But It's So Fleeting...

Temporary employment definitely has its charms.

It's all copy.

I didn’t have Internet access for over a week. The day I got back from New York, my wireless network went down and divorced my laptop. Since I’ve been temping, I can’t surf the Web. I’ve been doing a bunch of chores like mailroom work -- stuffing envelopes and printing address labels and the like. Today, however, I am working at the reception desk of a psych ward.

At least they have Internet. It’s the first time I’ve checked my email since Tuesday.

I’ve had four interviews in five days and I’m on my third temp job. My first day they sent me in -- spent from a night out on the town -- in my pearls and respectable shoes, and sat me at a reception desk with 60 telephone lines, with nearly half of the callers barely speaking English. Good morning.

Then Friday I was sorting mail at the children’s book publishing company, which is comforting in a familiar fashion because I worked in the bulk mailroom at BU stuffing envelopes every morning. I have a fiery imagination and can entertain myself for hours. For nostalgia sake, I made myself a steaming cup of coffee with the delectable powdered non-dairy creamer. Mmmm. Tastes like Monday morning hangovers and the Cure on my walkman.

In preparation for being put through the corporate wringer, I dragged my ass all over the malls of New Jersey two weeks ago in search of a suit jacket. But apparently it's against the law to interview in the spring and I returned empty handed with my tail between my legs. Last week I was more stressed about the lack of jacket than the 60 line switchboard. My infinitely wise mother says, “Stand up straight, smile, and wear pearls; you can get away with anything.” Apparently it worked.

The temp agency I went to on Wednesday was uncomfortably hip. They were blaring the trendy “alternative” radio station over the PA and the agents’ skirts from Urban Outfitters barely covered their asses. Every once in a while, one of the account reps would ring a cowbell and the whole Ikea-furnished office would cheer. There were suspicious marketing questions on the application. Just for demographics, they assured me. “What newpapers do you read?” I swallowed, gripped my shiny logo pen and scribbled, “Boston Phoenix, Village Voice.” Radio stations? Um. They’re not going to hire me.

I felt like a total whore by Wednesday, when I was on my third day straight of three-hour interviews and temp agency ninth degree. I have a hard time selling myself. How do I begin to list these jobs? My stint as a bank fraud analyst? The graveyard shift at the meat packing plant? The summer I screwed nuts on bolts 14 hours a day? The legal executive I took dictation for at One Federal? Does anyone care that I know short hand? I’m well-versed in medical terminology? I can train unruly canines? Help?

My last experience with a temp agency was years ago. They were so excited I could speak English and type that they sent me on my merry way, office to office, no questions asked. My first job out of college, the agent called me: “You know PowerPoint, right?” I vaguely remembered putting that down on my application because it sounded required. “Sure.” I reported to the job Monday morning in a panic, but was elated to find a “Learn Powerpoint in 10 Days” book on the desk I would be seated at for the next month. I stuffed it into the back of my neatly pressed wool skirt and excused myself for the ladies room where I exercised my speedreading skills.

The agency on Wednesday didn’t trust me. It’s as simple as that. I rattled off my list of computer software expertise. I had used Quark X-Press once, maybe five years ago. I put that down. MS Access? Sure. Same interface as Word, right? Why not. Check. Check. Check. After I handed in my application, the truth came out. There were tests involved.

I gulped and sat down at this simulation terminal. The most absolutely infuriating part was that I could not use keyboard shortcuts, and every time I tried, I got the answer wrong. I had no one to argue with. Control+V. Who the hell uses mouses and menus? Fortunately, I was able to learn MS Access while taking the test.

They pulled out my typing results and my agency rep glanced at my scores and tried not to look impressed. I’m like, it’s okay. I know I type 110 words a minute. Maybe it will make up for my inability to properly forward an incoming phone call. On all 60 lines.

Strangely enough, the ultra-hip temp agency that put the fear of god in my soul has placed me consistently since I walked out the door. They’re all over me.

So my first job -- the 60-line switchboard. To be fair, I only screwed up royally twice. Unfortunately it was 2 of the 3 times the Director of the company called.

But one of the benefits of being a temp is that everyone thinks you’re stupid. They talk about you through half-closed doors, with one hand over the phone receiver, like a disease. “Oh. You’ve got the temp.” It’s expected you’ll do something stupid. By the same token, if you are remotely competent, they’re impressed. It’s essential to maintain a balance between the two or you end up doing way too much work.

So today is the psych ward. I’ve been screamed at twice already this morning. And I’m not talking about, “You forgot the paper clip, you moron!” I’m talking full on railed at in incomprehensible word salad. I don’t know what she’s calling me, but she certainly means it. There are no supervisors here. The only assistant I’ve managed to drum up is the maintenance guy emptying the trash who can’t read. Since they left me outside in the freezing rain for the hour that was supposed to be my initiation session, I got – literally – five minutes of training on the whole shebang before the girl beat it out of here. At least there’s a door between the residents and me -- and I don’t have to buzz them in if they look threatening. But they know I’m a temp and they’re trying to manipulate me. They are, in fact, out to get me.

They’re trying to get money out of me to use the payphone. I almost fell for it. Good thing I didn’t have any quarters.

Though there is another bonus involved that makes this strange chaos okay: an unmolested commute. They keep placing me in Somerville and Cambridge jobs with off-street parking. It’s such a novelty to drive to work and I much prefer to sit in my car drinking good coffee and listening to music. Even on a bad day, being stuck in traffic beats being touched aggressively and repeatedly on all sides by sweaty strangers on the subway.

I have three days off now and not a single small business network security article in sight.

I could get used to this.