Temporary Insanity

I had an idea once for a silly movie called Temporary Insanity. I’d met a lot of people in New York who had horror stories from their temp assignments. Some estimates show that of the approximately 2.3 million workers in Manhattan, 15 to 20% are temp employees working in offices. My “what if” idea was: what would happen if, one day, there was a coordinated walk-out where every temp worker in the city left their building, all at the same time? That’s almost one in every five on staff! Funny to imagine, right? 

I wouldn’t call my temp experiences horror stories, but I would call them painful and illuminating. My initiation into the temp world was a little insane on my part for not understanding what I was about to encounter.

I had maybe two and a half years under my belt in an office when I moved to New York. It was probably better described as a “soft” office experience. I worked in the creative department at The Hamilton Collection, a company that manages the production and distribution of collectibles like trademark plates and figurines. Administrative work at Hamilton wasn’t tedious like a normal business office where expectations are much higher. It wouldn’t be completely accurate to say I was a solid, well-rounded administrative assistant based on my time there. I was still nervous any time I had to use the fax machine! Nevertheless, those are the jobs I sought out when I moved to New York in 1997. A friend at Hamilton who was from New York told me, “Don’t worry about your qualifications. Just write a good resume, and exude confidence when you land an interview. You can figure out how to do the job later.” I took that advice to heart and have used it countless times since.

I knew I needed to dress sharply, but I didn't have the kind of money it took to buy a smart looking suit. Plus, I was repulsed at the thought of having to dress all lady-like in the first place. It was something I never did grow into. I did, however, admire the pretty women, dressed to the nines, rushing along the busy sidewalks in their sensible sneakers. Whoever came up with that idea saved a lot of feet, and bankrupted a lot of podiatrists!

I assumed New York would have excellent thrift stores. “Surely, lady suits will be in abundance,” I surmised. I found one that fit and that I thought looked good enough for an interview. It was grass green and made of tweed fabric. There wasn't a single identifying label anywhere on it so I honestly wondered if someone had stripped down an old couch and made a suit out of the upholstery. 

I signed up with a temp agency called Core Staffing. My agent’s name was Randi. Since my resume was fairly attractive for a tenderfoot in the big city, meaning I wouldn't have the same hourly rate expectation as a seasoned city dweller, I was called in pretty quickly to test my proficiency with Word and Excel. I passed the tests, and exuded confidence at my onboarding interview. Randi called me within a week for my first assignment—at Random House.

If I ever in my life felt like a dumb hick, it was at this first assignment. It was like a scene straight out of any movie themed “clueless in the city.” But I believed the tired but timeless saying, “If you can make it there…”

The position I was covering was the administrative assistant to the head attorney—the head attorney of Random House. He was a mean man, a screamer, precise and dictatorial. When he walked past my desk that first day he stared hard at me, turning his head to hold my gaze while in full stride. I stopped breathing for a moment. I looked over at the second assistant sitting next to me a few feet away. She pretended not to notice. She was a young, buttoned up, efficient little lady all of 4’10”. She zipped busily around the office with the know-how of a polished old battle ax. For a moment, I felt sorry for her, that she was so young to already be so old. I later overheard her whispering to the other assistants in the copy room, going on about my utter incompetence. 

The first words the head attorney screamed to me that day were, “Get in here!” I jumped and looked over at the other assistant. Looking surprised, she nodded in his direction, “Go!” she whispered harshly.

I jumped up and walked in, trying to exude confidence.

“Where are my pads and pencils?” he demanded. 

“Oh. I don’t know, I’ll go…”

“No. No! Listen to me,” he said, pointing and drumming his index finger on the desk. 

“I need two new legal pads—and two new sharpened pencils—on my desk— every morning,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Do you understand?” he said, holding up two fingers.

“Yep, two new legal pads, and two new sharpened pencils, on your desk every morning.” I tried to steady my knees, hating him for making them wobble.

When I got back to my desk I was in a full panic. I knew I was in way over my head. I looked over again at the second assistant. She sighed slightly and said, “Look, I’ll answer both phones today but you’ll have to start answering yours tomorrow.” She could see the relief on my face. She smiled one of those slight smiles you give to a person that you kind of feel sorry for, but not really.

