Forty-six F**king Faxes, and Other Annoying Things

Torture-rama got my number -- oh, God, did I have a hellish day today.

I had a few days to fill before a long-term temp job was to start, so I got booked for a one-day affair -- an affair of hell, that is. Supposedly the company needed a temp with "strong Microsoft Word skills." Yeah, that's me -- I'll take the job. Not a good move, as I was soon to discover....

The first task they gave me was to type a measly letter in Word, which took me all of ten minutes. Little did I know that would be it for the computer work. Next they had me stuffing an insert into a whole carton-load of brochures. Then they had me collating six large stacks of copies into individual packets, each one fastened with a paperclip.

Just after I finished assembling the many packets, I was told one of the pages was wrong, so I had to find that page, take it out, replace it with a different one, and refasten the packets with the paperclips. Grrrrr. Is this all I'm good for in life? No, I know I can do more - perhaps even use my brain.

When I finished swapping the pages and reassembling the packets, I was presented with another task. This woman said to me, "I need you to type thirty of these mailing labels," as she handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. Nowadays, "type" typically means "type on a computer," so I planned on using Word's label-making feature, where you type an address once and it prints a whole sheet of them.

But no such luck -- the thick, over-sized labels I was told to use wouldn't run through the printer. It was not a happy moment when I realized I was going to have to type each one manually, using an antiquated typewriter. To make matters even worse, they were addresses with seven lines, not standard three-liners.

This is pressing it, really pressing it. I'm a computer temp, not a clerical temp. Computer temp means I have skills to offer your fabulous company beyond stuffing and collating, if you can fathom that. Clerical temps -- well, they might not - that's why they're called "clerical." There is a difference, you know. If you needed a clerical temp, why didn't you ask for one? You'd be charged half the rate, and then I wouldn't be stuck here doing this drudgery, which isn't worth it for me at any price.

But before I had a chance to start the labels, a different woman came over to me and said, "We need you send some faxes, one to each person on this list." She handed me a list -- a long list. I counted how many I had to send: FORTY-SIX, each with a personalized cover sheet. Forty-six faxes. Or rather, forty-six f**king faxes. Can you repeat after me? Forty-six f**king faxes. That's a f**king lot of faxes to send, and it f**king sucked.

About halfway through, I started to get this splitting headache - the fax machine was making all these loud beeps that were boring holes into my head. By now I was thoroughly disgusted with this whole damned day, and I began to feel myself exceedingly close to plunging off the deep end. I remembered I had my earplugs with me, so I stopped faxing for a minute to put them in. (I carry earplugs for unexpected loud and/or annoying noise situations, and this definitely qualified as one of them.)

The woman who assigned this particularly odious task breezed past me during my toiling, and cheerfully inquired, "How are you doing there?"

I smiled through my gritted teeth as I replied, "Oh, fine." I'm just bloody wonderful, thanks ever so much for asking.

I'd been monopolizing the fax machine for nearly two hours straight when someone needed to use it. I gladly handed it over, and used the opportunity to take a break. After I sat down, I lost my will to get up and finish. My mind raced (and fantasized) to thoughts of jumping ship. I didn't care about the money I was making -- all I wanted was out.

I debated the consequences of cutting out versus finishing the day. Although it was tough, I came to the respectable decision that I could handle another few hours of this dreadful job. It was one o'clock at the time, and I calculated that if I took a full hour's lunch break, when I got back there would be a manageable three hours left until the close of my workday.

While on my break and staggering around the neighborhood, suddenly I heard screeching brakes, and turned to see a car almost collide head-on with a huge truck. As I glanced up at the traffic light, I thought, "I wonder who had the right of way?" The traffic lights were out in both directions, as were the WALK and DON'T WALK signs for pedestrians. No one knew who had the right of way -- it was a dangerous free-for-all.

A few minutes later, I heard more screeches -- the lights were still out. I was in a store at the time, and said to the shopkeeper, "You should call the police -- there are no traffic lights on for the street or the avenue -- it's an accident waiting to happen."

"Nah, I don't want to call. They ask too many questions. It interferes with business."

Annoyed, I blurted out, "Well, don't say where you're calling from!" Don't you want to help prevent an accident? Bastard!

I abruptly left the store, and walked to a pay phone to call the police. But I didn't know who to call -- should I call the police, or the traffic police (are there even "traffic police" in the first place?). I called the operator -- maybe she would know? She didn't know, and kept me waiting on the line while she searched for the correct party to call. Time was a-wasting -- cars were still screeching and honking. I decided to hang up and call 911.

Just as I was placing my call, I saw the traffic lights get reinstated. I hung up and crossed the street, and saw a technician fixing the wires. I said, "Oh, good, you're fixing it. I wanted to call someone, but I didn't know who to call."

"The number to call for any street problems is 212-STREETS."

Good to know. I won't be learning anything new at work today, but I have learned the phone number to use in case of emergency on the streets of NYC, so this day is not a complete waste of my existence after all.

Walking back to the salt mines after lunch, I noticed my headache had dissipated (without the use of aspirin). My spirit had improved as well. I finished sending all of the faxes, and I typed the thirty mailing labels. When five o'clock rolled around, I said my good-byes, and thankfully, was outta there. And you can bet I didn't look back.

Despite the hellishness I went through that day, in hindsight, maybe every now and then a bit of temp job torture is good for my soul. The grueling jobs will serve as reality checks, so when I get more pleasant ones in the future, I won't fail to appreciate them.

[Added note: Did you catch the reference to the "WALK" and "DON'T WALK" signs? Since the initial writing of this story, those signs have subsequently been phased out and replaced. The sign for "WALK" is now the outline of a person in motion in tiny white lights, and for "DON'T WALK," the outline of a hand motioning "Stop" in tiny red ones. The lights in the new signs are much more efficient than the older ones, hence the "upgrading." Although I liked the original signs better and wish they hadn't been changed, there's no stopping the wheels of progress.]