Peering over the frosted glass encapsulating myself and three arrogantly rigid wooden chairs, I survey the local area. Tens of quivering temps clutching anxiously at their resumes are sitting, waiting, fearing their vocational destiny just as I am.
The employment agency I’m visiting this morning has become my favourite. They’re quite professionally run and got me the Big Brother job, so I’m sure they’ll find other interesting stuff for me. Mentally, I recite my ‘I don’t want to go back to IT or dot coms because I have somehow grown to dislike the daily lottery of redundancy threats’ speech, ready for my employment manager to enter the cubicle.
With a flourish, a perky blonde woman bounces into the cubicle and nudges the door shut with her backside. Hands flailing everywhere, she squeals in delight.
‘It’s so great to finally meet you!’ she buoyantly exclaims.
‘Didn’t we meet last time?’ I wonder out loud.
‘Here’s my business card,’ the lady continues. ‘If you ever need to give me a call, don’t hesitate.’
‘I already have your card,’ I begin. ‘We met each other last time I was here. Seriously.’
Not programmed to respond to this query, she continues. ‘So we can’t put you forward for any permanent roles, because you’re moving to Melbourne in February. Right?’ she taps a pen against her cheek, hovering over a menacing metal clipboard. Craning my neck, I worry that she’ll transcribe my annoying traits for any future consultant to smirk at.
‘How did you know I’m moving to Melbourne?!’ my jaw drops, cycling over recent conversations I’ve had with this lady on the phone.
‘Look, sit here. I’m going to get the head of temp placements, she’ll be able to help you,’ she assures me, and scuttles off down the hall. Poking my head curiously out the door, I spot a British girl being dragged forcibly down the hall like a misbehaving pet dog. ‘Typing test,’ her consultant orders, and shoves her into a cubicle laden with a computer. The girl whimpers and looks down at the keyboard, pecking slowly at the keys. Waitressing, I immediately conclude.
My consultant re-emerges in the cubicle with another, more aggressive woman in tow. ‘This lady will help you to find temp work,’ she assures me.
The other woman greets me. ‘What industry are you interested in?’ she asks.
‘Well, media and entertainment, I suppose. I got a taste of those industries at my last job and quite enjoyed it. Would a long-term contract position be a possibility?’ I ponder out loud.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘And have you thought about accounting or insurance?’ she continues without a pause.
‘Yes,’ I respond. ‘And I’d rather pass razor blades through my rectum than do anything like that. I’d prefer to work with something that’s interesting, maybe in a co-ordinator or personal assistant role.’
‘Well, I am in contact with some television stations and publishing houses,’ she cocks her head and says. ‘I’ll get in touch with them, they may have some long-term temp work coming up soon.’
‘And in the meantime?’ I ask carefully.
‘Accounting and insurance would be perfect for you,’ she nods her head at the other woman, who grins in reply and nods at me as well. With all the nodding in the room, I begin nodding as well, but I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be nodding at and the temp lady gets rather confused and frowns at me.
‘Well, I have an accounting role for you that’s one week long,’ she insists. ‘That starts on Wednesday. In the meantime, I’ll find a long-term temp role for you.’
‘Okay, if it’s one week long, I guess,’ I shrug.
‘And this will naturally involve working on the public holiday this Monday, and you’ll probably have to work until 10pm as there’s quite a lot of work to be done,’ she quickly adds.
‘As long as I’m paid for it,’ I concede. ‘But make sure you look for stuff with television stations and whatnot.’
The two women purse their lips. I decide to pull out a weapon.
‘Because I am looking for work with other agencies,’ I boldly continue. ‘And they’ve got me some interviews within the media industry lined up,’ I slowly speak. A cloud of discomfort fills the room, and the temp lady decides to leave.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow… actually, you can come in here tomorrow,’ she scolds, as if dealing out a punishment. ‘You can do what we call Breakfast Temping.’
Temping is bad enough in my mind. If there’s a special kind of temping, it surely can’t be reason to pull out a party whistle. I enquire as to what Breakfast Temping involves.
‘You come in here at 7.30am,’ she explains. ‘We give you breakfast, and then you go out to a last-minute temp job that we get. We have about five Breakfast Temps in here each day for same-day temp requests. You could be doing anything,’ she assures me, attempting to inject mystery into the equation. Anything, I have no doubt, is confined to the parameters between answering phones and filing paper.
‘If I must,’ I submit. ‘But I really do want long term stuff.’ In my head, I begin deciding to apply for full-time positions through other agencies but keep my Melbourne plans quiet.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she slips out of the door. ’7.30am!’ she trills as she travels down the hall.
I sigh. ‘I was kind of hoping to go to the beach tomorrow, have some time off and stuff,’ I complain to the remaining woman.
‘Oh, you should get ready for your accounting job,’ she assures me. ‘Maybe you should see a movie instead… yes, I think you should see a movie,’ she waves her hand dismissively.
Altering my career path is one thing, but my recreational time? I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already decided what film I should see.
‘Fast and the Furious looks a bit blokey, but if you enjoy that kind of thing perhaps you should go to that. Don’t expect a psychological thriller, though. Yeah, Fast and the Furious. We have a newspaper here if you want to check the session times,’ she offers helpfully.’
‘Look, that’s okay,’ I assure her. ‘I think I’ll just… go and get some rest for this Breakfast Temping business. There better be croissants, man.’
‘Give insurance a thought,’ she switches subjects, dragging me out of the cubicle. ‘And we’ll see you here at 7.30am tomorrow.’
Falling very short of kicking me in the rear back to the elevator, I’m sent hurtling back through the reception area. Timid temps, mostly school leavers and British backpackers, look up with tired eyes from their questionnaires which are mostly devoid of useful skills. I shrug and they all nod knowingly back at me. At least I wasn’t forced to undergo a skills test.
Descending in the elevator, I make a promise to myself that I’ll refuse to consider their accounting hindrances unless I get a fucking croissant in the morning.