Organizational Chaos Explained - Poorly

Many have expressed confusion, concern and apathy towards the events surrounding my alleged first day of work. I say "alleged" because I have done such a fine job of blocking out the emotional trauma that I now refuse to believe it actually happened.

But in the days since, I have come to better understand the type of environment where such a clusterhug is possible. It doesn't explain why a situation would arise where I find myself asking three different people "Are you my boss?" and all respond "I don't think so... maybe?" Maybe I shouldn't ask it with tears in my eyes and pain in my heart as if I were asking "Are you my real Daddy?"

Allow me to elaborate on what I have figured out so far. In my 10+ years of professional work experience, I have come to expect a certain organizational structure in professional settings. Typically, the lowest level employees are hired by and report to a manager. Managers, in turn, report to Directors. Often, Directors report to Vice Presidents or other "C level" officers. And at the top of the phallic overcompensation pyramid is the CEO. I made this simplified chart to explain the words I am using.

If you learn complex concepts better through visualization and/or you are illiterate, here is a pretty picture for you.

However, my new environment is something entirely different. You see, I was hired by the research group associated with the School of Medicine for a public university. But I don't work for any of those groups. I work for the IT department of the hospital that is affiliated with said educational institution. At this point you're probably thinking, "Wow. Healthcare and education are pretty disorganized. Way to go on finding a job that is at the epicenter of the two." But you're forgetting the "public" part of the university. That means this cloud of chaos sits comfortably in the black hole of government bureaucracy. For The Win!

Essentially, I am being paid by the research group to not work for them. But they figured that as long as I would be hanging around, I might as well see if the hospital needs anything done. So far, that is the extent of my goal planning for this year.

The hierarchy in these organizations is completely unintuitive in that there isn't one. The person who hires you isn't necessarily your boss. And the people on your team could all have a different boss because they may be a hospital employee. Or a university employee. Or a state employee. The guy that sits 6 feet away from you may do the same job, work on the same projects and go to the same meetings as you do. But you will most definitely have different managers, both of whom have little to no experience with the work you do as if it were merely the answer to a trivia question. Like how people only know two Pink Floyd albums by name. "You're asking me what you should be doing? Hmm... that's a good one. I feel like I used to know this. Something something data... server... connections? Oh well. Have a nice day."

They give it a fancy buzz name like "matrix management." But really it just means that your boss is everyone and no one. Which begs the existential question, if you don't have a boss, are you really an employee? What is this place other than a collection of animated shells exerting common effort to a support a larger, yet equally vague entity in exchange for a piece of paper that represents other pieces of paper. Heavy stuff.

At this point, here is my understanding of how everything works out. The only thing I know is what direction money is being thrown. And that it is all overseen by a shadowy puppet master whose unquestioned supremacy is sealed by a blood oath. Or so the legend goes.

Five Guys isn't part of the org structure. I just list it here because there is one about 75 yards from my desk, so I spend a lot of time there - which explains where a lot of my money is going and where these extra pounds are coming from.

First Day at Work (Maybe)

Yesterday I started a new job. I think.

The reason I say "I think" is because I received a job offer in verbal, electronic and written forms, accepted said offers and subsequently quit my previous job - and yet no one in my new organization seems to know why I am there.

The job I think I have is working in the Information Services department for a university hospital. Actually, it's a bit more complicated than that, but I'll explain it later.

My first day started out simple enough. A four hour orientation explaining the only things I really cared about: when I get paid, free health benefits and the added bonus of paid leave for federal holidays. Frickin sweet. I am going to love working for The Man.

After the orientation, my first stop was to swing by the ID card office. As the human resources rep instructed during orientation, they call it the "OneCard" because it is the only card you'll ever need. Okay. Sounds good.

All that was left was to go to my office, meet my coworkers and maybe be productive for a half hour. I arrived and greeted the receptionist. "I'm Joe. It's my first day," I beamed like it was some special achievement to accept a job offer.

"Hi Joe. We've been expecting you. Here is your packet of information. You're going to meet with the office admin. Here she is now." Smooth sailing so far.

"Joe, so good to see you again. Welcome. We're glad to have you here. First thing, I'm going to need your badge to get you access to the building."

"Sure thing. Here you go. Hot off the press."

"What is this?"

"That's my OneCard. The only card I'll ever need?"

"Oh. I've never seen one of these before."

"..." (I may have actually said the word "ellipsis")

"No, I don't think this is going to work. You need a badge."

"That's not a badge?"

"No. It's an ID. Well, just give me your employee number and I can put the request in."

"Sure. I've got that somewhere in my folder. Ah, okay: 610... 19064."

