Keep opening and closing a filing cabinet. Take files and walk around. Don’t do it more than four times in the morning and three times in the evening. Somebody might ask you if you’re lost. Don’t file your pencils but keep rearranging your desk. Every once in awhile click on your keyboard. Out of the blue, ask someone if they have seen your favorite pen. Make an excuse to go to the supply closet. Just keep getting out of your sit albeit bathroom or smoking breaks. Stare intensely at you computer for at least half an hour. Open blank computer document and type “I am bored” as fast as you can until you reach the end of the page and start it over again. Then type “I fucking hate my life!” The sound of a keyboard clicking makes the Boss think you are a go-getter. Make sure to always be ready to press “ctrl A” and delete, quickly, if anyone walks by.
Like most mornings, the alarm clock reminds me of a life gone terribly wrong.
Not criminal, just annoying. Some wake up and life is productive. I have no kids. I have no real responsibility. I mostly pretend to be busy or important or somebody. I am on corporate welfare. And there is always the fear they eventually going to figure out I do nothing and stop my checks.
There is an art to looking busy. It’s clever and merticoulsy crafted, mostly personality and ass kissing. It’s rehearsed politiness and hollow compliments. Bullshit can get you really far in corporate America. I wake up and I tell myself to always remember to smile. Always remember to say good morning or afternoon or evening. I tell myself to always have a rehearsed joke at my disposal that I practiced in front of a mirror. I remember co-workers birthdays. I pretend to be excited about their anniversaries and children graduations. Anything to throw them off the scent. I always remember to smile. I always remember to giggle at jokes that aren’t funny. I play my part.
The week before I stood in the food stamp line. I wore my worse tennis shoes, raggedy jeans and a suspiciously stained t-shirt. I didn’t brush my teeth, comb my hair or take a bath. I wanted to look and smell the part as much as possible. I wanted to look as if I was starving. I wanted pity. It was welfare after all. I couldn’t wear a Brooks Brother suit. It isn’t just the “need” but often the illusion of “need.” That’s why there are hardly any homeless Asians. The “fat” homeless probably get lesser donations that the homeless who look like their starving. Its human nature I guess to either be conned or discriminate. Always smile. Always say god will bless you. Always make your hand tremble when you’re begging. It’s Hollywood. We all want to feel six degrees from being somebody or better than somebody else. We always want to feel as if we are the only ones that will get into heaven.
I got to the food stamp office as early as possible. I wanted to get in and out. I stood in line for thirty minutes just to get a number to be called. I was 112 and there were only on 27. I knew it would take an entire workday with no lunch breaks. I took my sit and tried to blank my brain. I couldn’t deny I was out of money and desperately needed some sign of hope for ever eating again.
I was a receptionist once. My job was basically to say good morning and good night, 532 times each a day. It almost drove me crazy like a leaking water facet. I realized it was the silence that probably drove people crazy. It’s not that no one was around, we never connected. My job was to greet them. My job was to make them feel as if they were something special. My job basically was a distraction. They probably hated their job but if someone was paid to care, to tell them good morning or a stupid store bought joke, for a second that college was worth it. The daily annoying irony. I also attended college. It just took me a very long time to kiss ass aka “network.”
The first couple of hours at the food-stamp office weren’t so bad. I was able to surrender to a good meditation until Maria arrived with her four kids under the age of five. The oldest had to be at least seven years old. I guess she was supposed to supervise the younger siblings, a boy around age 4 and his sister around age 3. Maria nursed her infant as her kids ran wild. I was pissed and a little judgmental. I was also jealous. It was obvious she was a shoe-in for food stamps. I made a joke to the girl sitting next to me. I told her that Maria should forget about her kids going to college but instead save up bail and abortion money. The girl next to me laughed. I didn’t. Maria kids were wild. They ran up to people unattended. The fought with each other like a cat and dog. And Maria the entire time sat there and did nothing. They were already getting a reputation. But why was I being judgmental in the food stamp office. I knew I was once those kids. No real boundaries. Always in somebody’s system. I call them “system” kids be it foster care, food stamps, juvenile centers, SSI and Social Security. It seemed my entire life I somehow have been begging. Of course I would grow up to beg.
I got fired from my receptionist job. I apparently didn’t smile enough. I apparently didn’t look busy enough. One of the employees didn’t like for whatever the reason so he made sure I wouldn’t stick around. I figured, apparently I couldn’t be a good clapping monkey. It sort of hurt my feelings.
As I walked home from a job I really didn’t want in the first place, I remembered those kids. Was I just unaware how others were judging me? Was I at thirty two years old running wild with no supervision?
No comments:
Post a Comment