I rode my bicycle to the temp agency because my car died a month before and the management company of the apartment complex I lived in had it towed away. They called it “unsightly.” While I didn’t disagree with them – rust and primer orange tend to stick out in the parking lot when potential new tenants are looking around – I couldn’t afford to get it fixed and I couldn’t afford to get it out of whatever impound yard they’d stuck it in. I hadn’t actually ridden a bicycle since I started driving, but I figured, what the hell. It’s a bicycle, right?
The weather was hot and humid, and the distance was further than I expected. By the time I got there, not only did I ache from the seat being jammed halfway up my ass and from using muscles I hadn’t used in more than a decade, but I was also a sweaty, miserable mess. I dismounted the bike and locked it to the nearest tree I could find; it was an ugly bike, but it was the only transportation I had. The outside of the building was a discrete looking white panel and brick face. (I knew better than to think it was real brick; nobody used real bricks anymore.) The door was clear glass, except for a small sign that read
PRO-STAFF CONCEPTS
EMPLOYMENT PLACEMENT AGENCY
HOURS: 8:00am-3:30pm
I looked at my watch. It was just after three. Shit. I should’ve started out earlier. Who the hell closes at 3:30 on a business day? Every other temp agency I’d ever been to stayed open until five. I was hoping that they wouldn't tell me I had to come back tomorrow; the way home was up hill and I didn’t have enough cash to even stop in at a bar and wait for the sun to go down. I tried to calm myself. I took a few deep breaths, smoothed my hair back, and walked in the door.
The interior was an innocuous gray and off white. The carpet was cheap industrial. There were some solid but uncomfortable looking chairs in the waiting area, along with small tables covered with magazines like Fortune, The Financial Times, and Small Business Weekly. The woman sitting behind the reception desk was a vacuous looking bottle blonde (her roots were starting to show) who was clearly more interested in filing her stoplight red fingernails than in talking to me.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh, yes. I’m here to try and get on with the agency.”
“Do you have clerical or office experience?”
“Yes.”
I could tell by the way she looked at me that she didn’t believe me. I did my level best to come up with professional looking attire – but I didn’t really have any. While I had suffered through office work in the past, most of my spotty work history was made up of monkey work – low paying light industrial and warehouse work. Sure I had a college degree ; but what the fuck did that count for in the end? Besides, I wasn’t looking for a career. That’s the problem. When they graduate from college, most people still suffer from the delusion, often inflicted on them by their parents, that they will get a job, get married, move up in the company, and eventually retire. AND THEN, they tell themselves, THEN I’LL BE ABLE TO ENJOY LIFE. And even those who know better – those who realize that nobody works for the same company forty years and then gets a gold watch – still buy into the dream of retirement. World travel. Nice cars. Plenty of time for golf and photography. Pure bullshit.
I was just looking for another job that I fully expected to quit eventually; which was why I tended to stick to low paying monkey work. It was the easiest to get and the easiest to quit. The only reason I was trying to get an office gig was that it was too hot to work where there wasn’t any air conditioning.
She handed me a clipboard. “Fill out this application,” she said in an unconvinced tone. I took the clipboard from her and sat in one of the waiting room chairs. The clipboard held a standard application form, which I filled out from memory. It wasn’t hard. The only problem I had was trying to keep from sweating all over the form. I wasn’t worried about them checking my work history. They never did. I made up names for personal references, then handed it back to her. She sighed and looked at the clock . Ten minutes to close. Then she picked up the phone and called someone. At first, I thought it was a girlfriend or her manicurist.
“Somebody’s here,” she said. She didn’t look at me. “Yeah. Sure.” She hung up the phone.
“An employment coordinator will be out in just a moment.”
“Thanks.” I was starting to cool off. I was about to ask if I should sit back down when another woman came out. She was a shortish, shapely brunette in a very tidy looking gray business suit. She extended her hand. I wiped my palm off on my pants before I shook it.
“Why don’t you come this way,” she said walking quickly towards the back. She didn’t look at me either. It didn’t bother me much because I wasn’t really paying any attention to her face.
“What kind of work are you looking for today?”
“Uh, office work,” I answered. “I have a lot of clerical and data entry experience.” I was only lying slightly. I had a little of both, and both were pretty horrible. But I stayed focused on the dream of central air. The brunette with the nice ass led me into a small room with several cubicles lining the walls. There was a computer in each one.
She stopped at one, leaned over the chair, and typed some kind of password. “You need to complete this series of tests,” she said, “to give us a good idea of your skills. That way we’ll know where we can place you.” I nodded and said ok, though mostly I was imagining her bent over the same chair, naked. She stood up and turned to face me. Not a bad face I thought. Nice lips.
“When you’re finished, go on out into the waiting room. Claire will take care of you from there.”
“When will I hear something?”
“We’ll call you.” She was smiling in a way that told me she had no intention of ever calling me.
“Ok. Thanks.”
She walked away without shaking my hand again. “Good luck,” she said.
I sat down. The instructions on the screen were pretty simple. HIT ENTER TO BEGIN TESTING.
The first test was a simple typing test. There was a laminated sheet next to the keyboard with about long paragraph about the qualities of a good employee. I recognized it immediately from at least two other temp agencies I’d been with. I remembered it because it began with part of a Mark Twain quote, and I always felt bad because the poor white haired bastard was always being taken out of context. I ran through the typing test pretty quickly; not because I’m a great typist, but because my fingers remembered doing it before.
The next test was a math test. Math was never my strong subject – if it wasn’t for online checking, I’d be screwed – but I muddled my way through what I thought probably basic math that any twelve year old of average intelligence could do half asleep. I didn’t bother to check any of my answers.
The next test was timed. It was a data entry test that corresponded to a laminated handbook that was also sitting next to the computer. I had to go through and enter some five hundred items in less than ten minutes. Data entry isn’t hard. It’s just boring as fuck. The trick is to not hit the tab key too many times and skip a cell. I’d taken these kinds of tests before, of course; but they’re never the same. I didn’t even come close to finishing, but I felt confident that I made hardly any errors.
When I finished the tests, a message flashed on the screen, thanking me for taking the test. I had no idea what my scores were. I stood up and looked around. The brunette was nowhere in sight. I wandered back out into the waiting room. It was empty except for Claire the vacuous bottle blonde receptionist. I could tell by her expression and body language that the brunette bombshell had left and made her stay until I was finished.
“All done,” I said, trying to sound friendly. For some reason, whenever I try to sound friendly, it disturbs people.
“Ok.” She started turning off her computer.
“When will I hear something?”
“We will call you,” she answered, not looking at me.
“Should I check back tomorrow?”
That got her to look up. Pretty quickly, too. “NO,” she answered. “WE will call YOU.” She went back to getting her things together.
I stood there for a few seconds, feeling like an intruder. I turned and walked back outside. The humidity hit me in the face and I immediately started to sweat. I looked over at the tree where I’d locked up my bicycle. It was gone. Someone had cut the chain. I thought briefly about going back inside and asking for a ride, or even some change so I could take the bus. Then I heard the door lock and the mini blinds fall. I checked my pockets again. No change. Not even a piece of lint.
I started walking home.
