As soon as my alarm went off this morning, I knew it was going to be just one of those days. After working a ten hour shift at BJs serving nachos and Bud Light draft to happy “Sunday Funday” enthusiasts, half-drunk-half-hungover, I fell into my ice cold bed and switched my electric blanket to the hottest setting. This was around two in the morning. Almost five hours later, I woke up thinking about how to get ready the fastest way possible so I could sleep just a little longer. Realizing that no matter how early I woke up I would still be running late, I decided to forgo the usual snooze button ritual and just get up.
The walk to the green line was only half-bad considering it snowed only a day and half ago. What I remember to be a white, smooth and fluffy pillow of snow is now brown, chunky slush / slippery ice. I only half-fell twice on my walk up and to my surprise the train arrived right after I did. I felt relieved when I realized that I might just make it to work on time today…but then that moment passed as soon as I saw the train was packed so tight that people were smashed up against every window with bulging eyes and a slight sense of panic in their faces. My claustrophobia almost prevented me from boarding the train but lucky for me (and for my fellow train riders), some people exited and made just enough room for me to squeeze in without the risk of my face becoming a permanent fixture on this six trains window. For some reason, when its cold outside the people of MTA think the trains need to be heated even though the sheer amount of body heat, wool and tweed on one car could keep a small country warm.
This brings me to my theory on why New Yorkers are always sick; hot, cold, hot, cold, combined with no toilet seat covers in the bathrooms and the obnoxious amount of people who seem to consciously wipe their noses and touch things. For this reason, I avoid touching anything on the train, doorknobs or faucets unless there is no other choice.
So I got to the temp agency just in time, 8 a.m. And I am the first person to sign in; which means I will get sent out on a job for sure. But, after an hour of reading about Robert Pattinson and admiring all the shiny fashion advertising in Vanity Fair I started to doubt if I would leave that fluffy blue chair before five. Then the lady with all the power called my name and sent me on my way. IT Design needs a receptionist and apparently I am the girl for the job. I get a little nervous knowing I made it seem like I have more reception experience than I actually do…but really, how hard can it be?
So I walk in and a girl in a brown fur coat that smells like fur sits me at a desk and explains how the phone works, not too bad. Then after a couple minutes she gives me seven gift boxes to pack and wrap with their holiday gifts nestled neatly inside. If there is one thing that I hate, its wrapping presents. I hate all things “wrap” and prefer to give presents in bags with handles and cute glittery tissue billowing out of it. Don’t get me wrong, if someone wants to wrap something for me (anything really), no problem…but I’m a bag wrapper. So at this point, I started dreading this day. But, seven boxes only took me about 20 minutes to complete and that was all they had for me. When I say “all,” I mean all. My only job was to answer the phone and transfer calls. I’m all for getting paid to do nothing; I just wish I had brought that Vanity Fair with me. So after a few minutes, I begin to stare into the only picture in the office; a black and white photo of a forest. And as I’m walking through the imaginary green silky grass toward my red convertible corvette, I so conspicuously parked deep in the forest among the thick pine trees; I try to figure out how I got there on the barely visible dirt path my imaginary tires made. This doesn’t work, however. There really is no way I would ever drive to the middle of the forest and park and then get out and walk around by myself…and I would never be seen driving a corvette. So I daze off into the fake orange and pink daisies on my desk and wonder how long it will take me to get a job I can’t daydream at.
The phone breaks my concentration and I answer, “IT Design, how may I help you?” Because this company is primarily India-based and has a large amount of Indian clientele and Indian business partners, I have a hard time understanding the name of the person the customer wants to speak with. “Kit-is” she says, “I need Kit-is.” At least “Kit-is” is what I hear. I look down the list of people for something that looks like “Kit-is.” Nothing. So I accidently hang up. After a couple minutes of panic, the phone rings again. Her again. This time I ask her to spell the name of the person she needs. “K-S-H-I-T-I-Z, she spells, and I find it on the list. I don’t feel so bad when I hear the brown fur coat girl giggling at me. She says it’s always funny when someone comes to help out. I guess I’m glad I can provide some entertainment on this otherwise mundane afternoon. And this is how my day went on. After a while, the names became familiar and I didn’t feel like I was offending every person I came in contact with. With only about three phone calls an hour, I did a lot of staring and counting ceiling tiles. Toward the end of the day, I decided to stare at the clock and try to count the seconds at exactly the same rate the second hand was moving along. I was always taught, “One-Mississippi” was equal to one second. But today, “One-Mississippi” seemed like “One-Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” Indeed, a long day at the office. At 4:20, they decide to close up ( I don’t speculate as to why…), and I am literally ecstatic for the extra 40 minutes of my life I had deemed lost forever.
I guess reception is just not my thing. Hopefully tomorrow brings a new adventure, perhaps one that takes me down to the Meat-Packing District or
