Worst Job Series!
So I'm trying out this new series about the worst jobs I've ever had. Because, like, JOBS. Amiright? Jobs are terrible. Who doesn't hate their job? (Beyonce. But let's not go there.)
(As it pertains to my current job, I probably shouldn't use the word hate. Hate is far too strong a word [for my colleagues to stumble over when they accidentally read this blog Googling 'hamsters eating tiny pizzas.'] How about I dislike THE IDEA of my job-- as in, how slaves disliked THE IDEA of slavery but... fuck it.)
Which brings us to: Worst Job #1:
Something Something Financial Consulting: Winter Park, Florida
Cut to my freshman year of college.
While most of my classmates are going for business or finance degrees and have been building portfolios and networking and interfacing and interning since, like, Fetal Times, I am what we'll just call a "free spirit" (i.e: melodramatic, tortured, indecisive, and thrilled as fuck to not be living in my parents' house.) As a consequence, I settled on a Creative Writing BFA with a rotating schedule of poetry workshops, fanfic writing, falling asleep in all my non-writing classes, heavy drinking, and doing nothing. Totally reasonable.
Then at some point, I think by my second or third semester, I started to get "The Anxiety," which, even if you're not a writer, I am sure you're all familiar with. It's the What Am I Even Doing With My Life No Really Holy Shit WHAT AM I DOING?! Death Spiral: My major is a terrible mistake. I've already made a string of terrible mistakes. I will never hack it as a writer. Writers don't even make any money. Holy shit in hell I don't have any money, oh my God blah blah angst depression infinity. I knew I needed a sustainable goal but... what the hell did I know about sustainable goals and anyway, wasn't all office work shitty? I mean really.
So I'm trying out this new series about the worst jobs I've ever had. Because, like, JOBS. Amiright? Jobs are terrible. Who doesn't hate their job? (Beyonce. But let's not go there.)
(As it pertains to my current job, I probably shouldn't use the word hate. Hate is far too strong a word [for my colleagues to stumble over when they accidentally read this blog Googling 'hamsters eating tiny pizzas.'] How about I dislike THE IDEA of my job-- as in, how slaves disliked THE IDEA of slavery but... fuck it.)
Which brings us to: Worst Job #1:
Something Something Financial Consulting: Winter Park, Florida
Cut to my freshman year of college.
While most of my classmates are going for business or finance degrees and have been building portfolios and networking and interfacing and interning since, like, Fetal Times, I am what we'll just call a "free spirit" (i.e: melodramatic, tortured, indecisive, and thrilled as fuck to not be living in my parents' house.) As a consequence, I settled on a Creative Writing BFA with a rotating schedule of poetry workshops, fanfic writing, falling asleep in all my non-writing classes, heavy drinking, and doing nothing. Totally reasonable.
Then at some point, I think by my second or third semester, I started to get "The Anxiety," which, even if you're not a writer, I am sure you're all familiar with. It's the What Am I Even Doing With My Life No Really Holy Shit WHAT AM I DOING?! Death Spiral: My major is a terrible mistake. I've already made a string of terrible mistakes. I will never hack it as a writer. Writers don't even make any money. Holy shit in hell I don't have any money, oh my God blah blah angst depression infinity. I knew I needed a sustainable goal but... what the hell did I know about sustainable goals and anyway, wasn't all office work shitty? I mean really.
Cut to The First Truly Bad Life Decision of My Adulthood.
I asked a friend of mine, whose boyfriend was interning for an "insurance consultant" (Douchebag for "overpaid middleman") if he could get me an internship. Granted, I had no idea what an insurance consultant did (important consultations?) but I knew I could put it on a resume and then speak grandly of it, which seemed like a good idea. And as far as internships went, this one paid actual money: $7.00 an hour, which even after social security and taxes was still more than zero dollars, so... a goldmine, basically. Bring it on, Business That Sounds Like A Fake Thing!
On my first day, a Saturday, I was greeted in the
lobby at 8:30am SHARP by an extra from the movie Office Space. I'm
pretty sure his name was Boring Suit. Boring Suit looked about ten
shades of suicidal. Even his suit recognized the futility of
having left the house at all. Maybe that should have been
my first clue that This Was Bad, Very Bad.
Boring Suit took me up to the fourth floor, which had a grand view of the parking lot and the industrial lot across the street, and settled me in at a computer.
