Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (24 page)

“That’s about it on the phone. Now Jerry might need you to make copies. If so, the machine is right there.” She points to a copier located directly outside Jerry’s door.

“It’s a standard Xerox, right? Copies go here, the prints come out here, lift the glass to create an enlargement, refill paper here, press this button if you want to collate and this one for staples?” I point to each feature as I describe it.

“This is the copy machine. If you want to make a copy…”

Warily, I open my portfolio while Pat drones on, repeating each of the copier’s aspects I’d just described.
Tell Jerry when Xeroxing his butt, cheek definition will be most crisp if he wipes the glass with Windex first.

Pat details a litany of other absurdly easy tasks I may be called upon to perform, and I’m a bit incredulous that I’m going to earn $12/hour for doing what amounts to a trained monkey’s job. Having successfully unloaded her dearth of knowledge, Pat says we’re finished and she starts to head back to her desk.
¹³²

“Wait. Is that it? There’s nothing else? What should I be doing when I’m not answering the phone or making copies?”

“I dunno. I guess try to look busy. Oh, one more thing. The bathroom is down the hall. To get there, you take a right, then a left, and then a right.”

“Yeah, thanks. I saw it when I came in.”

“Better write that down. Most of our temps get lost trying to find it.”

Does she think I’m completely stupid? I may have arrived here in a yellow vehicle today, but it was a cab, not the short bus. Is she afraid if I can’t find the bathroom, I’ll whiz in the coat closet? I want to slap the nicotine out of her while shouting, “I used to be a vice president!” but I don’t. Instead, I write:
If nature calls, tell them Jerry went for a massage, and here’s my number.

I sit at my desk employing perfect posture so that I’ll make the best possible impression when Jerry gets to the office. Head up, shoulders squared, stomach sucked in, I look poised and professional. I wait.

And wait. And wait.

Oh, my God, is this ever boring and uncomfortable.

The clock on my PC is crawling along, and I’m desperate for something to do. I can’t bear to hold the pose anymore, so I ask a couple of the other assistants if they need help with anything. Unfortunately, they seem to be managing their personal phone calls and nail filing just fine, thanks. Excuse me, ladies? This is why you
are
and will always
be
secretaries.

I need a project, and if no one will give me one, I’ll just have to create something to do. Yes! Capital idea! That way, when Jerry comes in, he’ll see what an industrious self-starter I am and will find room for me on his team. But what can I do?

I peer around the room. The coffeemaker is full, the copier area is tidy, and the community work space is neat. The only section in need of attention is Kathy’s desk, and it’s a filthy mess.

I begin Operation Clean Sweep by sanitizing. Her keyboard is full of crud, and I don’t want to use it, lest I catch her cooties. She must have eaten sandwiches over this thing every day for the past ten years. I blow it with a can of compressed air and crusty tumbleweeds explode out of it. I try to suppress my gag reflex.

I scrub the desk’s surface, drawers, and cabinets with the unopened bottle of Fantastik I found buried under a pile of month-old newspapers in the corner of her work space. The paper towels turn black with my very first pass. I bet she’s out sick because she caught Ebola from her desk.

I neaten the heaps of magazines strewn all over and pluck all the dead leaves from her spider plant before moving on to sort her top drawer. I divide and stack each of the seventy-two packets of salt and soy sauce.
¹³³
I realphabetize her files and line her pile of Payless’ finest in neat little rows under the far side of her desk. I step back to admire my work and commend myself on my organizational prowess.
¹³⁴

Finished, I go to the bathroom to wash my hands and blot the sweat from my brow. Pat stops me on my way back, and I assure her that, no, I don’t need help finding my desk again, silently adding, “Considering I USED TO BE A VICE PRESIDENT.” However, I so transformed Kathy’s work space that I actually do walk past it once. Satisfied at a job well-done, I glance at my watch to see how much time I’ve killed. Surely a few hours have passed by now.

Nine twenty-seven a.m.

It’s going to be a long week.

“Have the temp file those.”

“Ask the temp to make your copies.”

“The temp will messenger them over.”

“See if the temp will make us a lunch reservation.”

“The temp isn’t busy—let her do it.”

