Bright Lights, Big Ass

by Jen Lancaster

  Resolved: I need to earn some money to help support our current rent burden.

  But what kind of job should I get? After declaring myself a writer, it seems like taking a sales job would be a big step backward. I’m experienced in a couple of other areas, like investor relations and corporate communications, but as evidenced by my almost two-year quest, not enough to land a good job doing them. Perhaps it’s time to reassess my skills? I decide to brainstorm and will write down anything that comes to mind. Then when I’m done, I’ll review the list and see if the perfect new career track doesn’t make itself evident.

  * * *

  Jen’s Areas of Expertise

  Good at second-guessing better ways for others to do their jobs. (Generally only employed when I’m stuck standing in line due to someone else’s inefficiency. I’ve been a cashier, so I know for a fact you don’t need to ring all twelve identical cans of cat food separately.)

  Proficient at choosing flattering bathroom paint colors to best enhance own features. (Asparagus green, yes. Flaming orange, no.)

  Adequate written communicator. (Although wholly inept at expressing false self-deprecation about said skill.)

  Have made concerted effort to stop saying everything I think. (Like when I ran into a fellow pit bull owner, I didn’t remark, “This morning my bully Maisy barfed up paper towels and cat poop all over the carpet on the second floor!” And last week when I met the petite brunette with the dimples and big smile, I kept myself from exclaiming, “Oh, my God, you look just like Laci Peterson! Except not dead!” And I’ve almost completely quit saying, “Shalom, motherfucker!” as my standard greeting when I enter a room anymore. Progress, I say!)

  Unusually dedicated to steam-cleaning carpets. (Please see above.)

  Can pick out and name every constellation in the fall sky. (Pleiades is my favorite.)

  Mix a mean dirty martini and also can make delicious fruit dip using Coco Lopez and Cool Whip. (Do not serve together, though.)

  Can grow lovely container gardens. (Except in the shade, where I seem to sprout more toadstools than anything.)

  Would be excellent reality show contestant. (Except if competition involved touching bugs, particularly with any part of my mouth. I mean, I can’t even go near a piece of chicken if I can see a vein—there’s no way I could consume something still writhing.)

  Able to neatly give own self a pedicure. (And the nice part is I don’t have to make awkward conversation about the weather with myself while I attack my problem cuticles.) Smart. (Except about geography. At Thanksgiving, I swore up and down that the Middle East was located partially in Africa and partially in Europe. When we got home, Fletch made me look at a map and I was proved wrong on both counts. But I don’t have any desire to be a cartographer, so who cares?) (I should probably avoid any health-related fields, too. When the nurse told me my high triglyceride count wasn’t that big a deal unless I had pancreatic problems, I realized I hadn’t a clue what the pancreas does—is it like a Liver, Jr., or is it one of those throw-away, make-it-into-hot-dog bits like the appendix, tailbone, and little piggy toe? Who knows? Certainly not me.) Efficient at making copies. (You’d be surprised at how complicated, expensive office machinery responds to a solid kick and mild stream of profanity.)

  * * *

  Anyway, it’s too bad my life isn’t a movie, because that’d mean I’d have a big Hollywood happy ending. I’d do my skills assessment and I’d figure out, and subsequently get, the very best non-geography-or-health-based job ever. But here in the real world the above skills will get me exactly what I deserve—another temp assignment.

  One phone call to my temporary agency and I’ve already gotten a placement. I’m bummed that there’s nothing open in the adorable Mr. James’s office, but I helped him find a great permanent person when I had to quit to finish writing the book. Apparently he and his new assistant are thick as thieves, damn it.

  Now I’m off to work in a nonprofit whose purpose is to help the service industry attract workers. When I hear the company description I wonder, Is this organization really necessary? Aren’t, like, millions of people shimmying over the border each year in order to get these jobs? Seems like you don’t need a charitable foundation to attract them; you need some fence cutters. Then again, I’m about to work for $11/hour, so what do I know?

