Temp Nostalgia

My job at Tax Place has come and gone. I must admit that I didn't realise how good I'd had it. They fed me free lunch every Tuesday and Thursday, my coworkers were appreciative of the work M and I did for them, and they generally just let us be and didn't treat us like we were five-year-olds. But the value of these small luxuries didn't become fully apparent until I started my new temp assignment.

Something about being a temp seems to make all of your coworkers assume that you are absolutely stupid beyond hope. My supervisor at Class Action Place demonstrated this on my first day when he was explaining how to affix adhesive labels onto forms. He not only instructed me as to where I should place these specific labels, but also how to apply them. "You just peel it off, stick it on, and give it a little press," he revealed. I let this comment slide, barely refraining from making some snarky remark about how my preschool education had sufficiently prepared me to handle stickers. Another woman felt the need to tell me how to file a form. "Make sure to put it between the one that goes before it and the one that goes after it," she said.

The superfluousness of these instructions lessened as my coworkers discovered that I was capable of opening envelopes, labeling, filing and even scanning. But this victory over insulting explanations soon lost its lustre. I arrived at work one morning to discover that people from another department had infiltrated the Temp Annex. Previously we three temps had been surrounded by empty desks. Filling these spaces would not necessarily have been a bad thing. But they were filled with some of the most obnoxious people I've ever encountered. None of the Temp Force ever determined what these people do, aside from talking excessively and excessively loudly.

The topics of the endless stream of conversation range from the Bible verses with which they intend to decorate their new cubicles to the laying on of hands to late periods to pregnancy, delivery and epidurals. Recently, a woman who feared she might be pregnant began to confide in a woman who is already pregnant. I unfortunately overheard them discussing each of the early signs of pregnancy they'd experienced. I even more unfortunately overheard one of them utter the word 'discharge' in the context of that discussion. To make matters even worse, such conversations are conducted in the droning voice of the pregnant woman, who too liberally sprinkles her speech with "Yaa knooooow," and the horrendous grammar of the might-be-pregnant woman, who favours phrases like, "Why you ain't in here?"

It quickly became apparent that no solace would be provided by this team's supervisor, who sits amongst them. In fact, he is a large part of the problem. Thankfully, he avoids talking about biology. Instead, he shares the tricks he's learned in Excel whilst managing the spreadsheets of films that he likes to keep in his spare time. When he's not boasting heartily about his love of films, his band (a cross between Tool and some other metal band), or any other subject on which he considers himself to be an authority (which doesn't exclude much), he speaks in an exaggerated stage whisper. When he's not whispering, he hisses along to the heavy metal beats playing in his headphones.

The object lesson in his pomposity occurred a few weeks ago. He sneezed, and said something in Latin to excuse himself. He then sneezed a second time and uttered a different Latin word. I know it was Latin because he then cried, "Whoa, that's a lot of Latin for one day." To me, this is very similar to saying gesundheit and then remarking, "Whoa, that's a lot of German for one day!" The others around me must have felt the same way because no-one responded. After a second of what must have been excruciating ego-crushing silence, he repeated, "I said, that's a lot of Latin for one day!"

My assignment was due to end just when I thought I couldn't take much more. I saw my supervisor in the hall as I was heading out to lunch on my rather joyous last day. "Don't forget 2 o'clock," he reminded me.
"What's at 2 o'clock?" I asked.
"The big processing meeting," he replied, looking confused as to why I hadn't informed myself about this important event.
"Oh. I don't have email, so I didn't know about it," I replied. "And it's our last day anyway. Do you even want us to come?"
"What?!?" he cried. "No, it's not. It better not be!"
I told him that Staffing Place had told us 9 June was our last day, and I hadn't heard that the assignment had been extended. He resolved to talk to the other supervisor and try to fix the debacle.

I went to the meeting after lunch. The other two temps, who'd already decided not to come back even if an extension was offered, didn't. My supervisor left the meeting to fetch them, and they eventually slunk in late. At the end of the meeting, my supervisor said, "I just found out at 2 o'clock that the temps won't be coming back tomorrow." There was general uproar amongst all the overworked people present. "They've accepted other assignments," he said, with resignation in his voice. "They weren't extended and their assignment's done." I had been looking forward to having a week or so off to write and just enjoy being rid of my coworkers. But I'd learnt from one of the other temps that morning that Staffing Place didn't have much else to offer. So I cracked under the pressure at the meeting and agreed to continue there until 3 July (if not longer).

To make matters worse, I was now the only person from my department sitting amongst the obnoxious members of the infiltrating department. I thought this might be too much to bear. Fortunately my supervisor bailed me out. "We're not going to leave you sitting over here all by yourself," she said, stopping by my desk the next afternoon. "Starting tomorrow, you can sit over where P. used to be." My escape from Temp Annex did not come soon enough, however. I was there to hear the woman concerned about being pregnant reveal that she was definitely not expecting. "It came last night!" she exclaimed joyfully.

While I can still hear Latin Sneezer ranting about films from time to time, my new area is blissfully quiet and relatively normal. It makes the job a little better. It's certainly good enough to be my source of income until I leave for Australia. But I can't help waxing nostalgic about Tax Place occasionally. I will always have my memories...and traces of toner in my lungs.