Our thirty-person team only met as a group for one hour a week. A manager reviewed procedure and common mistakes using a PowerPoint presentation accessorized with generic clip art. It seemed like a playful attempt at ironic humor to liven up dry header text like “Things to Keep in Mind When Saving a Document.” It was an admirable attempt to make something as boring as how to title a spreadsheet fun, but the comic relief was mostly unappreciated.
“That’s so good,” Black Hoodie said as he banged his fist against the table and looked at a cartoon image of a cat with stars in its eyes.
“Seemed appropriate to go next to the part about never using capital letters in your titles,” the manager said. “I know I will feel like that cat if the next time I open the share, everything is correctly named.”
“Classic,” Black Hoodie said.
Outside of the one weekly meeting, we were each confined to our own cubicle on a floor that housed hundreds. The job was demanding, and everyone had seen enough temps get canned when they couldn’t keep up that there wasn’t much interest in socializing. Awkward smiles occurred in the coffee line, and occasionally there was a mention of last night’s game, but everyone’s main focus was doing their time as painlessly as possible, so they could return to their real lives.
On the last day of his contract, Black Hoodie emailed the team details about his personally planned good-bye party at a bar a few blocks from the office. Since he’d been courteous enough to not engage with me upon realizing my disinterest, I didn’t expect my attendance would be missed. I almost reconsidered because it was sad to think of him sitting at the bar alone with a pitcher of beer and three empty glasses across from him, but meeting up would have conflicted with my plans of spending the evening flipping channels and surfing the web.
Later that night I was scrolling through Facebook when I saw his latest status update.
Gonna miss all the rad folks I worked with. Hope we can work together again sometime!
The Full-of-Questions Temp
Buzz was a guy I worked with for three weeks on a cleanup contract at Amazon. A team of twenty temps was assembled to help with Amazon’s absorption of IMDb.com. The task was to make sure all actors, directors, and writers had proper headshots when featured on Amazon’s streaming video service. It was an easy job, and I almost felt guilty for getting twenty bucks an hour to essentially cut and paste.
I reviewed headshots and flagged any that didn’t follow the proper guidelines. If an actor was missing a picture, I took a screenshot from a movie or TV show and uploaded it to IMDb. I often got distracted when I came across an interesting page. I’d fall into a rabbit hole, not realizing I just wasted twenty minutes reading Steven Seagal’s “Did You Know” section. He owns a large collection of guitars and samurai swords.
“Hey, Steven,” Buzz whispered, leaning over my shoulder. “Can an image be of a person when they’re a child, but now they’re an adult?”
To his credit our training wasn’t much more than a quick rundown of guidelines by a temp who’d been hired two weeks prior to our arrival. Buzz’s question hadn’t been covered, but we had the same training, so I wasn’t sure why he believed I knew more than he did.
“I don’t know,” I said.
He harmlessly buzzed from person to person with the mild annoyance of a fruit fly hovering over a bowl of bananas, asking questions no one could answer. The rest of the team didn’t share his concern and made up their own rules whenever faced with something not covered in training. It was difficult to worry about mistakes knowing it was only a three-week assignment. We didn’t even have proper workstations and moved between meeting and conference rooms, sometimes exceeding capacity, forcing some temps to work on the floor.
When we moved to a new conference room, Buzz made sure both of the women on our team had a seat before looking for his own. The rest of the team wasn’t as courteous, often leaving Buzz to sit cross-legged against the wall.
While the rest of the team talked—complaining about the taste of the free coffee, sharing war stories of previous temp gigs, and making lunch plans—he stared at his computer with a confused crease across his forehead.
“Hey,” I heard him say in his soft voice.
I leaned into my computer to give off the impression I was involved in something important, when actually I was reading trivia about the TV show The Wire. I’d ended up on the show page after following a trail of links that began with James Van Der Beek’s headshot. President Obama claims it’s his favorite show, and Omar is his favorite character.
“Hey,” he said again.
“Huh,” the guy next to me said.
“What should I do for someone like Ben Affleck? Sometimes he has a beard, and sometimes he doesn’t. Should I take a picture with a beard?”
“Yeah, with a beard,” the guy said.
“No,” someone called out from the other side of the room. “It’s like a passport photo. No facial hair allowed.”
“That’s not a rule,” a different person said.
“He looks hot with a beard,” one of the girls said, and the other nodded in agreement.
“So, I should go with a beard?” Buzz questioned.
I looked up from my screen and accidentally made eye contact with him. “I don’t think it matters,” I said. “Go no beard. His best role was O’Bannion in Dazed and Confused, and he’s clean-shaven in that.”
“Okay.”
Unbeknown to us, there were contract extensions available for half the team. The managers who checked up on us every few hours were doing more than just making sure we hadn’t burned the place down. They were compiling a list of temps competent enough to continue the job.
It was the afternoon of the final day when a manager came by and asked the guy sitting beside me to gather his things and go with him. I never saw him again. Ten minutes later another person was called, and the cycle continued. Had I known there was a reward for the last men standing I wouldn’t have been so eager to get called. I assumed we were all cows headed for slaughter, and I wanted to take my spike through the brain as soon as possible to get it over with.
