The Anals of Pharmacotherapy
I started my new temp job at Bacon’s Information Inc. this past Monday. Bacon’s, in a nutshell, is a media database corporation which compiles and publishes a catalog which lists every single magazine, website, and newspaper in the country. My job is to call every magazine in the country and make sure that all the people that are on “the list” are still employed by each magazine, and if not, to delete them, thereby updating the database. In terms of boredom, this job has it in spades…so, I spend most of my time on the internet trying to get a copy of the Star Wars Holiday Special, which is beginning to enjoy a brief, ever-so-underground resurgence. Aside from that, the only thing that kind of shook up the monotony today was when I mispronounced “annals” when attempting to say the name of some poor guy’s publication.
The people that work at this company are, and I’m not exaggerating here, the certified living dead. As I left the building (332 S. Mich Ave…at least the location is right) on one of my numerous breaks today, I ran into a nice gal who happens to work in the same office as I, and I approached her as she lit her second cigarette. We chatted briefly about how unbelievably creepy the vibe of this place is…no one talks, everyone just goes about their business looking solemn, and if they do have to walk out of their cubicles for a brief moment, their heads stay down to avoid all eye-contact.
“How long have you been working here?” I asked Erica.
“Six months. Six long, fuckin, months,” answered Erica.
“Wow. Has it always been so…”
“Uh-huh,” she retorted, taking a long drag off her cigarette. “A friend of mine used to work here, Lawanda, she went nuts one day. Just couldn’t take it.”
“What happened?” I asked, genuinely interested.
“Pulled a knife on Diana.” (the manager)
“No shit,” I said in a matter-of-fact voice, just staring across the street at all the kids getting soaked under the glass towers of Millennium Park.
“Yup. Took her ass OUT.”
Erica dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it with her shoe. “See you inside.”
“See ya,” I said, as I watched her enter the building, looking defeated. I’m not going to shit ya…I almost walked right then and there. But, I kind of need the money, and since Lawanda is probably spendin’ time in Cook County, I’m probably in good shape. At least now I know why everyone is a bit on the jittery side.
On the upside to this job, I was able to search out and get the emails as well as direct numbers to a whole SLEW of people I’d probably call one night during or in between the 8th or 9th drink…Graydon Carter, Dominick Dunne (whom I loathe), David Denby and the bitches at Vogue magazine. If anyone wants the number to anyone working in magazine publishing, just gimme the name of the mag as well as the full name of your intended.
Please. Give me something to do.
The people that work at this company are, and I’m not exaggerating here, the certified living dead. As I left the building (332 S. Mich Ave…at least the location is right) on one of my numerous breaks today, I ran into a nice gal who happens to work in the same office as I, and I approached her as she lit her second cigarette. We chatted briefly about how unbelievably creepy the vibe of this place is…no one talks, everyone just goes about their business looking solemn, and if they do have to walk out of their cubicles for a brief moment, their heads stay down to avoid all eye-contact.
“How long have you been working here?” I asked Erica.
“Six months. Six long, fuckin, months,” answered Erica.
“Wow. Has it always been so…”
“Uh-huh,” she retorted, taking a long drag off her cigarette. “A friend of mine used to work here, Lawanda, she went nuts one day. Just couldn’t take it.”
“What happened?” I asked, genuinely interested.
“Pulled a knife on Diana.” (the manager)
“No shit,” I said in a matter-of-fact voice, just staring across the street at all the kids getting soaked under the glass towers of Millennium Park.
“Yup. Took her ass OUT.”
Erica dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it with her shoe. “See you inside.”
“See ya,” I said, as I watched her enter the building, looking defeated. I’m not going to shit ya…I almost walked right then and there. But, I kind of need the money, and since Lawanda is probably spendin’ time in Cook County, I’m probably in good shape. At least now I know why everyone is a bit on the jittery side.
On the upside to this job, I was able to search out and get the emails as well as direct numbers to a whole SLEW of people I’d probably call one night during or in between the 8th or 9th drink…Graydon Carter, Dominick Dunne (whom I loathe), David Denby and the bitches at Vogue magazine. If anyone wants the number to anyone working in magazine publishing, just gimme the name of the mag as well as the full name of your intended.
Please. Give me something to do.