I majored in English, which is pretty dumb when you think about it. It seems a little sketchy to get a degree in your native tongue, but I like to read books and I’m pretty good at writing papers, so it seemed like a better fit for me than say, electrical engineering, or business administration- one of those degree plans that require higher-level math and result in reliable, high-paying jobs.
I had a grand time sitting in coffee shops pouring over novels and calling it homework, but reading the likes of Bronte, Steinbeck, and Shakespeare, didn’t qualify me for any job that I could think of. I was a little worried about how I was going to finance this new venture called independence and adulthood with a degree that indicated I could do little more than read and write, something most people take for granted of anyone over the age of six.
I soon found myself newly graduated and married to a student, and it appeared I had little choice but to seek employment or go on welfare. Food stamps have such a bad stigma these days so I decided to get a job.
This turned out to be a little tricky because we lived in a college-town, which meant I found myself in a flood of competition. Every job posting attracted dozens of over-qualified, college-educated applicants as we fought bitter battles for barista jobs at Starbucks, or mid-level managerial positions at Target. Dozens of applications later, my newly minted optimism dwindled to dark desperation and before I knew it, I had applied for a receptionist position for a construction company.
I tried to tell myself that this was only a temporary working arrangement, a transitional method of paying my rent and electrical bill until I could find something better, preferably something that involved a business card and an office. Something important.
Clutching my leather portfolio I felt utterly ridiculous in my business suit as I sat in the cramped office. Most of the project managers who worked there were wearing jeans and crumpled polo shirts.
My interview was conducted by a hard-faced woman in a severely starched shirt I’ll call Kathy. She marched everywhere she went and she liked to point at you when she talked, using her finger like a weapon. She scared the hell out of me.
Eyeing my resume critically, Kathy began her barrage, “You’ve already graduated? Why do you want this job?”
Ok lady, I don’t want this job. I coughed to buy enough time to formulate a bogus answer and then said something about the position being an excellent learning opportunity. As if it was a well-known fact that most English majors are looking to break into the construction business.
“It only pays ten bucks an hour,” Kathy continued, “You’re ok with that?”
Ok, she was going to rub it in, but I wasn’t in a position to be haughty. If I didn’t get some sort of job soon I was going to be selling slurpees and cigarettes at the local Quicky Mart.
I was in the middle of saying something about opportunity, or experience, when Kathy decided to get to the point, “Look, I’m just going to tell you. I’m a bitch, ask anyone here.”
I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to this statement. Should I nod my head in agreement? Why yes, I thought so, too. Or perhaps this was a test, maybe I should vehemently deny her claim; defend her. Oh no, not you! You seem so wonderful…
I didn’t know what to do, so I simply sat there. All doe eyed, looking pitiful and stupid. I’m not sure how Kathy interpreted my silence, but I guess I made the right move because I got the job. I tried to be happy, but it’s a little difficult to get overly excited about becoming the minion to a power-hungry super bitch.
I started the following Monday. Kathy walked me through the paces and showed me how to use the coffee maker, the copy machine, and the filing cabinet. I tried to explain that I knew how to do this stuff, but she seemed to take great joy in teaching me anyway.
“And we put all of the files that start with ‘T’ in the drawer that is marked ‘S-W’,” she explained, loudly and slowly, as if I was a child who hadn’t quite mastered the alphabet.
“Are you writing this down?”
“Writing what down?”
“All of this stuff I’m showing you, I don’t have time to go over this with you every day. Write yourself some notes so you’re not asking me the same shit over and over again.”
She supplied a small notebook that she insisted I carry around and I wrote down things like “put stamps on envelopes,” and “if the copy machine is out of paper, add more to the tray.” It all seemed a little ridiculous, but I was terrified of that woman so I dutifully complied.
I was also given an extensive history of the company and it’s owner. Kathy told me with great pride that the construction firm was actually just one of many companies owned by a man I’ll call Mr. Farnon.
“He’s a billionaire, that’s with a ‘b’.” Kathy, clearly in awe, would remind me every other day. As if we were held to a higher standard than if Mr. Farnon had been just a cheapy old millionaire with a ‘m’.
