After college, I lived in Chicago for two years. Half the
time I was working clerical temp jobs. The other half of the time my parents
were putting money in my bank account. I was never a starving artist, despite
my half-hearted wish to be. The only obstacles to making ends meet were my
laziness, depression and reluctance to ask my parents for more money.
A
recession supposedly began in 2000, the year I graduated from college, but I
never got the sense that work was hard to come by. If I could muster the motivation
to call whatever temp agency I was with at the time, there was a good chance
they’d have a job for me within a week or so. But then I’d have to actually go
to work, draggin’ my ass outta bed on those frozen mornings for the privilege
of sitting at a desk, making copies and directing calls for people who appeared
to just be going through the motions of Life. It was all drab, dispirited
offices and waiting to die.
But I needed something to pay the bills while I
became a famous comedy writer, so I continued temping in the hope that each job
would require as little work as possible. The closest I ever came to the
perfect job was a three-week assignment in the environmental bureau of the
Illinois Attorney General’s office. I was a living, breathing Exhibit A for
every right-wing blowhard who wants to rant about the waste of government
bureaucracy.
It was the only time I’ve ever had my own office, although it was
nothing to brag about. There may have been grift in the environmental bureau,
but it wasn’t being funneled to an interior decorator. It looked like they
hadn’t updated the décor in fifty years. The best word I can think of to
describe the bureau’s appearance would be “Shawshank-ian.”
I was brought on
board to send out letters alerting citizens to the apparent negligence of a
utility company, or something like that, but the task was barely enough to fill
a few days. After that was done, I had to harass my supervisor to give me
things to do, which was not easy for me, since I had to overcome my natural aversion
to labor. My boss was a friendly, easy-going guy named Terry who looked to be
in his 30’s. He gave me some stuff to
copy and collate, but not enough to keep me busy.
At Terry’s suggestion, I
brought a book to work and read at my desk. There were days when that was all I
did. It was rather awkward sitting in my office, day after day, just reading,
as people walked by, people with things to do, deadlines to meet, environments
to protect. When the silent judgment of the passersby got to be too much, I would
take out my notebook and do some writing to create the illusion of work, but
the shame wasn’t enough to completely overcome my laziness, and, eventually,
I’d go back to reading. On the plus side, I managed to finish The Lord of the Rings. It was an
especially amazing feat given the fact that I am not a fast reader.
When Terry
learned that my assignment was coming to an end, he suddenly sprang into
action, taking me to the bureau head’s office. She got on the horn and tried to
get my assignment extended, but to no avail. She then apologized for her
inability to keep me around longer. I thanked her for the attempt, although I
was somewhat relieved to be unemployed again. I wasn’t sure how much longer I
could handle the guilt of reading The
Lord of the Rings on the taxpayers’ dime.
On my last day, Terry bought a
cake and herded a bunch of reluctant people into the break room to celebrate
the end of my three-week tenure. I appreciated his gesture, even though the joy
of the occasion was dimmed somewhat by the awkwardness of the fact that I had
only said about a dozen words to most of the people there, and I was pretty
sure they knew how little work I had actually done.
It was a rather pathetic example of your tax dollars at work, but, on the bright side, it did keep a kid like me off the streets.
It was a rather pathetic example of your tax dollars at work, but, on the bright side, it did keep a kid like me off the streets.
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