  I show up for my first day in a yellow twinset paired with a divine red plaid Ralph Lauren skirt, a $150 holdover from the days when my opinion used to matter. It’s one of the most perfect garments known to man—lightweight so I can wear it in the summer, richly colored so it’s appropriate for the fall, and it has a wrap closure to accommodate those ten6 extra pounds. This outfit merits its own one-paragraph description not because even at five years old it’s still fabulous, but because by so wearing it, when I arrive everyone mistakes me for the brand-new vice president of fund-raising, who’s also scheduled to start today. The receptionist actually places me in the VP’s private office until she realizes her mistake.

  As I follow the receptionist down the long, beige-carpeted corridor to my new workspace, I notice the people here take “business casual” to a whole new level. I’ve already seen an embroidered Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and I spied someone wearing flannel pajama bottoms. However, I’ve been advised the nonprofit world is very different from the for-profit world, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the dress code is relaxed. I try not to judge, but God, I do it so well.7

  I spend my first day wandering around the office asking if anyone has anything they’d like me to do and it’s painfully boring. I report to the EVP of Communications, but she’s away on a fund-raising trip. Until she returns, her twenty-two-year-old, St. Louis Cardinals–ball-cap-wearing staff member is in charge of me. He’s five feet four with freckles and childbearing hips and is a dead ringer for Jimmy Neutron. After my effusive greeting, I’m relatively sure I terrify him. Jimmy has exactly nothing for me to work on so I wile away the day Google-stalking old high school classmates.8

  In the movie version of this experience, I’d excel at my work so much I’d be placed in the fund-raising VP’s position. But the reality is I spend three more days doing exactly nothing and I really begin to question why I’m here. This place is a nonprofit and relies on corporate donations to keep going. So isn’t having me doing nothing but reading Veronica Mars recaps on TelevisionWithoutPity.com’s Web site a criminal waste of resources?

  I keep encouraging Jimmy Neutron to take advantage of my writing experience. I offer my proofreading skills and try to sell myself, asking where else he could get his stuff professionally edited for $11/hour? Tired of having me hover over him with an anticipatory grin on my face, he finally finds me a project. Only instead of editing, I’m presented with a stack of paper six feet high and a home-office-grade shredder.9

  Anyway, Jimmy’s boss returns from her trip and pops into the office for a couple of minutes. The EVP is about to attend an off-site seminar for the day, but before she goes we have a chance to powwow. She’s delighted to know about my writing experience10 and promises she’ll assign more challenging work upon her return. Until then, she gives me a stack of expenses to file and a pile of Jimmy’s work to edit. I finish both projects in less than an hour.

  The next morning I’m at my cube with nothing to do, so I decide to keep an activity log to amuse myself, backtracking to cover all aspects of my day.

  6:25 a.m.—Out of bed. Would be nice if I could have one morning where I didn’t wake up and immediately step in a pile of something cold, wet, and having squirted out of one of the pets.

  7:48 a.m.—All out of heart-healthy canola oil margarine from Trader Joe’s, so I put triple cream Brie on my bagel instead. Consume, then have intermittent chest pains.

  8:26 a.m.—Get ride to work. No bus today—yay!

  Me: What does that magnetic ribbon say on that car over there?

  Fletch: (squinting) Powered by Jesus.

  Me: Yeah? Not powerful enough in my opinion. (rolls down windo
w) Hey, Jesus, learn to accelerate! (screeches to halt) Whoa! Jesus just turned that light from green to red with no yellow in between!

  Fletch: Maybe it wasn’t Jesus. Maybe it was Karma.

  Me: What? Is my name Earl or something? Karma’s punishing me for letting a dawdling Baptist know she needs to use her gas pedal?

  Fletch: Just sayin’.

  Me: What a great show that is—and I love Jason Lee. I just wish he weren’t a Scientologist.

  Fletch: I don’t fault Jason for his belief system. I bet he’s actually a closet Episcopalian and Scientology is just to advance his career. Besides, is their theory on Theatans so much more farfetched than the Christian belief that Jesus turned water to wine?

  Me: I’d say no, but if Jesus turns one more light red, I’m going to be late for work.

  8:29 a.m.—Arrive. Am best-dressed person here again. It is a sad state of affairs when my stupid poplin khakis make me appear “all fancy.”

  8:37 a.m.—Already booored. Jimmy says he has nothing for me to do.

