What's in Your Envelope?

I'm unemployed. That means that I should never be forced to get out of bed until I damn well feel like it.
So why does the temp agency keep waking me up with low-paying and grossly mis-represented jobs? Can I get to Crapital One by 9 a.m.? They need a mail-room clerk, pronto.

Well, that depends. If there's two or more beers in the fridge, it'll suffice to take the edge off my hangover enough for me to actually make it to work on time.

Hold on a sec, let me check something.

I go downstairs. Two Buds left in the ice-box. Damnit! Never thought I'd hate seeing beer in the fridge.

Yeah, I'll be in at nine.

Being pressed for time, I down the first Bud while I shower. Then, while dressing, it occurs to me that showing up smelling of beer on the first day of work may be a reckless move. I drink the second beer to help calm my nerves.

But why worry? It's a mail-room job. Call me crazy, but some of my best temp assignments have been mail-roomers-it's usually easy and intermittent work with long stretches of boredom. Like any blogger worth their salt, I have a very advanced ability to amuse myself. Gimme a book, gimme some DSL, leave me the hell alone and everything will be fine. If I get bored, I'll grab a stack of blank envelopes and wander aimlessly around the office.

Office tip: If you stride purposefully while you meander about, you can kill hours - days if you carry a clipboard while you make your crop-circlesque rounds. Bonus points if no one else really understands your job duties(usually a safe bet).

But this job wasn't like that.

I'm ushered into a small, windowless room. On a large table is a huuugggee pile of letters and several cases of UPS envelopes. I momentarily forget my atheistic ways and pray, please goddess, don't let this be what I think it is.

Briefly, I consider telling the Mail Boss that I'm way too drunk to do this, but quickly realize that I don't think you can get too fucked-up to stuff envelopes; at least not without needing a spur-o'-the- moment ER stomach-pump, or just plain dying.

So meet my fellow temps:

-Mrs. Not Understood: Middle-aged cross between Woodstock veteran and shopping-cart Bag Lady. Everything she says sounds like it's created using the exquisite corpse method. Eight hours I spent with this woman and didn't understand one single sentence she said- and I had a lot to choose from.
Her job?
Peel a UPS label of a sheet and stick it on an envelope and pass it to-

Playa': 22-year old father of three, husband of none. He knows his football- even though he likes the Cowboys. He explains a lot of rap music politics to me, little of which I understand. One thing we have in common is that most of our favorite musicians are dead.
His job?
Make sure the name on the letter matches the name on the envelope. This is by far the most demanding task in our little assembly line. (Everytime someone said' assembly line' Mrs. NU would clap her hands and chirp, 'assembly line' Fuckin' bizarre).

Me? I insert the document into the envelope. This is not as interesting as it sounds. I pass it on to -

Queen LaTeetha: She's my age and just got laid-off after three years at the same temp job. She's got the most incredible smile-in fact she is all-around beautiful. Playa' waits about ten minutes before he hits on her-I'm sitting in between them while he does this- So, do you like goin' out? How 'bout I take you clubbin'? She tells him she never goes out-ever. I can tell she's used to this. She reminds him that her son is almost as old as he is. To Playa's credit, he was able to take the hint.
This lovely woman's talents are wasted sealing envelopes.

For the tenth time in as many thoughts I reflect on the lack of justice in this world.

But we worked pretty well together-even though by the end of the shift we were all starting to sound like Mrs. NU. When Mail Boss asked us if we could work this weekend it was like a barbershop quartet- NOOO000000ooooooooooooooo!

I get home and find out I've got a call from a friend-of- friend who's trying to establish a politically progressive AM station in town. I'm going to see the studio tomorrow-I have no idea if this is a viable project (read:financed) or just a nice beer-soaked idea. I hope it's for real-if it is I can do tech stuff and produce content, in fact I can't think of anything I'd be better suited for.
And-I can sell him all my dust-collecting studio electronics, declare myself a contractor and we can both write them off on taxes.

He says he's got the transmitter and the FCC permit is on the way. We'll see.

I think the idea is commercial suicide, but if I can get space to set up a production studio maybe we'd be able to roll in enough business to get off the runway. I've got the gear, just nowhere to set up. Quid pro quo, eh?