Memories of Temp Jobs Past
I've noticed some commotion about Ralph Lauren's unrealistic view of women in the news and while it may be an insult to femininity everywhere, it is not the reason I hope there's a special seat in a very warm room waiting for him.
Y'see, a few years ago I lived in North Carolina, and the bottom just fell out of the economy and there were massive layoffs and business closings and all that good stuff. The first time I was laid off, I found a new job fairly quickly. Then they had layoffs and I was let go again. And so on, and so on, for two years until I landed a temp position in the Ralph Lauren Polo distribution center in Greensboro.
Only the fact that it was a temp position kept me from losing my mind. It was a hot, dirty, concrete warehouse with various levels, just like hell. They searched you when you went in and you weren't allowed to have any kind of loose clothing or purse or bag that wasn't transparent so that you couldn't make off with any of the precious merchandise. I couldn't help but be offended.
My first job was in tagging. That's where you stand by a conveyor belt and wait for a box to come to you and when it does, it is completely filthy and has big' Shipped from Some Exotic Place Where the Bugs Eat You Alive' stamps all over it. You cut it open and unpack about a million and three ittybitty tiny t-shirts in plastic bags (praying that you won't also unpack any ginormous flesh-eating insect as well). You tear those bags open, remove the tag that says $35 and replace them tags that say $75. $75 for a shirt the size of a hanky?? In this economy?? I thought. He must be out of his mind. That was nauseating enough by itself.
Then we had a tornado drill. The place we, valued temporary work force that we are, were to stand? Was between a massive electronic switchbox (in a puddle of water, of all things) and a gigantic gas valve hung with Flammable signs. Oh, and a wall of stacked boxes from Malaysia. I'll take my chances with the tornado, thanks. I did that for about a month.
Then, I was sent to packing. We were given a little bar code reader thingie called an RF or something, a cart, and sent to run willy-nilly all over level 2 and 3 to fill orders. The RF tells you what number product and how many, so you track it down and load up the box, tape it up and put it on a new conveyor belt that takes it to shipping. This is where it got bad.
The air conditioners broke. They told us to drink lots of water and not lock our knees. Then, they removed the water fountains. As in, took them clean off the wall. The skittering about on concrete floors started to make itself felt in all the places my legs bend. When my limp became noticeable they gave me an ace bandage to wrap around my feet. And we had hour long meetings about why we weren't getting enough done. And when there was a power outage we couldn't leave the building for fear that one of us might be smuggling out merchandise, so we had to sit in the dark for 45 minutes until the power came back on.
And all the while this went on? Beaming down on us like an especially prissy saint? Several gigantic photos of Mr. Lauren himself, coated, cravated, here with a yacht, there with some sort of vintage car, there on a balcony overlooking some ocean, huge looming photographs, bigger than my bed. Maybe they were just there until the stained glass versions arrived from Rome. Maybe I'm just bitter wageslave, but having to look at him smirking and larger than life through the heat mirages and foot pain while management kept a close watch to make sure we didn't make off with any obscenely overpriced fashioncrap? THAT'S the reason I despise and boycott all Ralph Lauren products. Bleagh.