One by one the room emptied out, giving Buzz an opportunity to move from the floor to the table, where he continued working. The rest of us saw the future and abandoned work to browse the internet and send text messages.
“It was nice meeting you all,” Buzz said after his name was called.
“Later,” I said as the only one to respond.
When the manager returned, I hoped to hear my name. I was ready to accept my fate, like Schwarzenegger at the end of Predator—a role he lost twenty-five pounds for. I thought—Do it! Kill me! Come on! Kill me now!
But the manager didn’t call anyone’s name and sat down at the table with us. “We’re happy with your performance and would like you to stay for another three months.”
I later found out that there’d been an Animal House–style judging of the team. Our badge photos were projected on a screen in a conference room full of managers who assessed each temp’s value. I understood why Buzz didn’t make the cut. Personality goes a long way on a job that requires little skill, but I still found it odd he was let go. I bet, at the end of the three weeks, he had fewer mistakes in his work than anyone else on the team.
The Overlooked Temp
AC/DC was not your typical temp. He was fifty years old and had never spent time in an office. He worked construction his whole life, until a back injury made it impossible for him to spend a day on a job site banging nails and hauling bricks. He didn’t possess the required bachelor’s degree needed for the job, but had a cousin on the inside who pulled some strings.
He tucked his graying mullet under a ball cap and seemed to have an endless supply of faded band T-shirts. Unlike some of our coworkers, who bought faux-vintage Led Zeppelin shirts from Target, the wear on AC/DC’s shirts was genuine.
We met in training, and I knew we’d get along because any guy who considered an AC/DC T-shirt business casual wa
s cool. We sat next to each other and small-talked about classic rock during the downtime. He was out of his element and asked me a lot of questions, which I never found bothersome. He always seemed to already know the answer; he was just second-guessing himself.
Our previous jobs couldn’t have been more different, but I related to him more than the college grads closer to my age who sucked up to management and used meetings as a platform to brag about their analytics.
AC/DC caught on to the job quickly, reversing our roles of question asker and question answerer. Anytime I was unsure of something, he’d consult his notes and set me straight.
Even though he looked like the type of guy who shouted “Free Bird” at concerts, he had the best work ethic on the team. I never once saw him checking Facebook or his personal email. From the time he sat down in the morning until leaving at the end of the day, he worked, and it was top-notch work at that.
Unfortunately, his dedication was never rewarded. Unlike me, he wanted more responsibility and took advantage of opportunities to showcase his capabilities. He designed a few workarounds that improved productivity and shared them with the team, but when he volunteered for extra work he was passed over for younger, less-qualified guys who wore collared shirts.
“I can’t believe Bradley got that project and not me,” AC/DC said.
“Maybe Bradley gives better HJs than you,” I said.
“It pisses me off. My numbers are way higher than his.”
“That’s true, but it’s not like it comes with a pay raise. Why would you even want the extra work?”
“For my resume. I need experience. I hope to find another office job when this contract ends.”
“Right.”
“What’s the point of working my butt off if no one even cares?”
When new people joined the team, they quickly realized AC/DC was the best person to go to for questions. Not only did he always have an answer, but he didn’t make anyone feel like they were putting him out by asking for help—unlike Bradley, who managed to turn something as insignificant as misnaming a file into a crisis that warranted a team-wide email on the importance of file labeling.
Managers instructed new employees to direct all their questions to Bradley, but once they discovered how much of a hassle it was to talk to him, they chose to go to AC/DC instead.
Toward the end of AC/DC’s contract, it was announced there was an opening for a team supervisor, and everyone was eligible to apply. A select few would be asked to interview.
The following day, AC/DC showed up without his hat and wore an unbuttoned collared shirt over a gray T-shirt. He looked uncomfortable, like a freshman at his first homecoming dance.
“Are you going to apply for the supervisor position?” he asked me.
“I think so, just because I feel like I should, but I’m not sure I want it.”
“I hope to at least get an interview.”
“There’s no question you’ll be called in to interview,” I said. “You’re the Bon Scott of this team.”
“Dead?”
“Whoops, I mean Brian Johnson.”
“I’d rather be Malcolm. He rips on guitar, but isn’t too flashy about it.”
“Whoever you are, you’ve proven to be the best person for the job. I hope you get it so you can continue down this highway to hell.”
“Thanks.”
As the days led up to the announcement of who would be granted interviews, the gossip among the temps was that AC/DC was the best person for the job. It’s rare for such a unified belief when it comes to office politics, but AC/DC was unanimously liked. He was helpful, his work never needed to be reviewed, he only spoke in meetings when he had something worthwhile to contribute, and his age made everyone give him a little more respect than their peers.
I was relieved when I received notice that I would not be asked to interview for the position. I had no interest in the job, but when I told my dad about the opening, he said it was an opportunity I’d be silly not to take advantage of. Now I could tell him I tried, but they didn’t want me.
“Got denied from the interview,” I said to AC/DC. “They must not be interested in hiring an average employee who doesn’t care if the company succeeds or fails.” I expected AC/DC to laugh. He didn’t.