Three or four days later, I called the temp agency and told Randi that the employer was abusive. She disclosed that he had already called her. She told me not to even bother going back there, and that she was sorry he was so mean.

The next assignment was a bit more manageable. It was an academic software distribution company, called Thomas Learning or something like that. They sold software packages used in higher education, such as statistical analysis tools and research databases. It was a very competitive time in the industry as new technologies were taking off. All the sales people were under a lot of stress. I managed to pull off the interview, even though my soon-to-be boss, Denise, did all she could not to burst out laughing at my grass green suit. Later, when I noticed the gorgeous suits Denise wore, I realized why she’d had to work so hard to keep a straight face. I honestly didn't realize my suit was dated by at least 10 years. 

Denise was a goddess to me. She had beautiful, medium olive skin, dark brown hair cropped very short and a regular-at-the-gym body. She would glide across the room with an elegant sashay, shoulders back, confident and in control. Everyone around the office was afraid of her. I felt honored to work with her. I wasn’t afraid of her because, on the day of the interview, I exuded a confidence that she recognized. To her, I was exactly what she needed, someone she could trust with the critical stuff. Salespeople, I have learned, rely deeply on their team back at the office, and they usually bond with one person at a time, depending on the prospective deal at hand. Unfortunately I wasn't, it turned out, all she had hoped I’d be.

One fateful day, Denise was racing around the office in a tizzy. She was about to land a deal that was going to make a ton of money for the company. She trusted me to put the introduction package together. "Make sure you use the right letterhead," she said.

"Letterhead, right", I said to myself, pondering the thought. “Let's see, I think that means the company name is at the top.”

I knew I could write the letter. I had drafted a lot of letters by then. I just wasn't sure about the “right” letterhead and I was too scared to ask since Denise was so stressed out. I fumbled around looking for paper and found the "letterhead." I printed the final draft, and packaged it up with all the other materials exactly as instructed. Denise thanked me profusely, and said she knew she could trust me to get such an important letter done. She headed out the door in barely enough time to get to the client’s office. She was ready for battle, ready to win the biggest client in the company’s history. I breathed a sigh of relief when she left. 

Suddenly, about five minutes later, I heard Denise burst through the door, barreling down the hallway like a tornado, headed straight toward me. "What the hell is this?" she shouted, shaking the package at me. “Do you even know what you've done?” I sat there dumbfounded, multiple questions running through my head. “Hadn't I written a great letter? Hadn't she approved the draft? What did I do? I found the letterhead. What in the world…?”

"Page two" she shouted, furiously. "Page two" she shouted again at the ceiling, waving the letter. My eyes were wide with fright. "Page two?" I asked, truly baffled. "There was no page two," I thought to myself.

She shook the letter at me, then repeatedly tapped the top of the paper where the name of the company was printed in small font, one long line across the top of the page. I looked at her even more confused. "This,” she said, exasperated, “this - is - page - two - of - our - letterhead!” “This,” she said, pointing to an actual sheet of letterhead, “is the letterhead!" Do you understand what could have happened? We would have lost the account. I would have looked like a complete idiot! And now I’m going to be late!”

"I'm sorry," I said helplessly. "I thought... I...I didn't know," I said, dropping my head to look at the floor.

"Oh my God!" she said, glaring. Before she spun around on her classy heels to stomp away, I swear I saw a tiny glimpse of sympathy when I looked back up at her. She could see that I was truly at a loss. The entire office had stopped what they were doing to watch the whole scene. I was mortified.

After Denise left for the second time, I ran to the floor manager. I was sure I was getting fired. To my surprise, I wasn't. With an excellent Russian accent, she said, "No. You are not fired. You are a very hard worker. I will find another place for you. Just stay away from her for a while. She will cool off, she always does.”

The Russian floor manager was right. Denise did cool off, and even apologized for yelling at me. But she also told me I should have said something. She was right. I should have. 

I stayed there maybe a month or two more before I realized I needed some time to acclimate myself to the city. I needed a better understanding of what was expected in a New York business office. Jobs were plentiful then in New York, so I was sure that with a little bit of time and study, I’d be able to settle into a job. 

My time was limited, however. I was going to run out of money very soon. As my father used to say, “Nothing motivates a man more than miss-meal cramps.” I had a lot to learn—and fast.