"That's not an employee number."

"It's not?"

"It's not. That is a personal identification number. Those are for University employees."

"Right. I'm a University employee."

"No, we're all hospital employees here."

"Uh-huh. So how do I go about getting an employee number, and that - what did you call it - badges?"

"Oh, I don't know. I guess we'll have your manager straighten that out. Who are you supposed to be meeting with today?"

"I don't really know. My manager, I assume."

"And who is that?"

"Carl. Carl Lassnim."

"No, no, no. I don't believe he is in this office."

"Oh, okay. Which building is he in?"

"I have no idea. I don't really know him."

"Well... he told me to come here. Today. For work."

"I see. Well, let's just get you to your desk." She smiled kindly but began walking with an anti-social pace. No conversation, just leading me to a destination.

When we arrived, her smile returned. "Here you go. Name plate and everything. Here is your phone. And computer. You'll probably need to get a computer account to use it."

"How do I get one of those?"

"That's a good question. Who did you say you were supposed to meet with?"

"I have no idea. Carl just said - "

" - Well, you'll probably be working with Roger. Or Barry. Have a nice day." She was 15 feet away by the time "nice day" reached my ears.

"Uh, hold up! I don't know either of those people. Can you show me where I can find them?"

"Of course" she smiled, full of hate. I know, I'm being unreasonably difficult. I'm awful. "Let's go see Roger."

Wouldn't you just know it, Roger had already gone to lunch.

"Oh. It doesn't... look... like... he's... around. Now." Between each word, she swiveled her head around, as if Roger would magically appear and make everything okay. He didn't.

"Well why don't you head back to your desk and I'm sure he'll be back soon." Awesome.

Back at my desk, I met my cube mate. She doesn't know anything about my job, my team or any of the people I've mentioned. But she is very sweet. Though I admit the following exchange may not be the best example:

Sally: So, do you have any plans for lunch?

Joe: Nope. None at all.

Sally: Well, we all pretty much just head out on our own around here. There are plenty of places nearby. Here are 17 menus. I'm sure you'll find something. See you later!

I thought that this would be a good time to get in touch with my alleged supervisor, so I rang up the number I had for him. Without a single ring, it went straight to voicemail:

"The cellular customer you are trying to reach is not availible. Please leave a message."

Funny, I don't remember Carl having a robotic female voice. But who am I to judge? I leave a panicked voicemail with lots of "uhs" and "errs", just to communicate an exaggerated level of urgency.

With nothing to do but wait for Roger, I made up a new game. I call it "Sit at desk. Get up. Yawn. Ride elevator down. Ride up. Meander by Roger's office. Sit at desk. Get up. Yawn." Rinse and repeat.

As I ventured around the office, I casually poked my head into cubes it didn't belong and noticed something unusual. Mirrors. Lots of them. Most people have an array of mirrors posted around their monitors, on their desks and hung on their walls. I've never seen anything like it. Do they all have an irrational fear of someone sneaking behind them and jacking them up? Maybe they are just incredibly vain. In either case, I'm glad to finally be working with people I can relate to.

I also noticed that everyone in the office seems to have mastered use of their "inside voices." Everyone speaks in whispers as though they were discussing their role in a covert, Soviet conspiracy or that creepy new guy who keeps walking by. I'm not used to hearing hushed tones in the workplace unless some serious shit is about to go down. As an outside observer, I would think that this behavior could create a sense of paranoia - at least in the more anxiety-ridden, crazy person types in the office. Bless their hearts, whoever they may be.

One thing they are not quiet about is throwing up. On one of my laps around the cube farm, I saw a guy, typing at his computer, pause, vomit loudly into the trash bin placed on his desk, and then resume typing. I grew up in Philly. So I have plenty of experience to know that one should never stop, ask questions or make eye contact when a stranger regurgitates like a newborn. Empathy is often misunderstood as a sign of aggression. So I just kept on strolling and pretended that my life wasn't as random as a David Lynch project.

On the fourth round of my new game (S.A.D.G.U.Y.R.E.D.R.U.M.B.R.O.S.A.D.G.U.Y., in case you forgot) Roger was back. Yay! I win!

Roger is an older gentleman, somewhere in his 60s. He's soft-spoken but very kind and has an arsenal of corny jokes that probably play very well in the toddler grandchild demographic. Early on in our conversation...

Roger: It's okay if you don't know all the programs we use. I'm new here myself, so we'll be learning a lot together.

Joe: Oh yeah? You're new too? How long have you been here?

Roger: (awkward pause) About five years.

(Silence)

I patiently waited for a "Gotcha!", a laugh, even a hinting smirk. But he changed the subject so quickly, I realized it was no joke.

