I can’t believe it’s been a year already. I’ve been a company temp all this time, with all but the most extreme benefits. It’s pretty brutal actually; my monthly deductions are more than I used to earn in a week! Benefits are great, I guess, if you need them; it’s just that I only ever end up using such a small portion. I’ve been a union member before and the issue is a bit of a pickle. I’m not complaining of course; I’ve also worked jobs that had no benefits at all (hell, one of my paycheques bounced at a job I used to have. Now that’s frightening!). There’s just so many options available that I know I will never use. It must be what keeps people here so long; once you start paying into it you want to stick around to be sure you get something back. There’s a guy that "moves" every year, because one moving day a year is an entitlement. Strangely enough his mailing address always stays the same. I try not to think about it though; one day you find out you’re horribly sick (or your spouse, or one of your children) and the only thing saving you is knowing it’s paid for/your salary is paid.
I’m holding my breath to find out what Fiona is going to do; everyone here talks as though it’s a given that she is coming back. I hope not, because – despite all the problems - I want to stay here for a while. I’m learning more about the printing process, and even some design, than I have anywhere since school. I know Jack wants me to stay, but it’s not his decision. He can’t create a new job just for me. So I wait.
The time has come, and the news is not all bad. Fiona has discovered that she will spend basically her entire pay on daycare if she comes back full time and, after a lengthy discussion with Jack, has decided to do a job-share with me. That means she will work three days a week (Mon-Wed) and I will work the other two. We will share a desk and computer. I will also work any days she or Petra takes off (more than a few) so even though it will be a substantial cut in pay I think it’s worth it in the long run. Besides, I will finally have a chance to focus on my freelance design business, and really put my computer at home to use. So I have also accepted the job-share idea, and everyone concerned seems quite satisfied.
Our new arrangement is working out OK. Fiona and I wage a silent battle every week over computer settings and how we like the desk arranged. It’s funny actually; the first thing I do when I come in on Thursday morning is put everything the way I like it. Fiona must as well because it’s all back to her way the next time I come in. I’ve already worked some extra days; Petra takes hardly any time off, just a big block at Christmas, but Fiona is away regularly.
They couldn’t just hand me the job, so I had to go through the entire application process. The job was posted and a couple of people from the main building expressed interest but failed the test miserably (one of them didn’t even know what PageMaker was. Why bother applying for a job when you know you are not qualified? Oh yeah, because it takes you away from your desk for a couple of hours. What a waste of time.) I had a bit of trouble with the typing test; it’s stupid because I know all the important stuff way beyond the test, but a pointless thing like typing speed is stressing me out. There is no typing at this job.
"Why is there even a typing test Jack?" I ask in exasperation after a couple of weeks of practicing without much improvement.
"Because it keeps out the rabble."
Its Good to Question Your Desires
Jack looks at me with the realization that he may have shot himself in the foot; no one else is remotely qualified, I am ideally suited but might be rejected because of something that doesn’t even have anything to do with the job. All because back in the day, Jack, Fiona and Petra decided to put that in the job description to prevent the hordes of lower echelon from trying to get hired in the shop. Probably also the typing speed raised the position by a pay group; since no one across the street understands what it is we do exactly they had trouble placing the job in the correct pay scale.
This place is so stupid sometimes, I really have to wonder why I am trying to get hired permanently.
Whatever . . . I squeak through and that’s what matters. The next couple of weeks is an endless round of forms to fill out, papers to sign and documents to read from Human Resources and the Union. I am required to get a physical from my doctor (who shudders when she sees how many pages it is).
"Oh you can go to your own doctor now, that’s nice."
I turn to Petra in surprise.
"When I got hired there was a company doctor on staff and everyone had to go to him. That was unpleasant."
Adam was at the photocopier and comes over, "Yeah me too. He was a crusty old guy."
"Very creepy. He knew he’d get to see everyone naked eventually. But now you get to go to your own doctor, that’s much better."
Petra and Adam have a long conversation; I sense the distinct attitude that somehow their tenure with the company is stronger because they had to go through this initiation. Kind of like a hazing. Judging from the things they are not saying – Petra especially – I thank my lucky stars I didn’t have to go through that.
Jack walks by as they are still talking about it, and throws out a quick comment about the ol’ coot doctor. Boy, that must have really sucked.
One of the books is on a big deadline and everyone is busy, so Jack has asked me to come every day whether or not Fiona is here. I like working with her actually; she’s fun and lively, somewhat more hip than the others, and has been here just as long so knows all the tricks to getting by.
