The Temp Agency: Tales of a Business Suit Deflowered

I only own one business suit. It’s a difficult thing to admit; at twenty-three, my wardrobe should be brimming with executive pinstripes and tailored attire. Instead, my dresser drawers reveal a host of screen tees, low-rise jeans and cotton hoodies, not to mention the matching sweatpants/sweatshirt section that’s eerily reminiscent of a JLo music video gone horribly wrong. My closet reeks of “card me, I’m underage.” Or worse: “I can’t even buy porn and cigarettes.”

So when I first decided to go into the temp agency, it’s not like I spent an hour in front of the mirror trying on outfits. Upon peering into my closet, I quickly realized my personal clothing collection is divided neatly into two parts: business suit, and everything else. For that professional touch, fuzzy pink where’s-the-bling combos don’t quite cut it.

Enter business suit Exhibit One (and only one): trim, black, lightly pinstriped, and very dashing. The white blouse needed ironing and the skirt was a little long—the story of my short-legged life—but regardless, the ensemble was oozing with polished appeal. In it I became cool, confident, and uncomfortably corporate. Gone was my quirky and bohemian self; in her place a soulless sycophant, slithering in serious silk.

Don’t worry, I told myself. It’s only temporary.

On my first trip to the agency, I arrived precisely at 4:58 pm. The office was closed.

As any cubicled member of society knows, the concept of “9-5” is somewhat fluid. The 9 and the 5 are only loose parameters, ultimately mutable in either direction. The 9 may be 9, but 9 may just as well be 8 or 10:30. As for the 5, there’s no way to know for sure. On dreadful days, 5 isn’t 5 at all, but rather 6, or 7, or so on until all possibilities of catching happy hour are totally extinguished. But on good days, 5 pm can be averted by preemptive measures and rearranged for the greater good, now occurring somewhere in the 4:40 to 4:59 block. This typically results in blissful triumph for those inside the office, and embittered frustration for those who aren’t.

After sitting in a hot and sticky car for a thirty minute commute, I was part of the second group. Despite the teasing fluorescent glow leaking out from the windows, the office for temporary employment was decidedly closed a full two minutes early. Resume still clutched in hand, I huffed across the parking lot, threw myself behind the wheel, and spent another half hour edging my way along a highway full of other 9-5ers who, most fortuitously, had also left the office at 4:58 pm.

The following day I decided to make a second attempt. Again I donned my business suit, slightly crumpled from yesterday’s wear but still screaming “hire me! I’m a young professional!” This time I made it inside.

Bathed in blinding white lights, the office was sterilely spacious. Everything appeared in shades of black and white, the carpet an emphatic dull gray. I was greeted by a woman in a business suit strikingly similar to mine. She smiled wanly and handed me a formidable stack of paperwork.

“If you’ll just fill these out,” she said, directing me to a table on the far wall. A whole stack of sorrowful Bic pens taunted me from the corner; I went through two before I found one with ink.

For forty-five minutes I sat filling out papers. Green papers, pink papers, papers on residency, employment history, sexual harassment, references, computer competency, former felonies, wpm…after a while I was signing papers about the other papers I had just signed. The whole experience was becoming very meta, and by the time I was done, I was sweating underneath my jacket.

“Here you go,” I said, handing the papers to the woman. I noticed she had shocking red lipstick on, possibly the only non-monochrome hue in the room.

“Great,” she replied, looking up from her desk. “Now what’s your experience with Data Entry?”

I froze. Data Entry? What was Data Entry? Surely this was some complex, technical term. What was my experience with Data Entry? It must require some knowledge of a certain program, a highly developed skill. In short, I was screwed. Nervously I wracked my brain for something, anything that might reflect my extensive experience with Data Entry.

Focus on the positive, I thought. Focus on what you have done. “I’ve done a lot of writing for websites…” I swallowed the end of the sentence. Clearly, my confusion showed. The woman looked at me strangely. Only later did I realize that, much to my chagrin, the mysterious and arcane Data Entry was merely data entry, also known as the entering of data. Sometimes I despise my propensity for over-analysis.

After a long and sustained pause filled primarily with my discomfort, the woman thought it best to move on. Out of the Data Entry disaster, onto more pressing concerns. “We just need a copy of your driver’s license and social security card,” she said reassuringly.

Now, in today’s age of pilfered identities and Citibank’s worrisome (yet amusing) commercials, I don’t typically go around with my social security card in my wallet. Not to mention the fact that it’s practically disintegrated. (For some reason the card itself explicitly precludes the one course of action that might prevent this: lamination.) Was I carrying my well-worn social security card on me on the day in question? Of course not. You can see where this is going.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Except this little piggy did not say “weeeeeeee” all the way home. This little piggy was thinking of a somewhat different verbal response, one that might make Mother Goose roll over in the Granary Burying Ground in which she rests.

Temp agency, round 3: I arrive in business suit which now clings damply to my body. I have social security card in hand. I give to woman. Woman is all grateful smiles.

“Thank you so much for coming back in today—I know it’s a trip.”

Lady, I think to myself. If I came back another day you’d realize I have only one suit.

“We’ve got all your info on file, so we’ll call you when we have an open position, okay?”

She still hasn’t called. Maybe it was my inability to accurately deconstruct the conceptually complicated “data entry.” Who knows? Whatever the case, my business suit is back on its hanger, dejected, deflowered, depressed.

Corporate America, I’ve evaded you for at least a little while yet.

~ by Bree on September 25, 2007.