"Valuable Work Experience" - Eric Shapiro 11-14-08
10:30 AM: I sit in a creaky swiveling chair toiling away on the computer, the weight of a mostly sleepless night bearing down on my eyelids. I have challenged myself to beat Minesweeper on the easy difficulty while simultaneously transferring Stand-Up New York’s guest list for the month of March into the electronic archives, ensuring that I will accomplish neither. In an hour, 10 names have made their way from the beer-speckled sheet to the hard drive of the ancient machine, my fingers the unwilling vehicles for the names and phone numbers of people I dread calling later. The words of the Replacements song “Bad Worker” runs laps through my head, a B-Side from Hootenanny, their third album, which has the lead singer celebrating the virtues of half-assed labor like a post-pubescent Bob Dylan, constipated yelping and all.
Suddenly, the gravelly voice of the janitor sends my hands into a flurry of motion, as I attempt to hide all the miscellaneous windows that have occupied my attention in lieu of work. He decides to bite back his usual string of reprimands, perhaps out of sympathy for the task he is about to assign me.
10:40 AM: I stare down at the puddle of what I try to convince myself is oatmeal on the floor of the women’s restroom. Oatmeal with bits of carrot, orange juice and alcohol thrown in for good measure. It seems to expand under my hesitant gaze. Several steps forward and I tentatively run a mop over the ungainly substance with one hand, pinching my nose with the desperation of a woman in labor, lest I add my own breakfast to the compound.
11:00 A.M: My fellow School of Future student and friend Brendan arrives a half-hour late, followed shortly by the distinguished manager of New York City's number 5 stand-up comedy club, long beanie hat wagging eagerly behind his bald head as if to announce to the world that he is in one of his increasingly rare good moods. I can't help but overhear him bragging to a subordinate about a recent sexual conquest in the restroom of a bar. He walks out of the room and grins at his two high-school interns, "You guys hear that? Even throat cancer can't keep the chicks off of me." Uncertain how to respond, we flash a pair of Rorschach smiles and silently pray for him to disappear into his stinking ashtray of an office. God grants us a temporary reprieve when his partner, a squealing weasel of a man who seems to be under the impression that shutting up for two seconds will result in a terrible explosion, summons him to his office. The two strong-willed men predictably prove to be a volatile combination when an expletive-filled argument erupts over some trivial financial matter. We know we will bear the brunt of our boss's frustration. It is only a matter of time.
2:30 PM: A game of two-man musical chairs ensues as the room's many phones blare in a frenzy of workplace 9/11. In our several months on the job, neither of us has yet mastered the art of putting callers on hold and remembering what line they are on. I let loose a string of expletives as I accidentally disconnect an established comedian to address the complaints of an ornery, displeased frat boy. Apparently, the waitresses refused to serve him alcohol when presented with his most likely fake ID. The boss's girlfriend is on the line, sounding furious. I tell her to hold and approach his door, spitefully hoping that she has finally discovered his chronic unfaithfulness. "Your girlfriend on line 3," I yell over the din. I am amazed at the transformation in his voice as he lovingly chirps, "Hi honey. What's up?" I take the subsequent look of confusion on his face as a bad sign. It turns out I have accidentally put him on with the frat boy. He theatrically slams the receiver down and brings his predator's eyes to bear on his petrified charge. As I observe him in his cartoonish rage, I can't help but visualize geysers of steam to erupting from his ears, accompanied by the sound of a whistling teakettle. But if he is the real-world Elmer Fudd, I am certainly no Bugs Bunny. I can do nothing but submit as he places his bear paw on my shoulder and all but pushes me back to my desk. Even the phones momentarily fall silent, as if to observe the unfortunate tableau that is about to unfold. I think better of reminding him that his girlfriend (God protect her) is still on the line.
2:40 PM: My boss speaks in a calm voice that belies the anger visible in his face and movements, "Do you understand the concept behind these buttons?" He points to the column of rectangles that transfer callers to their respective phone lines. I nod, wrinkling my nose at his cigarette-infused breath. "You've been working here every week for two months now," he states matter-of-factly. "Then why do you have so much difficulty working them?" It is a rhetorical question, but I reflexively answer with one my vintage, all-purpose (albeit ineffective) witticisms: "My training is in mopping up vomit." He is not amused by my comment; in fact, it manages to shatter the fragile veneer of professionalism that until then tempered the contempt in his tone. "I pay my fucking comedians to be funny, smartass! And since you can't seem to do your fucking job, I don't want to see your inept ass back here next week." With that, he removes his hand from my shoulder and stomps back to his office, slamming the door behind him. Brendan unwisely chooses that moment to burst out in laughter. Before I can flip him off or devise some other suitable retaliation, the door swings open again. This time, I am the spectator as my friend is humiliated. "Something funny, kid?" Unlike me, Brendan is unable to hide his fear and like a hyena choosing the weaker prey over the stronger, the boss proceeds to tear his intern to shreds in a string of reprimands, the length and severity of which makes the one inflicted on me look like the gentle admonitions of an old cat lover catching one of her pets leaving a present on the rug. It concludes with the former remarking on the absence of two important glands and the presence of a certain female body part between the latter's legs.
4:00 PM: Only a half-hour to go. The phones have finally decided to stop ringing and I have resumed my attempts at conquering Minesweeper. Brendan sits motionless at his desk, head in hand.