We’ve decided that I’ll work on the spare station the whole time (so I don’t have to keep copying files back and forth between computers) even when Fiona isn’t here, until this project is finished. It’s just a couple or three weeks, but it’s a pain in the ass (more like back) because that station is not correctly set up ergonomically. If only that consultant JV could see me now! There isn’t even enough room on the desk (table actually) to spread out copy for editing. It’s really just an extra computer for someone to jump on to print something quickly, or if one of our computers goes down. I figure I’ll just power through this time and try to keep my complaints to a minimum. It’s extra pay after all, and I’m saving up for a trip to Europe.
The worst thing about the spare station actually is the chair. It’s not a nice cushy grey one with adjustable back/height/everything like everyone has. It’s a terrible glowing orange 70’s secretaries chair. It only reaches to the middle of the back, so doesn’t support the shoulders at all. I have a real problem with that because I have an existing neck problem. I hope it doesn’t cause me too much pain.
Office Furniture is Perceived to be Plated with Gold
Wouldn’t you figure something like this would happen? It’s so typical of this place I think I’m going to lose my mind. This morning when I came in the glowing orange chair was gone. Petra hadn’t noticed and can’t think of where it could have gotten to, so I’ll have to ask Donna when she’s had her stinky-feet-cheese breakfast and has sobered up a little. I looked all through the shop and the warehouse but it’s nowhere. Since Fiona isn’t in for the next two days I’ll just take my usual chair until a replacement is found.
"Hey Donna, the orange chair is gone. Can you order another one so Fiona has something to sit on when she comes in on Monday?" It’s part of Donna’s job to order things from Central Stores.
"What do you mean it’s gone? Chair’s don’t just disappear." Much mad head-turning and exaggerated looking around the layout room as if it might be sitting out in the open somewhere but I just didn’t see it.
"Um, I don’t know Donna. It was here yesterday; when I came in this morning it was gone. I looked all over. I have no idea where it is."
I turn to leave but don’t get away that easily. Donna follows me past Petra’s desk.
"Well, chairs don’t just disappear. Where could it have gone?" She’s got that stupid ‘it’s so weird!’ expression on her face that people try to cultivate when they want others to think they are truly mystified. I want to smack her. I think I can hear Petra chuckling under her breath.
"I don’t known Donna, but obviously I’m going to need a chair."
I return to the spare station putting my head down into my work. Petra has kept her back turned yet it still takes Donna a while to realize she is talking to no one. What’s with all the melodrama? Just order the fucken chair already. When Donna finally returns to her office Petra turns around, I catch her eye over the top of my computer screen and we share a great rolling of eyes.
I have a terrible feeling that it’s not going to be as easy to replace the chair as I had thought. It’s a bit crazy isn’t it? We work on computers worth $10 000, with software worth equally that at least. We use many many thousands of dollars worth of paper in the shop every week and I can’t get a simple office chair? This is the stuff ulcers are made of.
Well, it’s Monday, Fiona is here and needs her chair. Wouldn’t you know it, there is nothing for me to sit on now. I am reluctant to speak up because I fear that Donna has been whipping herself up into a fervour about the whole chair thing. The less I talk to her on any given day the better, as far as I’m concerned.
"What am I supposed to do?"
She hasn’t said anything about it since I asked her on Thursday morning; she knows you would be in today and I’d have nothing to sit on." I have explained the whole thing to Fiona looking for advice.
Fiona is significantly more forthcoming with tips and tricks than Petra ever was; I think if I had been trained by Fiona for a couple of weeks my problems with those first few projects would never have happened.
"Just tell her to get you one, Keta. It’s her job."
"I don’t know why it’s just an issue though, it’s not like she has to pay for it with her own money!"
Coworkers with Feelings of Low Self Worth Will Stand in Your Way Whenever They Can
Petra and Fiona laugh. These kinds of problems are old hat to them. Donna walks by into her office. I plunge in with both feet,
"Hey Donna, when’s that chair coming? I have nothing at all to sit on now."
"Chair? What chair."
Oh. My. God. She knows exactly what chair, is she kidding me?
"Keta needs a chair for that station Donna. You better order one from Central Stores."
I’m thankful that Fiona has spoken up, but I wish she hadn’t said the chair was for me. I mean, I’m the one using it right now but it’s not specifically for me. Something about the way Donna has been acting is making me think she will be more difficult than if we had just made a general request for the room.
"But where can that chair be Fiona?"
Donna has gone into her little act again, this time speaking louder, opening her eyes wider and waving her arms more frantically.
"Chairs don’t just disappear."
