, right? Copies go here, the prints come out here, lift the gla.s.s to create an enlargement, refill paper here, press this b.u.t.ton if you want to collate and this one for staples?” I point to each feature as I describe it.

”This is the copy machine. If you want to make a copy...”

Warily, I open my portfolio while Pat drones on, repeating each of the copier's aspects I'd just described. Tell Jerry when Xeroxing his b.u.t.t, cheek definition will be most crisp if he wipes the gla.s.s with Windex first.

Pat details a litany of other absurdly easy tasks I may be called upon to perform, and I'm a bit incredulous that I'm going to earn $12/hour for doing what amounts to a trained monkey's job. Having successfully unloaded her dearth of knowledge, Pat says we're finished and she starts to head back to her desk.132 ”Wait. Is that it? There's nothing else? What should I be doing when I'm not answering the phone or making copies?”

”I dunno. I guess try to look busy. Oh, one more thing. The bathroom is down the hall. To get there, you take a right, then a left, and then a right.”

”Yeah, thanks. I saw it when I came in.”

”Better write that down. Most of our temps get lost trying to find it.”

Does she think I'm completely stupid? I may have arrived here in a yellow vehicle today, but it was a cab, not the short bus. Is she afraid if I can't find the bathroom, I'll whiz in the coat closet? I want to slap the nicotine out of her while shouting, ”I used to be a vice president!” but I don't. Instead, I write: If nature calls, tell them Jerry went for a ma.s.sage, and here's my number.

I sit at my desk employing perfect posture so that I'll make the best possible impression when Jerry gets to the office. Head up, shoulders squared, stomach sucked in, I look poised and professional. I wait.

And wait. And wait.

Oh, my G.o.d, is this ever boring and uncomfortable.

The clock on my PC is crawling along, and I'm desperate for something to do. I can't bear to hold the pose anymore, so I ask a couple of the other a.s.sistants if they need help with anything. Unfortunately, they seem to be managing their personal phone calls and nail filing just fine, thanks. Excuse me, ladies? This is why you are and will always be secretaries.

I need a project, and if no one will give me one, I'll just have to create something to do. Yes! Capital idea! That way, when Jerry comes in, he'll see what an industrious self-starter I am and will find room for me on his team. But what can I do?