Temporary Employee: A Day in A Former Life

Then, someone farts.



I know this, not by the sound of passing gas; rather that rotten-eggsmell that fills my nostrils.



Then, the train stops.



Dead on the tracks, underground, the train comes to a halt; followed by the jumbled, almost unrecognizable announcer's plea: "Attention Passengers: There is a train just ahead and we are waiting for signals

to clear".



"Great." I utter through my teeth, which I'm using as a filter to breathe through.



At this point, I should mention, the commuter-sandwich I was in the middle of had really taken on more of a party-sub shape. Thanks to my recent jaunts in small spaced theatres, and singing in cramped bars, I was not, in the slightest, affected by what I've now termed "commuter claustrophobia". I was just eager to get off the damn methane-smelling train. "This is Jackson" the conductor\'s voice says. Finally, my stop. I get off the train, step up on the platform and realize, now that I was finally here, I wanted to go back. The impending boredom of front desk reception now awaited me. How many crosswords can a girl fill out? How many times can a lady check her email? How many paper-clip chains can a woman with a college degree create? This morning\'s mantra found its way to me again...  "This is only temporary". I started to proceed out of the subway, as the woman behind me scurried so quickly to get out first, She nearly pushes me over, her pantsuit just as ugly as her Scrunchie. Upon approaching the escalator, which is not moving, she looks up at the incredible trek before her, lets out a dramatically frustrated sigh, then scurries around the platform, in search of another moving escalator, or even better, an ELEVATOR! I let out a laugh I intended to keep within, but couldn\'t help myself. Here was a woman, who so desperately needed to keep her appointment with free enterprise, she was willing to take the extra time and energy to comb through the subway system for an effortless exit. The escalator still worked as an exit out of the station, only now you needed to MOVE your feet, rather than have them moved for you. Fifteen steps (I counted), and a person would be smack dab in the heart of corporate America. Where buildings were created not out of functionality, but for the purpose of a pissing contest between rivaling architects- desperate to make the next biggest, baddest, sexiest skyscraper around. My "maximum security" nametag and building access card, bear a horrible photo of me taken on the first day of my assignment and the words "Temporary Employee". I walked into that sexy skyscraper, smiled and thanked God I was just that... recent jaunts in small spaced theatres, and singing in cramped bars, I was not, in the slightest, affected by what I've now termed "commuter claustrophobia". I was just eager to get off the damn  methane-smelling train.



"This is Jackson" the conductor's voice says.



Finally, my stop. I get off the train, step up on the platform and realize, now that I was finally here, I wanted to go back. The impending boredom of front desk reception now awaited me. How many crosswords can a girl fill out? How many times can a lady check her email? How many paper-clip chains can a woman with a college degree create? This morning's mantra found its way to me again...



"This is only temporary".



I started to proceed out of the subway, as the woman behind me scurried so quickly to get out first, She nearly pushes me over, her pantsuit just as ugly as her Scrunchie. Upon approaching the escalator, which is not moving, she looks up at the incredible trek before her, lets out a dramatically frustrated sigh, then scurries around the platform, in search of another moving escalator, or even better, an ELEVATOR! I let out a laugh I intended to keep within, but couldn't help myself. Here was a woman, who so desperately needed to keep her appointment with free enterprise, she was willing to take the extra time and energy to comb through the subway system for an effortless exit. The escalator still worked as an exit out of the station, only now you needed to MOVE your feet, rather than have them moved for you. Fifteen steps (I counted), and a person would be smack dab in the heart of corporate America. Where buildings were created not out of functionality, but for the purpose of a pissing contest between rivaling architects- desperate to make the next biggest, baddest, sexiest skyscraper around.



My "maximum security" nametag and building access card, bear a horrible photo of me taken on the first day of my assignment and the words "Temporary Employee".



I walked into that sexy skyscraper, smiled and thanked God I was just that...