"Do you know of computers?" he asked. (This was olden-times.)
"I have heard-tell of them, yes."
Boring suit frowned. Jokes were lost on Boring Suit. "You may need to troubleshoot," he said, "These hard-drives are pretty old." And then he fake whispered, conspiratorially: "Our IT department doesn't work on the weekends."
Oh the unspeakable horror! Human salaried people not wanting to work the only two days they're not legally obligated to work!
I should also pause here and re-emphasize that this was 2001, so "IT department" was "dude in an electrical closet with some wire and an abacus." But even he, I assume, felt entitled to two days off each week. Two whole days! The bastard.
Boring Suit pulled up a chair and booted us up. He flashed a smile that said Working Here Murdered My Soul and then he showed me how to get to the home screen, which was essentially a financial questionnaire with a bunch of tabs at the bottom and a "submit" button. No internet explorer. No internet at all, really. Again, this was 2001 so it was Colonial Times.
"This is the main form you'll be working with," he said. "Don't click around the other tabs."
"Why?" I asked. "What happens when I click the other tabs?" I smiled and turned up my best Adorable. "Is it like feeding Mogwais after midnight?" This time I even laughed at my own joke. "Get it? Gremlins?" Hahahaha. Ha. No?
Boring Suit sighed the sigh of the humorless and glanced sidelong at me, as if to say, 'look, I've been where you are, but this is a place without laughter or humor or reason and all the other tabs are filled with nothing and lead to nowhere, and frankly I don't even know why we bother with fifty tabs on the homepage if none of them have a purpose, and oh my God this life is a sham.' And then he just opened the window and leaped to his death.
"During the course of the day," said Boring Suit, "You'll be contacting funeral homes."
Boring Suit took me up to the fourth floor, which had a grand view of the parking lot and the industrial lot across the street, and settled me in at a computer.
"Do you know of computers?" he asked. (This was olden-times.)
"I have heard-tell of them, yes."
Boring suit frowned. Jokes were lost on Boring Suit. "You may need to troubleshoot," he said, "These hard-drives are pretty old." And then he fake whispered, conspiratorially: "Our IT department doesn't work on the weekends."
Oh the unspeakable horror! Human salaried people not wanting to work the only two days they're not legally obligated to work!
I should also pause here and re-emphasize that this was 2001, so "IT department" was "dude in an electrical closet with some wire and an abacus." But even he, I assume, felt entitled to two days off each week. Two whole days! The bastard.
Boring Suit pulled up a chair and booted us up. He flashed a smile that said Working Here Murdered My Soul and then he showed me how to get to the home screen, which was essentially a financial questionnaire with a bunch of tabs at the bottom and a "submit" button. No internet explorer. No internet at all, really. Again, this was 2001 so it was Colonial Times.
"This is the main form you'll be working with," he said. "Don't click around the other tabs."
"Why?" I asked. "What happens when I click the other tabs?" I smiled and turned up my best Adorable. "Is it like feeding Mogwais after midnight?" This time I even laughed at my own joke. "Get it? Gremlins?" Hahahaha. Ha. No?
Boring Suit sighed the sigh of the humorless and glanced sidelong at me, as if to say, 'look, I've been where you are, but this is a place without laughter or humor or reason and all the other tabs are filled with nothing and lead to nowhere, and frankly I don't even know why we bother with fifty tabs on the homepage if none of them have a purpose, and oh my God this life is a sham.' And then he just opened the window and leaped to his death.
"During the course of the day," said Boring Suit, "You'll be contacting funeral homes."
I feel like, when he said this, I actually heard the needle of a record player screech to a halt.
I said, "Funeral homes?"
Seriously, it was like I was Charlton Heston discovering Soylent Green is people.
"Yes, Funeral homes," Boring Suit repeated. "You'll have to call them after you process each loan. You'll submit them to the bank and wait for the bank to respond. Usually within five to ten minutes. Once the bank responds-- usually with a denial --your job is to call the funeral director and let him know whether or not the loan was approved."
Can I just pause here again point out the awfulness? And to remind everyone that I
have a panic-inducing irrational fear of death (or a TOTALLY RATIONAL fear
of death), and that I was poor as fuck and basically my job would now be to tell poor people they could not bury their poor dead relatives? Okay then. We're all caught up.