My name is Jen, goddammit, not
the temp
. Jen. J-E-N. It’s three freaking letters long and phonetically correct—how hard can it be to remember? And why do they need to speak to me so slowly and deliberately, like I’m a ’tard or a terrorist? Would a terrorist strap dynamite to her cashmere twinset? I think not. I am fighting the urge to go all Shannen Doherty on these people.

I finally talk to Jerry my third day on the job. He walks out of his office and over to my desk.

“Hi. You’re the temp, right?” He hands me a sheet of paper.

Yay! This is my chance to make a good impression. I’d heard Jerry was looking for another salesperson, and I know I’d be phenomenal. For the past two days, I’ve been studying old contracts and piecing together the way they conduct their sales process. I’ve reviewed a bunch of their PowerPoint presentations, and I’ve already begun to tweak the pitch to best suit my personality. I’ve heard him on the phone interviewing other candidates, and I’ve formulated well thought-out answers. Given half a chance, I would rock this job. “Yes, Jerry, my name is Jen Lancaster and I’m—”

“That’s great. I need a copy of this please.”

Ouch.

I walk over to Xerox machine, make a copy, and beat Jerry back to his desk. I realize that I’m here to support him, but wouldn’t it have been more efficient if he’d done this himself? He walked right past the damn copier when he left his office. I hand him the papers before he sits down, trying to catch his attention so I can engage him in a conversation about my skills and experience. I’ve got to be subtle, though, because the temp agency has strict rules about temps trying to land full-time positions at their assigned company.
¹³⁵

“Here you go,” I say, smiling my largest cheese-eating grin.

“Uh-huh.” He picks up the phone and turns away from me.

Hmph. If I’m going to get this job, I’ll have to prove I’m not invisible.

“Hi, um…err…um…” Jerry stammers. He stands in front of me holding a box of mini candy canes and a giant stack of folded papers.

“It’s Jen,” I tell him helpfully.
Yes, you know, Jen? The well-dressed, impeccably groomed girl you’ve walked by for the past five days??
But I smile brightly, confident he’ll ask me for a résumé as soon as he realizes how competent I am. “What can I do for you?”

“Kathy started this project before she left, and I need you to finish it. We’re sending Christmas gifts to our advertisers. Tape one candy cane to each card and place each set in an individual FedEx box.”

“But don’t seal the boxes, right?” I ask. Aha! My opening! Obviously I am clever, because I
know
these boxes shouldn’t be sealed. Otherwise, I’d have to reopen them to include their gifts. If he were only sending cards, I’d use envelopes because it costs less. Look at the way I think strategically! Hire me this instant!

“Why wouldn’t you seal them?” Jerry gives me a puzzled look.

“So we can include gifts later, of course.”

He shakes his head. “There is no other gift. The candy cane and the card
is
their gift.”

“Wait. I don’t understand. Why would anyone spend $20 per box to ship a penny’s worth of candy canes? That doesn’t make any sense. Surely this isn’t the only thing you’re sending your clients by way of holiday greeting. This is some kind of test, right? There’s got to be more, because…because…”

Jerry’s face turns bright red. And, although I used to be a vice president, I realize I’m not going to be selling magazine advertising anytime soon.

Ring…ring…ring…

“So, Chuck, you’re saying when you have another open temp position that matches my skill set, you’ll call me and I don’t have to keep calling you? All right…OK…Um, when do you think that will be? Hmm…Well, it’s bound to snow in hell at some point, right? Talk to you then.”

Ring…ring…ring…

“Yes, I
know
my student loan payment is late…. No, I don’t intend to be one of those deadbeats who gets an education and then dances off scot-free. Are you even allowed to say stuff like that to me? You have no idea what kind of rent burden I’m under…. Oh, I see…. Yes…And what will happen to my credit rating? Yikes…OK, when? I guess I can auction off a couple of my purses and make a payment when they sell…Yes,
thank you
, getting a job is an excellent suggestion—I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it myself.
Good-bye
!”

