Temping is a lot like causing yourself pain for no reason
Me, after pushing multiple buttons through numerous menus to get to this curt answering-phone lady: "Hi, I'm calling with a message for Dr. Steinberg?"
"Hold on a minute." Says phone lady.
"mm-hmm." I almost whisper it. I can feel how disgusted she is with me.
"That sounds like fun!" says a distant male voice, as part of some looped recording for the entertainment and edification of the sad, bored person on hold. I don't get to hear what he thinks would be fun - instead I now hear that I am causing a phone to ring somewhere else, transferred, echoing in the vast mysterious halls of a labyrinthed, white hospital in New Hampshire. I eventually leave another message on someone's voicemail and write "VM" on my numbers list, next to Dr. Steinberg, for "voicemail." Meaning, Check. Done with you, Steinberg, and your hateful staff.
I hate this job. I'm filling a temporary position at Connex, inviting doctors by phone to medical conferences. Sometimes the receptionists ask me, "Are you a telemarketer?" with disdain seeping from their hearts into their voices and spilling out of my cushiony headphone earpieces.
"I, don't think so?" I said once, before I thought about what to say. I mean, they're legitimate conferences, it sounds like, right? How do I know? I'm not asking them to spend any money on anything. But what if these conferences are a sneaky clever pharmaceutical company guise to sell some drug to doctors?
There's a pause.
It's almost time for lunch. There's some company potluck lunch today, Thanksgiving-themed, that I feel awkward about because,
a)I don't really work here
b)I definitely didn't bring anything.
However, the smell of Lysol is so overpowering in this cubicle that I would subject myself to unbelievable lengths of humiliation to escape it.
So.
"Hold on a minute." Says phone lady.
"mm-hmm." I almost whisper it. I can feel how disgusted she is with me.
"That sounds like fun!" says a distant male voice, as part of some looped recording for the entertainment and edification of the sad, bored person on hold. I don't get to hear what he thinks would be fun - instead I now hear that I am causing a phone to ring somewhere else, transferred, echoing in the vast mysterious halls of a labyrinthed, white hospital in New Hampshire. I eventually leave another message on someone's voicemail and write "VM" on my numbers list, next to Dr. Steinberg, for "voicemail." Meaning, Check. Done with you, Steinberg, and your hateful staff.
I hate this job. I'm filling a temporary position at Connex, inviting doctors by phone to medical conferences. Sometimes the receptionists ask me, "Are you a telemarketer?" with disdain seeping from their hearts into their voices and spilling out of my cushiony headphone earpieces.
"I, don't think so?" I said once, before I thought about what to say. I mean, they're legitimate conferences, it sounds like, right? How do I know? I'm not asking them to spend any money on anything. But what if these conferences are a sneaky clever pharmaceutical company guise to sell some drug to doctors?
There's a pause.
It's almost time for lunch. There's some company potluck lunch today, Thanksgiving-themed, that I feel awkward about because,
a)I don't really work here
b)I definitely didn't bring anything.
However, the smell of Lysol is so overpowering in this cubicle that I would subject myself to unbelievable lengths of humiliation to escape it.
So.
posted by sarah at 11:45 AM
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