At the three hour mark, Roger had exhausted every piece of information he knew about the organization, the hospital, the university and outboard motors. Not sure what else to say, I just stared out his office door. It was at this moment that I spotted a familiar face. An Asian woman walked by carrying a large box stuffed with papers and picture frames and then quickly disappeared into the hall.

"Wait! Her. That lady. She was in my interview. She's, uh... what's her name? Why is she carrying that box?"

"That's Sunee. She just quit this morning. Nobody's really sure why. Who did you say you are working for?"

"Supposedly Carl Lassnim."

"Who? I've never heard of him. And you say he works in this building?"

"I... don't think so."

"Hmph. What team are you on?"

"I have no idea."

Roger furrows his brow, studies me for a few moments. Then says, "Well. Computers. Right? It's all about computers. Let's set you up with the HelpDesk so they can get you on that fangled doohickey of yours." Oh, Roger.

He shuffles around some papers, finds a pen. Writes something on a piece of paper. "Here you go. Call these people. They'll be able to help you get started."

"Started on what?"

"Ha! I like you. I think we're going to get along just fine, Mr. Joe."

I could have pressed harder, but hey - I'll take a laugh where I can get it. Best to go out on a high note. That's just good showmanship.

Back at my desk, I call the number. Because at this point, this task is my only responsibility.

"Help desk."

"Hi. I'm Joe. I need to get a computer account, email. I just started today, so... I need... that."

"Okay, sure. Let me just get to the right screen. And... okay. New employee. University. Next. Email. Network access. Who did you say is setting up your account?"

"Oh. Well, no. I need it created. I'm new. No one."

"Oh. That's not good. Well. Let's see if I can look you up. What's your employee number?"

Five heads pop up from their cubes like curious gophers when they hear how loudly I smack my own face.

An hour later, I had an account. Access. Awesome. Time to do stuff. Oh yeah, this might be a good time to get in touch with my HR facilitator like they told us in orientation. Let's just pull up the web page they gave us. Type in my last name. Hey! There I am. It worked! And there is my facilitator's name and email address. Easy. Just type up a quick email, ask for next steps.

Within 5 minutes, I have a response that reads...

I'm not sure how you got my name, but I am not able to assist you with any of your questions. I believe you are mistaken. You should talk to your supervisor.

Oh, but if it were only that easy. You see, my "supervisor" is a figment of my imagination. I was bored with my old job so I imagined an entire "interview" and a series of phone calls where the "hiring manager" offered me the position and even made a counter offer against other job prospects I had hallucinated. I was so dedicated to this charade that I even filled out the necessary requisitions and paperwork so that I had a desk. And a phone. And some questionable identification materials. Then I subsequently forgot everything I had done, so as not to ruin the surprise. Obviously, I missed a few steps because I don't understand the complexities of the state employment process. But I did a pretty good job for a first time schizophrenic.

I'm going to fast forward past the part where I cry in the bathroom. But only because I'm ashamed to admit I hung out in the handicapped stall for a solid 30 minutes. Better left unsaid.

It was then that a miracle happened.

It was 5:30. Time to go home. Huzzah! It can wait until tomorrow!

---

Despite the anxiety of this bizarre day, I had no trouble falling asleep that night. I don't normally remember my dreams, but the one I had that night is still clear in my memory because it so accurately summarizes my feelings from the day.

It's World War II. I find myself in an underground bunker, explosions above rocking the ceiling, shaking dust particles to the floor. The walls are covered in maps; circles and lines scratched into them. The room is filled with people running around, shouting in phones, furiously handing stacks of paper to each other.

"Um, excuse me? Hello?" I nervously try to get someone - anyone's attention. A man rushing past looks at me, confused. He is wearing fatigues and has dirt on his face.

"Who are you?"

"I, uh... I'm new."

"Finally! We need some new blood in here. Okay, you're going to be working the phone. Ah, here's one. You'll need this rotary phone. Real simple. You see, it has numbers 0 through 9 on it." He starts walking away.

"Oh. Okay. Great. But! Wait! What do I do with it?"

"Press the triangle button."

I look at the phone. There is no triangle button. I look up and he is gone. I grab the sleeve of the first person I can find. "Excuse me! I'm new here. And - and I have this phone..."

"This is a GOD DAMN WAR, Mac! Can't you see?! People are dying all around and you're asking me about a GOD DAMN PHONE! FIGURE IT OUT!!"

Yup. That about sums it up nicely.

---

---

EPILOGUE

The next morning, I had a voicemail on my office phone from my boss' cell number:

Hey! Just wanted to call and to tell you don't sweat the small stuff. Enjoy the honeymoon period!"

