We Have Normality

I got told by a temp agency earlier this week that I didn't have enough experience. That's right; I do not have enough experience to temp. This place wanted two years of corporate office work. I thought they were joking, and for a minute I appreciated the wry sense of humor involved in creating such an inexplicable rule. I really would love to see the clientele that frequents this agency. Burnished and brandied by several years of high quality work in a stable office, I can see how these over-experienced junior analysts can't wait to break free from the chains of health benefits and paid vacations and start earning an hourly wage, dammit.

Needless to say, I was pretty offended. Mostly because during the course of earning a Bachelor's degree at a fine Research University, I was never taught how to alphabetize manila folders or put a call through to Judy in Marketing. I'd go back and demand a refund, but due to my apparent lack of minimal business skills, I would probably get lost in the bursar's office and end up wandering aimlessly between the cubicles, knocking over plants and saying all the wrong things at the water cooler.

I've been pursuing what I would call my dream job, at least at this age, with questionable luck for the last few weeks. I decided it was time to take the sword to the Gordian and just show up in their office to speak with someone in Human Resources. Pretty safe strategy is what everyone told me. So I got myself all good looking and headed up to the office. When I got there I noticed that the normal receptionist was not there, and instead was a temp, who, before I rounded the corner, I had assumed must be working on his doctorate since he managed to land such a lucrative position for an entire afternoon. But like I said, I had not yet rounded the corner. When I did, my mind was blown.

This man did not belong in this office anymore than this composition belongs in the Library of Congress. He was clad in enormous basketball shoes, jeans that were at least a foot longer than his legs and ridden with holes - and not the semi-acceptable "fashion holes" that Abercrombie will ruin your pants with for an extra $50 ... these were of the "I performed the yearly maintenance on my riding lawnmower this morning before heading off to work" persuasion - and a size XXXXXXXL black T shirt with neon pink and yellow designs all over the front, whose sleeves met with the festival of very professional tattoos on his forearms. Around his neck was a gold chain thick enough to pull a trailer, and from that hung what I can only assume was a solid gold dinner plate.

I shit you not friends, this was a vortex of what-the-fuck unlike any the Universe has ever known. Here was a guy who looked like he had just finished filming a music video, and he was seated at a pristine wooden desk surrounded by glass doors and comfortable office chairs. A lady in a pant suit was sorting papers at the fax machine. On the wall behind his head hung an engraved plaque with the company logo on it. It was almost as if he had wandered in from outside, lost, and decided to sit down for a minute before asking for directions. It was like a dog on a toilet.

To my great surprise, this guy didn't know how to work the phones, and said he couldn't just go back and drag someone out to the front without an appointment, nor did he know how to schedule an appointment. Instead he suggested I go home and call Human Resources, or if I really wanted to I could come back later and axe someone.

Now, I really do want this job, but I thought his suggestion that I hack up one of the staff members and take their place was a bit extreme, so I decided to call it a day. I did learn an important lesson though. If you want to temp in New York City, you don't dress like you want to work for them, you dress like you will fucking kill them.