  8:38 a.m.—Girl next to me needs to blow her nose.

  8:46 a.m.—Girl next to me really needs to blow her nose.

  8:51 a.m.—Girl next to me needs to blow her nose before something bad happens.

  9:12 a.m.—Asked to work on Very Important Project involving stapler. But at least I will be away from Sinus Queen.

  10:00 a.m.—Admire self in bathroom mirror. Wearing stupid, pointy shoes11 today because oh, so cute! Glad Fletch dropped me off and will pick me up and I won’t have to do any walking.

  10:09 a.m.—Alarm bells! Fire! Fire!! Fire? Oh. No fire. It’s just a fire drill. Must walk down fifteen flights of stairs in stupid pointy shoes.12 Lumber along behind two dumb guys drinking

  coffee and chatting about Cubs’ chances this year. Naturally if this were a real emergency, I would stomp all over their flaming carcasses in stupid pointy shoes to get to the bottom first. Because for $11/hour? I could give a shit about your safety.

  10:09 a.m.—Jesus? Did that on purpose.

  10:31 a.m.—Duck out of fire drill to buy a certain permanent employee some Kleenex.

  10:44 a.m.—Snort.

  10:45 a.m.—Snuffle.

  10:46 a.m.—Oh, yes. Jesus taunting me.

  10:47 a.m.—Sniiiiffff.

  10:48 a.m.—“Blow your freaking nose!”

  10:49 a.m.—Apologize.

  10:50 a.m.—Profusely.

  10:53 a.m.—Totally not sorry.

  11:54 a.m.—Called into EVP’s office to discuss expense report. Found over $300 in missing receipts from last trip. Am rock star—which will hopefully make up for flaming shredder foolishness last week.

  12:14 p.m.—EVP does not think my idea of sending out a Save the Date e-mail with the title “I Have an STD with Your Name on It!” is funny. Regardless, I laugh myself into an asthma attack.

  12:15 p.m.—Am no longer a rock star. It’s still funny, though.

  12:30 p.m.—Attempt to eat lunch in cafeteria while reading new Marian Keyes book. Am accosted by Disney-sweatshirt-wearing permanent employee who thinks “nobody should eat alone.” I reply, “Unless of course you have a good book and enjoy quiet time.” (Hold up book to emphasize point.) Pretend to read, but Big Fucking Mouse Shirt will not be dissuaded. Spend rest of meal hearing pitch for Discovery Toys interspersed with stories about Big Fucking Mouse Shirt’s own toddler, Little Fucking Mouse Shirt. Added bonus? Stories told in baby talk! Vow to eat lunch at desk. For rest of life.

  1:42 p.m.—Given press release to write. Finish in fifteen minutes.

  1:57 p.m.—EVP’s socks? Completely knocked off. Rock star again!

  2:30 p.m.—Given presentation written by Jimmy Neutron to proofread.

  2:55 p.m.—Explain to Jimmy that he should avoid using made-up words like “mandation” when asking donors for money.

  2:56 p.m.—Jimmy may possibly want to kick me ’til I’m dead.

  3:00 p.m.—Whatever. Tell Jimmy I must leave for important medical appointment.

  3:01 p.m.—What? Hair is body part. Is totally considered medical.

  3:10 p.m.—Ahhh, bleach? Is good.

  5:24 p.m.—Arrive home. Voice mail from temp agent. Says I am fired from job because Jimmy claims I said “filing is not part of my job description.”

  5:25 p.m.—Lies! Such lies! I would never say such a thing!

  5:26 p.m.—Bitch? Sure! But never slacker.

  5:27 p.m.—Well played, Jimmy Neutron. And Jesus? Obviously still pissed.

  So that’s the nice thing about temping—I’m just that—temporary. No matter how good or bad the job is, it’s going to be over relatively quickly. I enjoy being able to slip in and out of the shadows and not be noticed, because the last thing I want is to get embroiled in someone else’s corporate culture. For example, it’s United Way Week here on my newest job, meaning this particular company is doing all sorts of “cute” things in the name of fund-raising. They’re having a balloon drive, and for a dollar donation you can send one to someone in the office. Overjoyed employee volunteers13 dance up and down the cube farms distributing balloons to delighted recipients with cheery notes attached stating sentiments like “You’re the very bestest boss!”