Or maybe it was "Enjoy the honeymoon. Period." I don't know. I'm not sure he knows who I am. It nearly confirms my suspicion that my employment is the result of a clerical error and I'll be out of a job as soon as they fix the glitch.

 

 

---

And now, the highly anticipated continuation of our tale: Part 2 - The Puppet Master

 

The Day My Legs Got a Man Fired

TRUE STORY: For no specific reason, I got to work early today (9:45am). As I approached my workstation, I noticed that my office neighbor's desk was completely cleared out. No computer. No personal possessions. No spare change or loose bills in the second drawer. Nada. Our desks are connected and separated by a thin partition, so I got a pretty good look at the void.

Yet it wasn't an hour later that I saw him - let's call him Maximillian Raffenbauer of Morrisville, North Carolina. And let's pretend he isn't from Luxembourg. So I spot Maximillian Raffenbauer walking around the office. Now this I found quite curious. So curious, in fact, that I found myself thinking, "Hmm. This is rather curious."

As I watched him pass, his manager approached him with strict determination. I continued to observe/notice/eavesdrop.

"Umm.. Hey, Max. Did you... move your desk this morning?"

He replied, "Well... yeah. I did."

"You know you can't just do that, right?"

He started to turn in my direction, then stopped. "Can we talk in private?"

I am not exactly sure what all happened in this top secret discussion. But I know it started off with him saying, "Joe shakes. He shakes. All day long his legs are twitching. It's nonstop. My monitor is literally in constant motion. It gives me terrible headaches. I couldn't take the ridiculous distraction anymore so I moved."

I also know that this private conversation escalated quickly and ended a few hours later with him emptying his newly-inhabited desk and being escorted out of the building.

The conversation where this was disclosed was private and fully confidential. So of course everyone in the office knew about it within minutes. Before me even. In unparalleled consideration and professionalism, they all started calling me "Earthquake Joe." But I've been given this nickname before. Just for different reasons. Mmm-hmm.

When I learned the details of his involuntary departure, I was dumbfounded. The situation plagued my thoughts all afternoon. This man was unemployed because of me. Here one minute. Gone the next. Because of my actions, I drove someone to the brink of insanity and tormented his work life. And I was totally unaware of it the whole time.

After some deep thinking, I determined what had to be done. If I actually put some effort into this, I can really start some shit. By my calculations, I can up my caffeine intake enough by drinking just two more cans of Red Bull each day and piss off enough people to have my very own corner office by September.

How to Bomb the Interview

So I love my job. Except for the work part. We've got soda fountains, Foosball, ping-pong and air hockey tables. But I still like to have my own special kind of fun. I recently started sitting in on interviews. Good for me. Bad for everyone else involved.

---

Interviews can be nerve-wracking for anybody. It's like a blind date where you get arrested if you go in for a kiss. All the difficult questions, the delicate balance of salary negotiation; who could possibly look forward to such an awkward situation? I think you know who.

My attitude is what's the point in asking someone a question they already know you're going to ask? I say the best way to judge someone is to see how they react to the unexpected. So I ask things like,

• "Okay. Truth or dare?"
• "Before we get to this boring interview stuff, do you mind if we talk about how Jesus Christ has changed my life?"
• "How are you at working in tight, enclosed spaces with no natural light, recycled air and a general sense of hopelessness?"
• "Tell me about a work experience where you screwed over someone who trusted you."
• "Tell me about a time where you broke the law but didn't get caught."
• "Just going to ask a few questions to see how you solve problems. There is no right or wrong answer. Just think through it out loud. Okay, first off... What is the quickest and cleanest way to kill a 300lb man?"
• "Your current place of employment... are they hiring? Can you give my resume to your boss?"
• "Would you say that you are easily tricked into taking the blame for things that aren't your fault?"
• "Name one thing about yourself that would keep you from getting this job."
• "How much are you making right now? ... Are you serious? That's it? Ha! How do you even live like that?"
• "Hypothetical situation: your employer is under investigation by the federal government. What member of your family do they have to threaten to keep you quiet?"
• "About your salary requirements... don't tell anyone but there was sort of this "mix up" in the finance department and we don't exactly have any money right now. So first, I should tell you that we probably won't be able to pay you for at least the next six months. Oh, and if we do decide to hire you we might need to borrow a few thousand dollars from you. Just a head's up, so you might want to cut back on those expenses."
• "So far, I'm very impressed with your experience and skills. The only thing is that you come across as a bit of an asshole."
  
  "So... what's your question?"
  