5:15 PM: I get home and collapse into my bed, suffering through my typical post-Standup NY hangover. My mother yells something that I can't quite make out. Five minutes later, my door swings open to reveal my father, clad in his typical work attire: a pair of ratty jeans and the same t-shirt he jogged in that morning. "Eric, what's the matter with you? Go help your mother set the table." A crotchety groan slithers out of my throat before I can stop it. "What's the problem?," he asks, not really expecting an answer. "Work," I oblige nonetheless. He laughs. "You kids don't have anything to complain about. You know what kind of work I had to do when I was your age?" As he was not, to my knowledge, a slave in the antebellum Deep South, I'm sure it must have been better than putting up with the abuse of a bitter man in a beanie hat.
Suddenly, the gravelly voice of the janitor sends my hands into a flurry of motion, as I attempt to hide all the miscellaneous windows that have occupied my attention in lieu of work. He decides to bite back his usual string of reprimands, perhaps out of sympathy for the task he is about to assign me.
10:40 AM: I stare down at the puddle of what I try to convince myself is oatmeal on the floor of the women’s restroom. Oatmeal with bits of carrot, orange juice and alcohol thrown in for good measure. It seems to expand under my hesitant gaze. Several steps forward and I tentatively run a mop over the ungainly substance with one hand, pinching my nose with the desperation of a woman in labor, lest I add my own breakfast to the compound.
11:00 A.M: My fellow School of Future student and friend Brendan arrives a half-hour late, followed shortly by the distinguished manager of New York City's number 5 stand-up comedy club, long beanie hat wagging eagerly behind his bald head as if to announce to the world that he is in one of his increasingly rare good moods. I can't help but overhear him bragging to a subordinate about a recent sexual conquest in the restroom of a bar. He walks out of the room and grins at his two high-school interns, "You guys hear that? Even throat cancer can't keep the chicks off of me." Uncertain how to respond, we flash a pair of Rorschach smiles and silently pray for him to disappear into his stinking ashtray of an office. God grants us a temporary reprieve when his partner, a squealing weasel of a man who seems to be under the impression that shutting up for two seconds will result in a terrible explosion, summons him to his office. The two strong-willed men predictably prove to be a volatile combination when an expletive-filled argument erupts over some trivial financial matter. We know we will bear the brunt of our boss's frustration. It is only a matter of time.
2:30 PM: A game of two-man musical chairs ensues as the room's many phones blare in a frenzy of workplace 9/11. In our several months on the job, neither of us has yet mastered the art of putting callers on hold and remembering what line they are on. I let loose a string of expletives as I accidentally disconnect an established comedian to address the complaints of an ornery, displeased frat boy. Apparently, the waitresses refused to serve him alcohol when presented with his most likely fake ID. The boss's girlfriend is on the line, sounding furious. I tell her to hold and approach his door, spitefully hoping that she has finally discovered his chronic unfaithfulness. "Your girlfriend on line 3," I yell over the din. I am amazed at the transformation in his voice as he lovingly chirps, "Hi honey. What's up?" I take the subsequent look of confusion on his face as a bad sign. It turns out I have accidentally put him on with the frat boy. He theatrically slams the receiver down and brings his predator's eyes to bear on his petrified charge. As I observe him in his cartoonish rage, I can't help but visualize geysers of steam to erupting from his ears, accompanied by the sound of a whistling teakettle. But if he is the real-world Elmer Fudd, I am certainly no Bugs Bunny. I can do nothing but submit as he places his bear paw on my shoulder and all but pushes me back to my desk. Even the phones momentarily fall silent, as if to observe the unfortunate tableau that is about to unfold. I think better of reminding him that his girlfriend (God protect her) is still on the line.
2:40 PM: My boss speaks in a calm voice that belies the anger visible in his face and movements, "Do you understand the concept behind these buttons?" He points to the column of rectangles that transfer callers to their respective phone lines. I nod, wrinkling my nose at his cigarette-infused breath. "You've been working here every week for two months now," he states matter-of-factly. "Then why do you have so much difficulty working them?" It is a rhetorical question, but I reflexively answer with one my vintage, all-purpose (albeit ineffective) witticisms: "My training is in mopping up vomit." He is not amused by my comment; in fact, it manages to shatter the fragile veneer of professionalism that until then tempered the contempt in his tone. "I pay my fucking comedians to be funny, smartass! And since you can't seem to do your fucking job, I don't want to see your inept ass back here next week." With that, he removes his hand from my shoulder and stomps back to his office, slamming the door behind him. Brendan unwisely chooses that moment to burst out in laughter. Before I can flip him off or devise some other suitable retaliation, the door swings open again. This time, I am the spectator as my friend is humiliated. "Something funny, kid?" Unlike me, Brendan is unable to hide his fear and like a hyena choosing the weaker prey over the stronger, the boss proceeds to tear his intern to shreds in a string of reprimands, the length and severity of which makes the one inflicted on me look like the gentle admonitions of an old cat lover catching one of her pets leaving a present on the rug. It concludes with the former remarking on the absence of two important glands and the presence of a certain female body part between the latter's legs.
4:00 PM: Only a half-hour to go. The phones have finally decided to stop ringing and I have resumed my attempts at conquering Minesweeper. Brendan sits motionless at his desk, head in hand.
5:15 PM: I get home and collapse into my bed, suffering through my typical post-Standup NY hangover. My mother yells something that I can't quite make out. Five minutes later, my door swings open to reveal my father, clad in his typical work attire: a pair of ratty jeans and the same t-shirt he jogged in that morning. "Eric, what's the matter with you? Go help your mother set the table." A crotchety groan slithers out of my throat before I can stop it. "What's the problem?," he asks, not really expecting an answer. "Work," I oblige nonetheless. He laughs. "You kids don't have anything to complain about. You know what kind of work I had to do when I was your age?" As he was not, to my knowledge, a slave in the antebellum Deep South, I'm sure it must have been better than putting up with the abuse of a bitter man in a beanie hat.