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# 7: A Cog in the Wheel of Stress
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By Maura Madden
I'm not sure if you were aware of this, but the economy is not doing so well, my friends. I moved back to New York in September and - surprise! - I still can't find a job. So I'm temping again. Yup, you can be jealous.
A few weeks ago I went on a standby assignment at a major magazine publishing company. This was a one day assignment, but I was pretty excited to have been chosen out of the pool of suckers waiting around at eight in the morning to see if we could get a day's work. Since I had joined this temp agency, I had been hoping that I would be sent on an assignment to this company. I thought it would be a really cool place to work. But I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.
Upon entering the building, I was intimidated. The lobby was chock-full of fashionistas - supermodels, photographers, beauty editors and the like. It was clear that I was not wearing the uniform shoes. Every single woman was wearing stiletto boots. I do not own stiletto boots. I cannot walk in stiletto boots. I don't even wear regular high heels. Okay, I own one pair, but I've only worn them three times. Putting me in high heels is like putting five bullets in a gun and asking me to play Russian roulette. The odds are really bad for me - I'm probably going to die. So I'm not about to wear heels. I will not be forced into the Barbie Dream World of permanently arched feet. But because of my clearly-not-hip-enough shoes, I couldn't help but feel like I had just won the Worst Dresser on the Planet Award. I might as well have been wearing a housecoat and orthopedics.
So my dweeby shoes and I went to our assigned floor to find our contact person. We entered a huge reception area that was outrageously elegant. The reception desk sat in the center of the room about 10 feet away from the coffee-table-and-chair waiting area. The furniture was modern - the kind of furniture you can't sit on without looking like a jerk. If you sit all the way back you look far too relaxed, but if you sit on the edge you look far too eager. I chose the latter, feeling that it was my duty as a good little temp to appear ready, willing and able. It didn't really help.
My contact person came to meet me and brought me to the desk where I would be sitting. It was directly across from the office of the woman I would be assisting. "That's Monique's office. That's who you're reporting to," she said. "I don't think you'll have that much to do today. You're basically here to answer the phones for Monique, and it might not be that busy otherwise, but answering those phones is crucial." I hate it when people use the word crucial in an office setting. It is so uncalled for. "Basically, you want to screen all of her calls," she continued, "But if it's Richard, you have to find her and get her on the phone. You absolutely cannot leave Richard waiting. Okay? It's really important for you to get her on the phone immediately if Richard calls. It doesn't matter what she is doing - if Richard needs her, you find her!"
Richard, I got it. Do I look like a complete idiot to you? I can remember the name Richard! I will go and get her when he calls. Or when his minions call. I can tell from the way you're talking about him that this is not the kind of man who places his own calls. And hey, even if I did forget about Richard, do you really think you should be so tense about this? You're going to give yourself an ulcer, lady. So just take a deep breath. Relax your shoulders, neck, and let your head drop down in a count of ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Now, in this relaxed pose, repeat this mantra: I will not lose my job because of the temp. I will not lose my job because of the temp. I will not lose my job because of the temp.
I nodded and said, "Yup. Richard. I'll be sure to get her when he calls."
She then introduced me to every single person in the department, which was completely unnecessary. They all gave me the weak eyebrow raise, the only thing a one-day-temp really deserves. We are not entitled to hellos. Monique was the last one I met. She looked like she was being run through with a sword. She gave me a terse, "Hi, Laura." I didn't bother to correct her. "So, you know if Richard calls, you haveto get me on the phone, right?"
"Yes."
"Great," she said, though it was clear that she did not think I was great. She then closed the door to her office and I sat down, waiting for Richard to call. The next time she opened the door she yelled to me, "There's a bottle of Advil in that desk. Can you please get it for me?" I looked around and finally found a huge bottle of pills. I brought it in to her and left it on her desk. She did not say thank you. She took two and set the bottle back down on her conference table. And there it sat, a beacon to all who passed it.
"Oh, Monique, can I have an Advil?"
"Man, I have got the worst headache. Can I get one of those?"
"Do you mind if I take two?"
"I have got to remember to go to Duane Reade and get a big bottle for my office, too."
Every single person who went into her office took an Advil. It was like watching trick-or-treaters on Halloween. I couldn't help but feel sad for them, and honestly, I couldn't help but want an Advil for myself. I had a stress headache just from being there.
The only project Monique gave me the whole day was to order a "Full Immersion Spa Treatment" gift certificate for a friend. This project started with her barking commands at me about exactly what treatment she wanted to send her and how I should go about ordering it. The card was supposed to say, "To Gina, I hope you enjoy these few hours of peace." Monique was very insistent that I scheduled those hours of peace three weeks in advance so that Gina would be sure not to miss out on her chance at spiritual enlightenment due to a scheduling conflict. When she was giving me instructions, I started to ask her a question. She put her hand in my face and firmly said, "Stop." Then she continued to tell me which Oriental style massage she wanted Gina to receive, even though, "God, it's really expensive."
So the day went along like that. I desperately tried to avoid the fog of tension that was sitting like a heavy blanket on the place. I had a free bottle of water. I read a magazine. I fielded calls from Richard's assistants without incident. I made some photocopies. And when I left, Monique signed my timesheet and, without looking at me, said, "Thanks, sweetie." Ugh. I walked to the elevator and waited to make my escape. And as I stood there, Monique's colleague came gliding through the door, tossing her designer shawl casually over her coat. She recognized from the early morning introductions.
"How was your day?" she said, her voice gravely with age and money.
"Fine, thank you," I answered, 'cause what else was I going to say?
"I have to say, I think we've got a really great group here," she continued, not really caring that I had answered at all.
"Yes," I said, swallowing my words as I was saying them. A great group of Advil-popping, Richard-worshipping, stiletto-wearing, spa-junkies. I almost started laughing, but I pulled myself together. I didn't want to be spiked to death by an expensive six-inch heel.
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