  "Oh. No question. Just saying."
• "Does anyone know that you're here? I'm sorry. Let me rephrase: how long would you have to be missing before someone would call the authorities?"
• "I'll be honest with you. I'm coming down from a major acid trip and I am not in the mood for this. Let's just shut off the lights and nap for an hour."
• "Close your eyes. Now turn your head and cough."
• "What the fuck are you looking at, Potsy!?"

Sometimes I get a little more elaborate and do some role playing:

• "Hey, yoooouuuuuu! I'm sooooo excited that you want to work here! We are going to have so much fun. We're gonna be, like, best friends. It's gonna be so awesome. Did you ever see Grease? Omigosh. We should go rent it, like, right now and watch it. We can sing all the songs and we'll get, like, popcorn? So awesome."
• The other day, I walked right into the room and began pacing nervously without looking at the guy:
  
  "I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just say it: you're fired. Now don't go thinking it's because you're ugly or because I hate your guts— Oh! I must have the wrong room. Good luck to you sir... or ma'am?"
• Sometimes I pretend that I am in a POW camp and the situation is less an interview and more of an interrogation. I storm into the room, slam the door shut and speak with a heavy German accent: "Soooo. You sought you could escape us, eh Herr Doctor? You sink zat we are not so smart. Well. Who eez laughing now? Hahaha!" "Wha?! I don't... er..." "Lies! All you say eez lies! Tell me. Tell me where he eez! You know the Muffin Man! Where do I find him?!"
• If I really want to freak them out, I quietly walk into the room, put my hands on the table, lean forward while looking softly into their eyes and whisper, "Take me with you." This also works well at the mall.

Take Your HellSpawn to Work Day

OR

How Daddy and I Wasted 8 Hours on the Clock

"i promise to respect your job now!"

Today was Bring Your Brat to Work Day. Since federal laws have been passed to prevent me from breeding, I was unable to participate. So all day I walked the halls one way while on the other side I observed a procession of executives holding hands with tiny clones of themselves. It was kind of like seeing a visual representation of the emotional baggage each employee lugs around every day. Kinda cute.

But I wasn't totally left out. On three separate occasions, somebody came up to me and asked, "Aww. Poor little guy. Did you lose your Mommy or Daddy?" Just because I'm crying doesn't mean I'm lost, okay? One guy promised to make it all better but after he led me into the parking lot, I realized he was just trying to bait me into his car. No candy from strangers! I always forget that one.

"have you ever seen a gladiator movie, Timmy?"

Apparently manners were not on the lesson plan today. More than a few of these little monsters stared open-mouthed at the 2-inch gash on my forehead (don't ask) as they walked by. Two of them actually had the nerve to point and ask, "How dat happen?"

Wanting to do my part to teach the youth, I pointed to the wound and shouted, "This is what happens when you don't clean your room!" Mommy was not amused.

When I got to work this morning, I headed to the restroom. When I saw three adult males, each holding a small boy up to a different urinal, I was ready to call the cops. But then I remembered what day it was. Usually you get 8-to-10 for that sort of thing.

"Umm... I'm still waiting on that coffee."

Having kids in a workplace is a complete distraction. First of all, they take like 10 smoke breaks a day. It's not fair. Their lungs are smaller. They should get fewer breaks. Not more.

The company might also be in some serious legal trouble. The National Organization for Women has already received dozens of complaints about the female employees not being able to do their jobs today. Apparently they couldn't attend any meetings as some person(s) posted signs outside the conference rooms that read, "NO GIRRLS ALOWED!"

My opinion is that the whole thing is just bad news. I don't know how it happened, but someone's kid managed to change the entire employee benefits plan. Health insurance has now been replaced by "free cookies before bedtime." Darn kids.

the original 'bring your child to work day'

Acing the Interview

In case you've ever been nervous or unsure about going on an interview, I've compiled a list of what I consider to be the most helpful tips so that others may benefit from my knowledge and experience. The primary goal is to make your brief visit as memorable as possible so you stay stuck in your interviewer's mind, even if you have to bend the truth.

• Clothing is very important for making first impressions. Wear something that shows off a lot of cleavage. Girls should also dress to attract the eye.
• Remembering people's names is hard. Just refer to everyone you meet as "Action Jackson."
• There is a secret language to interviews. No one truly means what they say. For example...

  what they say	what they mean
  "This is a great experience..."	"The pay is awful."
  "This job isn't for everyone."	"This job isn't for anyone."
  "The previous employee committed to other opportunities."	"She got drunk at the Christmas party and got knocked up by the janitor."

