The following days flash by in a manic frenzy. There’s a pep in my step, and my coworkers notice. At work, I normally keep to myself and have an earbud in—listening to podcasts to pass the time.
I’m not unique, in this regard. Everyone at the office has their own way of distracting themselves from the day-to-day monotony. Some like to chit-chat by the water cooler. Others, who have been here longer, find creative ways to extend their 30-minute lunch break into several hours. Another guy, slightly below management, takes naps right at his desk; not even trying to hide it, his snores mocking the rest of us.
One of my cube neighbors spends his time watching SpewTube videos or talking with his wife on the phone. I have no idea how management isn’t aware of this—I guess they allow it. The guy is always shouting on his phone in some Bangladeshi dialect, but he’s been here for over 10-years and knows how to do his job, so management leaves him alone; one less grown baby to sit. Occasionally, they send out vague, threatening emails with their recommended productivity tips:
“Employees should save all personal calls for breaks… Work hours are not meant for using social media… Please refrain from browsing ‘Adult’ or ‘Inappropriate’ content with company property… Yes, we can see what you’re doing…”
but they wouldn’t dare fire him over it, and Tapash knows it. I respect that about him. He knows his worth, and he can always get another job if this one doesn’t work out. A call comes in, and with all the gravitas of a seasoned employee, he hangs up on his wife and gets to work.
Me, on the other hand, I’ve been here for about three months and I’m only slightly less terrible than when I started. You’d think I’d have fallen into a groove, by now, but I just don’t feel confident about what I’m supposed to be doing. I blame it on never receiving the “training” they told me about; 2-weeks of corporate videos and “on-the-job” training (aka “Go bother your coworkers”) doesn’t count.
I work at a call-center for a pretty large ISP. It’s my first real job—a temp job—out of college, so I can’t be too picky I guess. I don’t like it and I’m not good at it. The company gave me some BS about how they were going to teach me everything, bring me up to speed and set me up for success at the company, but that didn’t happen. Aside from a few cheat sheets and videos, there was no formal training. I guess their idea of “training” is to harass your fellow employees into doing your job for you. Most of my calls, I frequently have to take someone away from their job to help me do mine.
This place sucks, no wonder they can only get temps here. All the old-timers won’t leave because they’ve already found their groove. To them, it’s a mild annoyance for a regular paycheck, and they’ve learned a few tricks over the years to make their lives easier. I guess a shitty job you know is better than a crappy one you don’t. And in this economy, you’re lucky for the work you can get; those student loans won’t pay themselves. Like I said, they’ve proven themselves, and I’m just a temp. If anyone’s losing their job, it’s me. I’m totally disposable.
“Hello, Simpletons,” JFM cheerfully says into my ear. “Today’s episode is about changing our habits. If you feel the urge to buy something, try this: $30, 30-hours. If it’s over $30, give it 30-hours to see if you really want it.”
Hmmm… It’s so simple… $30…. 30-hours… How quaint…
*BBB-rrrring*
The phone on my desk snaps me out of my hypnotic state. I scramble to put on my headset.
Inhale…
Exhale…
“Go time,” I say to myself, as I get ready for the call…
***
In the car, on the way home, I fantasize about the weekend estate sale. I’m not really looking for anything specific. I don’t know what I want, but I’ll know it when I see it. It’s there now, waiting for me to find it and take it home. “$30, 30-hours,” I mutter to myself. “$30… 30-hours.”
My shift is terrible. It’s the late-morning one, 11 to 8, and everything is closing by the time I get home. I tried skipping my lunch break and eating a little throughout the day at my desk, but management said that wasn’t allowed. Sure, you get to sleep in and avoid the morning rush hour commuters everyday, but there’s nothing left to do—other than order take-out, get high, and play a few matches of online video games, which is what I do almost every night when I get home. Maybe now you can understand my excitement for material things, for some type of stimulation, reward, incentive to make it through each day. This job was supposed to give me confidence, a stepping stone on my way to bigger and better things. Instead, I’m depressed and terribly, bitterly, awfully alone…
I look at the time,
Shit… 11:30 … Better get ready for bed.
I shutdown my game, put away the leftovers, brush my teeth, and head to bed. Tomorrow morning, the cycle will repeat.
Just two more days ’til Saturday… Only two more days…
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The Ragged Journal 
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