  Yeah, you’d line up and pay $10 US to see that film, right?

  The company must be raising a shitload of money because when I walk out for the evening, each cube has at least five to seven balloons.

  Except mine—exactly my intent.

  On the way home from work, I laugh about my balloon-free cube. Frankly, I’m delighted to have avoided the whole socially awkward aspect of it. I just don’t enjoy everything that goes along with the politics of working in an office; it’s a lot of the reason I became a writer. I don’t always play well with others, but by temping I can make a few bucks while avoiding foolishness like Secret Santa drawings, obligatory employee outings, departmental baby showers, retirement parties, and all the other small-talk-making, not-getting-my-work-done distractions that used to make me want to take a hostage.

  Naturally, I’m greeted with a desk full of balloons and happy notes when I arrive this morning because I am so irony’s bitch.

  Yes, I should be flattered. But, here’s the problem: in the course of this assignment, I accomplish very little that a helper monkey couldn’t do once he learned to work the copy machine. So there’s no need to thank me for my hard work with a bunch of balloons because it’s not hard. Knowing how easy this job is means that I got balloons because people pitied me.

  Now I’m faced with the dilemma of how to thank the people who thanked me. Should I send them balloons? Because then they’d thank me for the thanks of thanking them for thanking me and then what happens? I’d get more balloons? And then I’d have to send more? Would they then react in kind? When does it stop?

  This has the potential to turn into a helium-based arms race.

  Or a fucking Dilbert cartoon.

  Of course, no movie, no matter how dramatic, is without comic relief. But in the Hollywood version of my life, I’d always be right and everyone around me would be the ones to look foolish. But the unfortunate reality is sometimes the dumbass in the office? Is me.

  I’m working at a lovely hospitality company where I’m given an easy project. Although the task is basic, I have a couple of niggling questions, so I leave my workspace to ask the project manager. He’s an easygoing, funny guy named Matt and sort of reminds me of Jim on The Office. I’ve been here about a month and we’ve become friendly, so I feel like I can let my guard down around him.

  “What’s up, Jen? You need something?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “I understand I have to upload the spreadsheet and save it to the new directory, but I don’t have a copy of it.”

  “You do,” he explains patiently. “It’s in the archives.”

  “Oh. But where are the archives? I didn’t see them. How will I know which ones they are?”

  He sighs. “Because they’re labeled Archives.” He starts to
say something else when I spy a little figurine on his desk. It’s a man in a light suit with a weird little black bow tie, wavy white hair, black glasses, and a white goatee.

  “Oh, my God! You have a Colonel Sanders action figure! That’s so cool—where did you get it? eBay?”

  He shakes his head. “Ah, no. This is Sigmund Freud.”

  “No, it can’t be. He looks just like the colonel. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Are you super-sure?”

  “Yeah. Now, about the archives—”

  “Are you extra-crispy, eleven-herbs-and-spices sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why is he clutching a chicken leg in his kung fu grip?” Ha! Touché!

  “Jen, it’s a cigar.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. So, once you grab your document from the archives, you—”

  I explode with laughter. “Ha! I thought Freud was the colonel! That’s hysterical! No, better yet, it’s Freudian! Sometimes a cigar’s not a cigar; sometimes it’s a drumstick! Ha! So, would my KFC obsession be considered an oral fixation? Or maybe my unconscious is telling me I want poultry for lunch?”

  The conversation deteriorates from here because I sort of go off on a tangent about Kentucky Fried coleslaw. By the time I walk back to my cubicle, I’m pretty sure I hear Matt thunking his head against his desk.

  Perhaps I should probably cross “Makes a concerted effort to stop saying everything I think” off my skills assessment?

  I’ve been temping a few months now and the whole business is starting to wear on me. It’s not that I mind the work—I quite like being helpful, actually. I’m just so tired of staying in an office all day. Back when I had a “real” job, I was in sales and was perpetually on the road. Coming into the office was practically a treat; it meant I wasn’t carting my suitcases through O’Hare for the umpteenth time, nor was I being grilled in the boardroom by a client angry at items outside of my control.