• Salary negotiations are always tricky. Use confusion to get an early mental advantage by opting for "the lump sum."
• Take your time. Start off every answer by whispering under your breath, "Oh fuck..." and taking a 20-second pause. Every now and then say, "I'll take the physical challenge." Then get up and start stretching in preparation.
• If you find yourself having trouble with a question, I suggest you bide yourself some time by turning the question back on the interviewer. "Well... why did you leave your last position?"
• Make sure you understand the questions completely. You don't want to give any information that wasn't asked for.
  "Well, that depends on how you define arson..."
• For the more difficult questions, just take a tip from a group well-practiced on tough questions: beauty pageant contestants.
  What are your long-term goals?
  "World Peace."
  What are some of your weaknesses?
  "Umm... failing to achieve World Peace?"
• If you have a phone interview, be sure to illustrate the intangibles - like your firm family values. Do this by interrupting your interviewer every few minutes and shouting, "Mom! I'm on the phone! Hang up! Stop- hang up the phone! No, it's not for you."
• Make up a few special accommodations to make yourself appear unique.
  "I am most efficient between the hours of 3pm and 7pm... I suffer from chronic hair pain... I feel threatened when short people make eye contact with me... I have a debilitating fear of time zones and mutton chops."
• Don't be afraid to give an example of your more marketable work habits.
  "You should know right off the bat that I title all emails with quotes from Seinfeld. I expect that any reply include a quote from the same episode, but must not be from the same character."
• Have a few questions on hand for the end of the interview to show your enthusiasm for the position.
  "How much notice do you give before drug tests?"
  "Are those security cameras real?"
• To ensure that you leave a lasting impression, "acquire" the picture of last year's company picnic hanging on the wall. Use your home computer to digitally insert yourself wearing a chef's hat and your arm around the bosses shoulder. Then return it to its place during off peak hours. No one will quite know why, but they will begin to view you as part of the team before you're ever hired.

And... you're welcome.

Don`t Read This; Wait for the Movie

Ironically - yet somewhat unsurprisingly - my early retirement has come to a premature end. When I first moved down to North Carolina, everything was great.

My mornings typically started out around 2pm, where I would greet my roommate's puppy Chihuahua with the words, "And so we meet again... Herr Puppy." After losing a best of seven staring contest (usually 4 games to 1) with said canine, I would then grab a hammer and screwdriver to prepare a healthy breakfast of Spaghettio's with meatballs (we don't have a can opener). The remainder of the day usually consisted of less interesting activity.

Eventually, this routine grew dull and my bank account totals sank below my IQ. Homeless people on the street started offering money to me. It was time to get a job.

I soon found myself the newest employee of a major bookstore franchise (not that one, the other one). And truth be told, I've had a great experience. But I'd be denying that I'm a yankee cynic at heart if I didn't relate my experiences with sarcastic condescension while completely ignoring any positive aspects.

A common statement shared between bookstore employees is the somehow complimentary fact that "if you were normal, they wouldn't have hired you here." The staff consists of a variety of characters: Graduates with English degrees who recite poetry unprovoked. Others who oft find Lady Inspiration beckoning them to speak with an air of Olde English prose. Or former hippies who have finally given into the Man. Or maybe a socially awkward person who just loves to tell jokes about coleslaw.

And then there's me. I do my best to fit into society. But sometimes my selfish amusement gets the best of me.

Me: Good morning. Did you get a haircut? It looks good.

Female coworker: Oh! Now he's nice. Remind me; who was it that insulted me three times the first time we met?

Me: Geez. Knowing you, that could have been just about anybody.

There's also an elder employee who some call "extremely dedicated." I call him a selfish bastard. Dedicated? For coming to work when he's sick? Every four minutes he coughs and hacks something awful. The kind of cough where you know something came up and went back down behind the hands covering his mouth. And without a thought, he'll then take cash out of unsettled customers' hands and return to them their purchased material. Groooooooss. Under the Patriot Act, I'm pretty sure that classifies as bio-terrorism. And jackassery.

My time with customers has taught me that roughly 50% of the world's population is completely miserable.

Me: Good afternoon, sir. Did you find everything you were looking for?

Pleasant Customer: Whatever.

Me: Alright. Your total is $69.26.

PC: Fine. Wait - what!? Seventy bucks for one damn book?! Are you serious? This is ridiculous. What's wrong with you?

Me: I'm sorry sir, I don't set the prices.

PC: —whole world think that I'm made of money?! Gas?! Insurance?! Ballet shoes?! BOOKS!!

Me: Miss- I mean, sir. Would you like me to cancel the transaction? I can put the book back on the shelf for you.

PC: Oh - no, no. I want it. It's actually the best collection of Siamese cat photography out right now. Oh and could you put the receipt in the bag? Thankyasomuch.