"So..." I didn't even know what to say besides perhaps I should have read this job description better? I cleared my throat. "Just so I, ah, get this.... I'm supposed to process loan paperwork for the bank who will then re-process it and send it back to me so I can call the people the bank doesn't want to call?"
"What?"
I immediately changed the subject."Most loans get denied?"
"Well, not all," said Boring Suit, "Some loans get approved."
"Oh?" I said, stupid eager. "How many?"
"Almost zero," said Boring Suit. "But Saturday's a very busy day so you never know-- the possibility exists. Never give up on it."
Oh God, I wanted to say. BUT LOOK AT YOU. YOU'VE ALREADY GIVEN UP ON ALL THE POSSIBILITIES.
"And what about the families?" I asked.
"What about them?"
("What about them? Kill them. Release the hounds!" - Montgomery Burns, The Simpsons)
"Are the families usually in the room?" I asked. "Are they present when I, when, you know--"
"Oh no, you won't be talking to the families. No, no, no. You won't have any direct contact with them. A relief, I'm sure." (AND A LIE. But we'll get to that in a moment...) "Delivering bad news is the funeral director's job. Our job is simply to be the expeditor of the news. We want to be as compassionate as possible with an expedient answer."
"So the 'no' is compassion."
Boring Suit sighed. "Look," he said. "We do not say no. We never say no. The bank hands down the 'no.' We just deliver the no and then we hang up. Immediately. We're just--"
He eyed me pointedly and gestured with an open palm.
My first guess would have been "assholes" but instead I offered, "Delivery men?"
He looked disappointed. "The middle men."
"Oh," I said. "Right."
Boring Suit then showed me the form and how to enter in the information, and then he gave me a script to read to funeral directors: "Because we find this type of work can get uncomfortable."
"So..." I didn't even know what to say besides perhaps I should have read this job description better? I cleared my throat. "Just so I, ah, get this.... I'm supposed to process loan paperwork for the bank who will then re-process it and send it back to me so I can call the people the bank doesn't want to call?"
"What?"
I immediately changed the subject."Most loans get denied?"
"Well, not all," said Boring Suit, "Some loans get approved."
"Oh?" I said, stupid eager. "How many?"
"Almost zero," said Boring Suit. "But Saturday's a very busy day so you never know-- the possibility exists. Never give up on it."
Oh God, I wanted to say. BUT LOOK AT YOU. YOU'VE ALREADY GIVEN UP ON ALL THE POSSIBILITIES.
"And what about the families?" I asked.
"What about them?"
("What about them? Kill them. Release the hounds!" - Montgomery Burns, The Simpsons)
"Are the families usually in the room?" I asked. "Are they present when I, when, you know--"
"Oh no, you won't be talking to the families. No, no, no. You won't have any direct contact with them. A relief, I'm sure." (AND A LIE. But we'll get to that in a moment...) "Delivering bad news is the funeral director's job. Our job is simply to be the expeditor of the news. We want to be as compassionate as possible with an expedient answer."
"So the 'no' is compassion."
Boring Suit sighed. "Look," he said. "We do not say no. We never say no. The bank hands down the 'no.' We just deliver the no and then we hang up. Immediately. We're just--"
He eyed me pointedly and gestured with an open palm.
My first guess would have been "assholes" but instead I offered, "Delivery men?"
He looked disappointed. "The middle men."
"Oh," I said. "Right."
Boring Suit then showed me the form and how to enter in the information, and then he gave me a script to read to funeral directors: "Because we find this type of work can get uncomfortable."
OH REALLY?
Then he left -- presumably to commit suicide-- and I fell asleep.
(Literally, I put my head on the desk and fell asleep for at least an hour, maybe longer, because by the time I woke up it was nine thirty on a fucking Saturday morning and I was buried in an office tomb underneath a mudslide of loan applications and did I mention it was a fucking Saturday? Yes? Good.)
Then he left -- presumably to commit suicide-- and I fell asleep.
(Literally, I put my head on the desk and fell asleep for at least an hour, maybe longer, because by the time I woke up it was nine thirty on a fucking Saturday morning and I was buried in an office tomb underneath a mudslide of loan applications and did I mention it was a fucking Saturday? Yes? Good.)
