February 20, 2004
TGIF
I know I was begging to do any kind of work just a few months ago, but as of today, this place is so not worth it. First of all, as I've said before, I'm a temp. Temporary. Not permanent. Will leave someday. As a result, I've conditioned myself not to care too much about the people or the work itself. That doesn't mean I'm sloppy. I just don't put a lot of heart and soul into the work I do. And it's in Walnut Creek, like, the county seat for ignorant white men and their subservient women. This morning I walk in, and there are Mardi Gras beads and a mask on my desk. I ask out loud for anyone who's listening, "What's this?" I hear a chiding voice from over the cube wall say, "It's Mardi Gras." I reply, "no it's not." Is it? It's Friday, not Tuesday. Whatever. So then a partner, a short, balding man with a paunch steps out of his office and says, "You know what we've been thinking? A couple of the guys and I were going to put these beads on, go to city hall in San Francisco to get married. Yuk yuk yuk." And then he goes into his Republican diatribe about "who does [Gavin Newsom] think he is...just gets into office and he thinks he can make this kind of a change behind the people's backs. Et cetera, ad nauseum..." And on top of that, the day will be filled with silly (straight) innuendo about how people really get those beads in New Orleans. "You know what you have to do to get those beads, don't you?" Yeah, you have to take your pants down and show some cock. Silly rabbit, Mardi Gras is a lot more than you ever bargained for, guaranteed.
And then, if that's not the best way to start my day, I get the most rude e-mail from some snotty bitch in the San Francsico office telling me that the work I did for her yesterday was completely wrong, and that I should pay attention to what I'm doing because it's all wrong. Hello? So I talk with my supervisor who tells me that this is common and that it is bound to happen and that I shouldn't take it personally. OK, but you all have to remember that I am a temp. Temporary. I will leave, and I can leave and when I do, I'll be leaving with the work of two people in my fat little fingers, and you'll be that much up the creek without a paddle. So, I mean, you all can stay here for umpteen years and deal with the horseshit of overstressed morons who take their problems out on the lower staff because they can, but I don't think I can do that. It's been a long time since I've been treated like that, and I have to say to my credit that I am the reason for not being treated that way. I go out of my way to make sure that the people for whom I do work get the work they ask for completed in a timely manner, correct and accurate, and on the whole, it benefits both of us. Seriously, it's been years since someone has jumped my shit. And then to have my case reinforced with the supervisor telling me that what I do here is great and that people ask for my help because they know it can be done quickly and well. And this is the thanks I get from them. I'm over it. I mean, it happened about fifteen minutes ago, and in the time it took me to type this up, the bitch has worked her way out of my mind. Now I'm just waiting for 5:30 PM so I can claim my 40 hours and go the fuck home. Only I'm working this weekend, again, and well, why not?
I've given a lot of thought in the last six years as to why I'm here. I know, it's one of those questions that has become a cliché, it's asked so much, but really. I have only ever found my direction when I was in the navy, and then I quit because being queer is more important. Since then, I've wandered around looking for something that can make my soul happy. And I have to wonder if my fate in this life is not just to work and be worked. You know? Some people seem to be born, literally, into being successful and wealthy. Some people are lucky enough to win the lottery or Megabucks or whatever. Some people just work all their lives and survive. I don't think it's a cop-out to admit that I'm not going to be a rich man in this life. I think it's realistic and it could be pessimistic, but I'm starting to accept that being a working class dog (and just getting by) is OK for me...as long as people like this whore in San Francisco leave me the fuck alone and learn to appreciate the work I do. I know, that's like trying to get water from the moon, which might not be all the impossible anymore, you know.
On and on it goes. Where it stops, nobody knows.