Kathy had apparently met the man a few times and considered herself to be of his inner-circle although she made it clear that he wouldn’t have time for me. “You’ll probably never meet him,” she often told me, but I was to be prepared for his phone calls. It was rumored he liked to personally check in on the underlings of his empire from time to time.
Answering the phone was my number one responsibility. Kathy made it clear that all calls should be picked up preferably after the first ring and under no circumstances should it ever ring more than twice. I rarely left my desk and I made sure to wear flats just in case I did something stupid like go to the bathroom during working hours and had to sprint back to catch the phone.
Despite my best efforts, a few calls did slip through to the dreaded third ring. Kathy would come roaring to the front desk bellowing that the “damn phone better not ring more than twice, that could have been him!”
Most of the time, life at the office was not particularly interesting. I spent an enormous amount of time honing my skills on stupid computer games and checking Facebook every 20 minutes to see what exciting things other people were doing. At least once a month, I would pop off every single key off of my keyboard and meticulously clean each square with a Q-Tip.
Sometimes my boredom was too great for me to contain and I would have to find new ways to pass the time. This usually involved the unwitting participation of my fellow co-workers.
“Hey Doug, the UPS guy came by with a package for you but he said you would have to present two forms of identification.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know,” I started typing some gibberish on my computer, trying to look official, “it has something to do with 9/11 or the Patriot Act or something like that. Do you have anything besides your driver’s license?”
Doug started rummaging through his wallet, “I have an old student ID, do you think that’ll work?”
I frowned and tried to look doubtful, “I’m not sure. Why don’t you go ahead and bring it to me, and I’ll see what I can do when the delivery guy comes back.”
“Yeah, ok, thanks.”
“No problem, Doug. No problem.”
My desk was stationed like a few steps away from the office’s only entrance and I was the lighthouse, calmly observing the comings and goings of the office employees. Precious few things slipped passed Kathy’s squinty eyes, but she would also regularly pump me for information; who came to work late, who took a long lunch, who was sneaking out of the office a few minutes early, etc. Trying to stay in my manager’s good graces, I had no qualms about selling out my fellow co-workers. Except for Tom.
Most of the other project managers had figured out I spent most of my day drinking all of the coffee and playing Tetris on my computer. Soon they started assigning me their own little pet projects. But Tom left me alone most of the time, and so I made it a point to try to defend him from Kathy.
He smoked at least a pack a day, but apparently this was a big secret from his wife, who I decided must be really stupid if she hadn’t caught on to this by now. I’m not sure what Kathy despised more, the lie or the habit, but she made it her personal business to harass him about it at every opportunity.
“Does your wife know about that?” she would ask, arms crossed, the stern voice reflecting the condescension of a pompous priest.
I felt like Tom should just tell his wife and get it over with, or better yet, just quit smoking all together. Huffing and puffing that vile smoke didn’t seem worth the guilt trip Kathy put him through. I sympathized with poor Tom and I tried to distract Kathy any time I saw him trying to sneak out the door so he could smoke in peace, but she would always find him. It was almost as if she could feel that unfortunate man’s nicotine cravings.
Tom finally resorted to smoking every day in his leased BMW. I knew it was leased because that was another thing Kathy always yelled at him about, “you really should never lease a car, Tom. It’s a horrible investment.”
Every day I was dispatched to Mr. Farnon’s main office in a building a few blocks away to deliver mail or some other miscellaneous errand you pay someone ten dollars an hour to do. I did actually meet the great man a few times when I was over there (although I never told Kathy because she never would have believed me), but most of the time I dealt with a girl about my own age who held the title of assistant/flight attendant and accompanied Mr. Farnon on all of his business trips on his private jet. Kathy once told me that if I did a really good job, there was a chance Mr. Farnon might choose me for this position someday. Whoa! Dream big.
While being a stewardess was not exactly my life ambition, I concluded that the job probably did have its perks.
I was able to confirm my suspicions when one memorable day, I was sent to the main office to fill in for the assistant/flight attendant who was sick. In a rare combination of extreme boredom and a complete lack of respect for my missing co-worker, I proceeded to read each and every email on her computer. Most of which were not very interesting but she had sent several long epistles to her mother narrating all the fabulous places she had visited and how nice it was to travel on a private jet. I concluded that even though she had to distribute peanuts and was probably relegated to the jump seat, her job was probably cooler than mine. But then again, that didn’t take much.