The first loan I processed, to be fair, DID get approved
by the bank (Yes! Score! Funerals for everyone!) and for a moment, for like a split second, I had
this glorious clarity. Like I seriously actually thought
that maybe this job would somehow make me a better person or change the
course of my life or save me from myself or whatever.
And then came the second application - a single mother making less than 30K.
And then came the second application - a single mother making less than 30K.
When I called, I could hear a woman on the other line weeping.
"What is it???" She was hysterical. "What did they say???"
I was super-quiet as the funeral director covered the receiver, badly, and explained what I said to the woman, who then asked, "Are you sure there's nothing they can do?"
I should have hung up. Seriously. On this and every call. And then I should have walked right out of the building. But I didn't. I just... didn't.
And then the woman was on the phone, pleading with me, "Why can't you do anything? Why?"
On the one hand I could have said, Look, I'm just the messenger here, I just needed this job because I'm nineteen and have no idea where my life is going and it pays money and you know how that is, right? But I think this system is fucked, and LETS STORM THE BANK!"
Instead I did what fucking Aetna does whenever you call them, and I reached for my script and recited: "I'm sorry, ma'am. These decisions are unfortunately not ours to make. We'd love to have better news for you but we're merely a third party consulting service for the bank--"
"MY SISTER IS DEAD!" yelled the woman.
I hung up.
Next caller:
"We are of course sorry for this terrible loss but unfortunately must decline the application---"
"I HOPE YOU DIE!"
Third caller:
"We are of course sorry for this terrible loss but unfortunately must decline the application. We're merely a third party---"
"Fuck your party."
"Ma'am, I'm sorry--"
"Fuck your sorry."
Fourth caller:
"We are of course sorry for this terrible loss but unfortunately must decline the application---"
"KILL YOURSELF."
And on and on.
By twelve PM I seriously considered wrapping the computer cord around my neck and hanging myself from the shitty florescent lights and still, STILL I did not quit. All I could think was, "Oh, my God, Hell is a real place and it is called adulthood."
Fifth caller:
"We are of course sorry for this terrible loss but unfortunately must decline the application---"
"HOW ABOUT I KILL YOU."
I should have quit this internship.
I did not. Why did I not? I let this shit ride for approximately two weeks, convinced I needed to make this work, desperate in fact to make it work; the thought of losing my first internship, of losing the very first real office job I ever got, regardless of how shitty, seemed unbearable, just too utterly embarrassing to bear. Until, after falling asleep at work uhhhh one too many times, I experienced another first: my first firing. (Or, if I ever write a book about this: Passive-Aggressive Quitting For Cowards.)
Two days later I got a non-horrible job at
Disney World, and I learned something cool: it is, in fact, okay to walk away for something that's not right for you. Because why on Earth would a writer need an internship anyway,
right? Someone will surely pay me to write, I'm sure, and in the meantime I'll just put on this enormous mouse costume and do a little dance. (Commence Oh my God WHAT AM I DOING Death Spiral.)
In any case, at least I wasn't processing funeral loans anymore (which is still what I think of when I complain to myself about my current shitty job: "Hey girl. It could be worse. Remember when you had to call funeral homes and tell people they couldn't bury their dead parents? Remember that shit?") and I guess that's the face of progress. Right? Knowing yourself and being okay with your limits. Knowing that it's okay to walk away from the bullshit that's terrible and not for you because at the end of the day, there's something better. Knowing that getting fired from the Funeral Loan Job, or any job, won't break you. In fact, it'll probably make you better and stronger because now you know. Ya know?
In any case, at least I wasn't processing funeral loans anymore (which is still what I think of when I complain to myself about my current shitty job: "Hey girl. It could be worse. Remember when you had to call funeral homes and tell people they couldn't bury their dead parents? Remember that shit?") and I guess that's the face of progress. Right? Knowing yourself and being okay with your limits. Knowing that it's okay to walk away from the bullshit that's terrible and not for you because at the end of the day, there's something better. Knowing that getting fired from the Funeral Loan Job, or any job, won't break you. In fact, it'll probably make you better and stronger because now you know. Ya know?
So onward and upward, young writer! (Or whatever the opposite of that means.) Who needs a business degree anyway? Or food? Or Shelter? Creative Writing degrees are solid degrees, you guys. Just not for the purposes of making money.
And that's okay!
*headdesk*
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