“I got denied too,” he said.
“Bullshit,” I said, expecting him to follow up with a gotcha.
“It’s true. They said I’m not eligible because I only have an associate’s degree.”
“So what? You’ve proven you know everything about the job and can train new employees.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have that piece of paper.”
AC/DC played out the rest of his contract with the same hard-working attitude he’d shown day one. On his final day we didn’t make false promises to meet up for a beer or even connect on social media.
“Good luck,” I said as he prepared to hand in his laptop and badge.
“Thanks.”
“It’s a long way to the top when you want to rock and roll.”
The No-Fucks-to-Give Temp
Hipster Doofus was one of those rare Canadians I met in the States whom I didn’t like. Usually, when I ran into a fellow Canadian on foreign soil, we immediately hit it off. No matter how different we were, the common ground of being expats was enough to build a relationship. Unfortunately, I couldn’t form that bond with Hipster Doofus. There was no aspect of his personality I found appealing. Canadians like him troubled me because every time he interacted with an American, he contradicted Canada’s reputation for being likable and polite.
He responded to training with a very unCanadian-like arrogance by scanning his phone as our manager gave us step-by-step instructions on how to fulfill our new job duties. He dressed in a straight-off-the-rack hipster costume of flannel, skinny jeans, and black-framed glasses that felt contrived, as if this was a new look he was trying on for the first time. And his feeble effort at a beard was such a sad attempt at cool that I would have felt sorry for him had he not been tarnishing Canada’s good name.
I was astonished that he’d openly watch Netflix on his assigned laptop and didn’t show the slightest bit of concern when a manager walked by, not even minimizing the screen. I passed his desk on my way to fill up my water bottle, and he was engulfed in an episode of Sons of Anarchy.
He answered calls at his desk and spoke loud enough so everyone could hear. “Yeah, I’m supposed to be working right now,” he said. “But I’m not. Everyone else is though.”
When it was revealed that he hadn’t been following directions and skipped important steps, it fell to the rest of the team to correct his errors. People who hadn’t formed an opinion on him now hated him, and I feared that meant also hating Canada.
“Did you get that?” someone asked him after a training session on a new program. “Or are we going to have to fix all your fuckups in two weeks?”
“I’ve got it covered,” Hipster Doofus said.
“Let’s hope, Canada boy.”
It would seem that after being called out for his errors, Hipster Doofus would have been more cautious with his work, but he wasn’t fazed. He showed no remorse that he’d caused his coworkers extra work. He didn’t even throw out an insincere “sorry.” A Canadian that doesn’t say “sorry” is like a leopard without spots. You don’t believe one exists unless you witness one with your own eyes. And even then, you wonder if a spotless leopard could still be called a leopard.
His mistakes got so bad that two people were assigned to check his work. And as though he lacked the gene that produced humility, he continued to openly watch Netflix, moving on to Dexter after completing Sons of Anarchy.
When our contracts ended we banked the same amount of hours and earned the same amount of money, yet I completed twice the work he’d done with far fewer errors. While I stressed over meeting metric goals, he caught up on shows I could never find the time to watch.
I can’t deny that I was jealous of the wa
y he lived those five months. I could never just let go of all my fucks like him. No matter how awful the job, I always maintained some sort of care, even if that care was just to make sure I looked busy. I snuck in the occasional YouTube video every now and then, but nothing longer than two minutes, and I’d always give enough of a fuck to at least hide my screen when a manager was near.
He had no fear, and I guess it could be said that was an aspect of his personality I did find appealing—at least in the way outlaw bikers or morally cautious serial killers are appealing. If Hipster Doofus’s give-no-fucks attitude hadn’t been scarring Canada’s reputation, I probably would have called him My Hero.
Black Eyes, Full Heart
I’ve never taken a good ID photo. My crooked smile always looks forced, and my nose crinkles as if I’d just caught a whiff of a forgotten gym bag. Knowing the first task of any new contract was to secure a photo ID, I’d wear my nicest shirt and make sure my hair was relatively combed. I’d hope to pull off something that looked distinguished, with a hint of playful charm—something like a Jonathan Franzen author photo—but always ended up looking like a high school yearbook reject. If the line wasn’t too long, the photographer would offer a reshoot, which I’d turn down so as not to appear vain, even though I knew I was committing to an avatar that would be attached to every email and IM I’d send for the duration of the contract.
The weekend before my first day in Amazon’s FBA Ops department, I tried impressing my girlfriend, Melissa, with a double flip off a high dive. We’d just spent the evening drinking pitchers in a karaoke bar until last call. I didn’t sing, but I loved watching her. She brought the house down with “What’s Up” by 4 Non Blondes. It suited her voice, and she committed to the “hey, hey, hey, hey” chorus, causing the bar to shake in applause. She glowed while walking through a crowd of people patting her on the back and saying things like “You killed it, girl!”
“Amazing as always,” I said as she sat down next to me. I put my arm around her, and she leaned her head into me.
“I’m glad you liked it.”
Now for the Disappointing Part Page 14