Me: I can also gift-wrap that for you if you'd like.

PC: Oh I bet! And how much are you stealing for that little scam?

Me: Actually, it's free, sir.

PC: Oh. Free you say? Think I might go home and grab a few things. I'll be back.

But I have my little ways at getting back at the nasties and keeping myself entertained.

Me: Good evening, sir. How are you?

Douche-bag: Just ring it up.

(Joe picks up the phone and gets on the PA system)

Me: I need a price check on the latest issues of- let's see... Penthouse Letters. Hustler. Guys and... Guys?. Oh, and Better Homes & Gardens.

If I get really pissed, I just start asking for photo IDs from every customer who pays in cash. 9 times out of 10 they don't think anything of it:

"Nothing to worry, Pastor. Just making sure everything checks out. Now can you tell me the last 17 digits of the serial number on the 10 dollar bill you claim is yours?"

Or if the customer is an attractive young fem that wants to pay with a credit card, I ask for her license and then say, "They're getting so good with fake IDs these days. You'd better give me your phone number. Just to be safe." Since I started working, I've got more digits than a calculator. (yeah, that one was real bad)

Though phone numbers have caused their share of problems for me. More than once I've had a customer approach the register shouting something like, "436. 29. 82."

Me: Pardon me, sir? Is that your high school locker combination or tonight's winning Lotto numbers?

Ass: It's my phone number. Look up my account so I get points or miles or coupons or whatever.

Me: Oh, sure. I'm just used to starting conversations with words instead of numbers. But that was a nice change of pace. Thanks.

And don't mention the words "area code" to the people of North Carolina. They never use them here and I suspect many don't even know what one is.

Me: What is your area code, please?

Ass: Code? There ain't no secret codes. It's a telly-phone number.

Whatever you say, Hee-Haw.

And what's with people who wear sunglasses indoors? And at night? And because their future is so bright? These are generally the same people who are legally obligated to go door-to-door every time they move to a new neighborhood.

There are also customers that prefer to be less overt and more offensive in their immaturity. For example, relocating all the Dr. Phil books to a restroom stall. Or putting a stack of Holocaust books in the Fantasy section. Or buying a Cher CD. "It's for a friend," my ass.

So far I've only encountered one case of theft. As I casually passed through the Sexual Experimentation section, I noticed an empty box that used to contain an audio book, the wrapper in shreds at my feet. The title? Questions of Faith & Morality. Since I know that there is a God and he has a wonderful sense of humor, I have full faith that the disc starts off with "thou shalt not steal," followed by a lecture on the definition of irony. Salvation does not come without a price, my friend.

I've already begun to notice how this work experience is changing me. I find myself acting in a completely unnatural way. Being overly pleasant and using that annoying retail voice.

"You have yourself a super day. Now you promise to come back and visit us again soon. I can't wait to hear how that Atkins/Yoga/Pilates/Amputation diet works out for you. I bet I won't even recognize you. Buh-bye." (cue shit-eating grin)

OR

"This book is exactly what you're looking for if you want to take your craft to the next level. It's been flying off the shelves lately. To be honest, I've always been fascinated by crocheting, knitting - any kind of needlework really. I just wish I could dedicate the kind of time an art like this truly deserves."

OR

"Oh yeah. This is definitely my favorite Danielle Steel book. It's got to be her best yet. So much... love. And passion. You should really buy it."

But working in any retail capacity has its benefits. For example, I get to listen to toe-tapping, booty-shaking music all day long. Time just flies while I'm serenaded by rocking artists like Bette Midler. Barry Manilow. Josh Groban. And I get it to hear it over. And over. And over. And over. And over. Kill me now.

But my employers made a fatal mistake. They assigned me to the music department a few times a week. One of the benefits being I am the soul responsible for choosing the in-house music. That's right; joey is DJ'ing at the bookstore. From the windows, to the walls, baby.

I wasn't expecting it, but in hindsight I'm not at all surprised to find a mega-bookstore corporation to be as overly sensitive to political correctness as all other businesses.

I was assigned to reorganize the holiday greeting cards as after every two hours, it starts to resemble the ball pits at Chuck E. Cheese. A customer approached me and politely asked, "Pardon. Do you have any cards that say Merry Christmas? Anywhere on the card, I don't care what it looks like."

Was she serious? There were currently 300+ boxes of holiday cards on the two enormous tables in front of us. I quickly scanned, prepared to throw 295 of them in her face and cackle at her ignorance.