Ring…ring…ring…

“That’s fantastic news! I’m so glad to hear it! When do you want me to start? Great…Outstanding…I’m really looking forward to getting back to work. Oh, I almost forgot. We never even talked about base salary…. Really…OK…You know, at some point during our three interviews, you might have
mentioned there was an initial investment.
…Um, no…Mr. Jackson, if I did have $5000 right now, I would shove it directly up your pyramid-scheming ass.”

I’m SO bored. It’s the Christmas season, and I spent all my temp money on presents, so I can’t do anything. I haven’t gone to any holiday parties because we’re on a tight rent-paying budget.
¹³⁶

For a while I played the Sims, the purpose of which is to build interesting lives for these simulated characters by having them interact nicely with other Sims. The better the interaction, the happier they are. All I want to do, though, is decorate their houses, and I laugh when they get into fights. I wonder if this says something about me.

Lately I’ve been haunting a Web site called OddTodd.com. Todd Rosenberg, a laid-off guy in New York, created a Flash cartoon about a day in the life of the unemployed. His blue bathrobe–clad character slogs through his day worrying about his bank balance (nonexistent), his 401(k) plan (a jar of pennies), and not having the means to go to a strip club. Substitute
strip club
for
Nordstrom’s shoe department
and
this is my life!
Every time I get discouraged or worried about money, I log on to watch the cartoon again. (I must have seen it a hundred times so far.)

Todd’s site includes his writing, and it sounds like having an outlet has really helped him with his job search frustration. Maybe I should do something similar?

Really, why not start a Web site? I mean, what else do I have to do? It’s not like I’ve got anywhere to go. (If I didn’t have to take the dogs out, I bet I could go DAYS without wearing shoes.) Now that I’m not in the position to refer business to them anymore, I never hear from any of my
friends
at the PR agencies. I still talk to old pals like Melissa and Shayla, but I’m tired of them offering to buy my lunch. I HATE being pitied, and if that means I interact less, so be it.

Maybe if I started a Web site, something good could come of it. That girl from SaveKaryn.com suckered hundreds of people into giving her money to pay for her $20,000 credit card debt,
and
she got a book deal out of her story. OddTodd has a virtual tip jar, and people voluntarily give him money all the time. Of course, he actually produces cool cartoons, whereas I have no discernable skill, but still…if I had something to do with my time, I might stop obsessing about money so much. And maybe if I kept my hands busy, I wouldn’t be able to snack so much.

Anyway, I’ll consider it.

I just invented the Twinkwich—a sandwich made by wrapping a Hostess Twinkie around a Ding Dong hot dog–style. This insane, long-stretches-of-boredom-laced-with-short-bursts-of panic-attacks-induced eating has to stop.

Step One: Create Web site.

Step Two: (deep breath) Move.

My Web site is up! I now I have my own corner of cyberspace. I put a picture of myself on the front page with the word UNEMPLOYED across my eyes, and I don’t mention my last name, so it’s kind of cryptic. Then I listed every company that’s rejected me so far under the heading
Companies That Suck.
Each time I look at my home page, I laugh myself into an asthma attack. I’m going to send the link out to some of my friends and see what they think.

I already feel less stressed, so this was definitely a good idea.

“Honey, it’s almost noon. We’ve got to be at the broker’s office in an hour.” I gently shake Fletch to wake him. He’s been extra tired lately, so I let him sleep when it’s my morning to take out the dogs.

Fletch hasn’t had one nibble on his résumé in the past month, and it’s starting to get to him. Back in October, he was superconfident about his chances, but lately his enthusiasm has waned. The eruption of WorldCom has devastated the telecom industry, and there’s a ton of people fighting for a handful of jobs. I try to build him up as much as I can, but some days he’s just overwhelmed by sadness.

I think deciding not to renew our lease has hit him harder than it has me. I mean, I’ve loved living here and showing the place off, but he was the one who picked out the neighborhood and found this apartment and his salary allowed us to afford it. Deciding to move has to feel like admitting defeat.

“Tired. Very tired,” he mumbles into his pillow.

“I know you’re tired, but we’ve got an appointment. You have to get in the shower. Let’s move it.” I yank the comforter off him.

He wraps the sheet over his head. “Nooo. Too sleepy. Want to snooze.”