Petra and Fiona turn to their computers. I marvel at their ability to shut down; clearly they think they’ve helped me as much as they are able. I’m left to wonder how differently this situation would have been handled if it was one of them that had suddenly been rendered chairless. I try to ease the situation with humour but to no avail. Donna is having too much fun getting all worked up about the stupid chair.
"I told you last week I tried to find the chair everywhere. I don’t know where it’s gone, and frankly it doesn’t matter, because I need something to sit on right now."
Donna won’t shut up and I’m seriously about to punch her in the face so I leave the room. There’s still no orange chair anywhere to be found. Asking everyone I encounter I get the distinct impression that they all already know about my predicament. Most are sympathetic but some seem to be relishing my problem and are eager to see how I will handle it. Drives me nuts really.
Oh, wait. I never asked upstairs! They probably have it, they must have had someone there last week and needed an extra chair.
Entering the Editorial & Design department is a bit like stepping into an oasis of pretentiousness. Writers, artists and a photographer who have managed to secure themselves full time (well paying) work using their TALENT. It’s almost too much to bear. As I climb the stairs I always shroud myself in the protective cloak of my university degree. It at least prevents them from shunting me down to the bottom rungs of humanity, where they obviously consider most of the print shop staff to dwell.
"Hey you guys, one of our chairs has disappeared and I have nothing to sit on today. Have you seen that orange chair that’s usually at the spare station?"
"No." "Nope." "Haven’t seen it." "Sorry Keta."
This sucks.
"Well, do you have an extra chair hanging around here that I could use for a few days until Donna manages to order one from Central Stores?"
Silence. I am met with a stunned look as they exchange uneasy glances.
Hello? It’s a simple question.
"Oh, there’s two right here. Great, I’ll just take one for now. . ."
My hands are forcibly removed from the chair back by Jason, one of the writers.
"No, you can’t take that." he says more emphatically than I have ever heard him say anything.
"Jason I have NOTHING to sit on. I’m just gonna borrow it until I get a replacement. Don’t worry, I’ll bring it back."
I laugh and look over at the artist dudes; they keep their eyes averted. More of this shutting down; how can people work together every day for YEARS yet maintain themselves at such a distance from each other?
Jason will absolutely not allow me to take the chair downstairs, leaving me with no recourse to argue my case. I slink back downstairs feeling like a real asshole. Of course I am confronted with my vacant station and in exasperation go into the lunch room to grab one of the table chairs. It’s not on wheels, and has arms that don’t fit under the table. Mmmm great, more back problems. Maybe I’ll be able to sue.
Over the next couple of days every time somebody walks past me they cast weird looks in my direction, seeing me sitting there so obviously uncomfortable. I can’t rest my back and my arm is stretched out all weird so I can use the mouse. I just glare back at them all with all my might. Except the Editorial & Design people; they don’t give me weird looks, they drift by as if I don’t exist at all.
I haven’t brought the subject up with Donna again; since it’s clear I’m not going to get another chair I prefer not to engage her in the same tired repeated conversation I have already had with her twice. She knows I’m pissed but is pretending everything is normal. Total bitch.
As the week wears on my back gets increasing more tight and painful. Instead of just glaring back at everyone in silence I take to declaring in as loud a voice as possible that I have no choice but to sit like this because Donna can’t be bothered to order a chair I so obviously need. A couple of times she comes out of her office and looks around the corner but then just goes away again.
"That doesn’t look very ergonomic."
Jack has made a fatal mistake.
I let loose with my tirade about Donna’s reluctance to do her job, at almost shouting volume. Jack looks at me in surprise; usually I’m calm and even-tempered. I don’t know where he’s been the past few days to have missed all this. He goes straight into Donna’s office and tells her to get another chair.
Petra, Fiona and I brace ourselves. Sure enough Donna comes out into the layout room and launches into her monologue, "Chair, O where hast thou gone?" with the arm waving and head turning at a maximum. Jack is taken aback and tries to reason with her, but she’s on a roll. Maybe she’s autistic, or has Turret’s or something. Finally he leads her back into her office and basically orders her to get another chair.
The next day as I am trying to ignore the screaming pain in my back and neck Central Stores shows up with a perfect new chair. I almost fall over in surprise.
Donna comes out of her office, "There you go Keta! I got your new chair for you."
"It’s not for me Donna, it’s for the room. Funny how it was so easy in the end to get one, isn’t it? I wonder why I had to break my back sitting on this thing for a week."
I practically spit at her, and kick the lunch room chair in disgust. Donna looks frankly hurt but I don't care.
