-Master of the Sentence-
A consulting firm now holds the Monk purse strings.
In an effort to make some extra money, and add additional IS/science library experience to my resume, I signed up with a temp agency. I'd dealt with this company before, in another city, and suspected I might still be in their records.
It was that simple; go in, take some tests, and before the day is out a friendly staffing specialist is spouting directions and details. The next day, an office secretary in the consulting firm is etching my name on an index card in permanent ink. Once it is attached to my temporary cubicle, the bottom drops out of my professional facade before I can say "Nu?"
All at once, the newest temp becomes aware of the environment: the proximity of sneering zombie coworkers. Pain-inducing aural tones, emanating from every machine. Dust motes curling unnoticed in the dimmed fluorescent lights; one rod on, one rod out.
My stomach rotates the softball-sized globe of acid on its axis. This sends an urgent message to my lungs, gag-reflex, and brain, not to mention my kidneys. You do not belong here.
The dissected office drone in the next box croaks out a crazy cellmate laugh, which triggers imaginary reverberations of vertical metal bars. Contractually 8-4:30, though I've yet to get out before quarter to six.
Turns out he's laughing at some inner-office e-mail. The neighboring cubicle folk work hard, sporadically; I work hard all the time. The big man in the office commandeered my proofreading skills on the first day, and hasn't let go yet. I suppose it is fun to be the only Grammaturge in an office of Lawyers and Scientists with atrocious writing skills, but I can't shake the feeling that I've escaped the shiv because of the big man.
Tomorrow will mark a week's time there. I dislike it immensely for the exaggerated reasons above and for the distance (30 minute drive, no reliable bus route), the time it takes away from research, and the ill health it seems to sponsor. I stay because it is lucrative, not entirely unrelated to databases, and because it is temporary.
Or is it?
Today, while sitting at the "temp" lunchroom table, I began quizzing the other temps (contracted from several different agencies) on the length of their tenure. I'm the newest, and the longest has been there over eight months, no project end in sight.
I have a good spoon, but the tunnel will take a long time, even if it is never discovered. Put me out of your minds, all, except as a cautionary tale.
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A consulting firm now holds the Monk purse strings.
In an effort to make some extra money, and add additional IS/science library experience to my resume, I signed up with a temp agency. I'd dealt with this company before, in another city, and suspected I might still be in their records.
It was that simple; go in, take some tests, and before the day is out a friendly staffing specialist is spouting directions and details. The next day, an office secretary in the consulting firm is etching my name on an index card in permanent ink. Once it is attached to my temporary cubicle, the bottom drops out of my professional facade before I can say "Nu?"
All at once, the newest temp becomes aware of the environment: the proximity of sneering zombie coworkers. Pain-inducing aural tones, emanating from every machine. Dust motes curling unnoticed in the dimmed fluorescent lights; one rod on, one rod out.
My stomach rotates the softball-sized globe of acid on its axis. This sends an urgent message to my lungs, gag-reflex, and brain, not to mention my kidneys. You do not belong here.
The dissected office drone in the next box croaks out a crazy cellmate laugh, which triggers imaginary reverberations of vertical metal bars. Contractually 8-4:30, though I've yet to get out before quarter to six.
Turns out he's laughing at some inner-office e-mail. The neighboring cubicle folk work hard, sporadically; I work hard all the time. The big man in the office commandeered my proofreading skills on the first day, and hasn't let go yet. I suppose it is fun to be the only Grammaturge in an office of Lawyers and Scientists with atrocious writing skills, but I can't shake the feeling that I've escaped the shiv because of the big man.
Tomorrow will mark a week's time there. I dislike it immensely for the exaggerated reasons above and for the distance (30 minute drive, no reliable bus route), the time it takes away from research, and the ill health it seems to sponsor. I stay because it is lucrative, not entirely unrelated to databases, and because it is temporary.
Or is it?
Today, while sitting at the "temp" lunchroom table, I began quizzing the other temps (contracted from several different agencies) on the length of their tenure. I'm the newest, and the longest has been there over eight months, no project end in sight.
I have a good spoon, but the tunnel will take a long time, even if it is never discovered. Put me out of your minds, all, except as a cautionary tale.
posted by Benedict | 10:27 PM
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