However, she indeed had the upper hand. Not a single box of cards had the word "Christmas" anywhere on it. Sure, there were sayings like, "Happy Holidays." "Good Tidings and Cheer." And pictures of wreaths, candy canes, Santa Clauses and baby Jesus blessing a tractor. But no Christmas.

It apparently seems too risky to acknowledge the word "Christmas" in a business setting. But there's nothing with putting the tiny Hanukkah display way off in the back corner of the store - right in the heart of the business section. I kid you not.

And something I'm still trying to figure out is how Native American music is filed under International. Is there anything more domestic than the Native Americans?

But the truly touching part of this job is having the honor to grant the gift of books, of imagination to so many. There's just nothing that compares to the feeling you get when an 8 year-old child smiles at you as you hand him his very own copy of Pet Sematary . It's enough to bring a greater man to tears. Fortunately, I am not a greater man.

Commuter Cattle

If you do not believe that bad things can happen to good people, one need look no further than at the horrific reality that is rush hour traffic. Karma is dead, my friends. For four solid hours every workday, there is a deluge of unhappiness and spite covering every highway, city street and back alley in America. Every motorized vehicle on the road is piloted by a vengeful, heartless curmudgeon who simultaneously wishes that either their own car would spontaneously combust or that they could fire a rocket launcher at the slow moving car in front just to shave a few seconds off the trip to work.

Take a look around. Smiles are as common as 90 mph speed zones. Behind every wheel is the face of a disgruntled war veteran who every day is promised "One more battle, Johnny." Well, Johnny doesn't want to fight anymore - but he surely doesn't want to die. So Johnny isn't taking any prisoners. There are no friends on the highway.

These are not bad people. Not horrible individuals, sinister druglords or professional athletes. They're just like you and me. When out of their cars, they smile, are thoughtful of others and for the most part enjoy existing. But between the weekday hours of 7-9 and 5-7, every one drives like time is more precious than air. As if we all have a rapidly cooling pizza on the front seat and a pregnant wife going into labor in the back.

Surprisingly, the ride to work is slightly more optimistic than the ride home. Well, not optimistic. Just less wrathful. This is because of two reasons. One, after a day full of work and two journeys through commuter hell, the ride home brings the awful realization that the tortuous endeavor will be repeated tomorrow. Second, the morning trip is tainted by false hopes due to the brainwashing received back in elementary school.

In our early education, a set of unrealistic expectations is given to all in the form of Snow Days. It instills in the back of our minds the hope that something - inclement weather, national emergency, Halloween parade - will rescue us and cause the cancellation of our usually scheduled routine. At the first bell every morning, each child desperately hopes that something will happen to cut this day shorter than usual. Even a five-minute reprieve inspires joyous glee in every child's heart. I recall school once closing early because it was raining too hard. I don't even know what that means or why they thought it would be safer to send us out into mid-day traffic on diesel-choking buses. All I know is that every face had just as many raindrops as tears of joy.

But that doesn't happen at work. Work is never canceled. There is no radio call number for your company. There are no lice breakouts or office-wide scoliosis checks. Despite our innermost hopes and prayers, work will go on today. All day. Even if there is a poison gas leak in Sector G, the only disruption will occur when the folks in Sector H are asked to share their desks with the evacuated mutants from G until the quarantine is lifted.

This is why the morning commute may seem easier, but is in reality breaking our souls down one 3-minute stop sign at a time.

Why Childhood Was More Fun

As I find myself at the dawn of adulthood, on the cusp of maturity, I can't help but pine for the simple, joy-filled days of childhood. Days when the most difficult decision to make was whether to watch "The Smurfs" or "Scooby Doo." I know it's an easy one, but at the time bright colors and goofy voices were the very definition of quality programming.

Unfortunately, it seems that many of the cherished aspects of childhood just don't seem to fit in the grown-up world. If you turned to a coworker, smacked him in the back of the head for no reason and upon being asked why, only replied, "I dunno," you'd be looking at an assault charge. Do the same in kindergarten and all you have to do is have Mom write a note saying that you have attention deficit disorder and you're free to go slaphappy whenever you like. "Oh, don't mind him. He has A.D.D." I hate change.

Another aspect of childhood that just doesn't seem to work anymore is the ease of waking up early in the morning. I will forever be perplexed at a child's ability to spring to life during pre-dawn hours with the energy and tenacity of a wildebeest. For some reason, full-grown adults are not meant to be awake before 10 am. Is there really anyone out there who likes their alarm clock? No. I'll bet that the first time a rooster crowed at sunrise was also the first day anyone had fried chicken for dinner.

Regardless of these isolated items, I think it's about time we brought childhood back. I think that applying childhood rules to the workplace would make things a lot more efficient. Imagine an argument during a typical meeting:

"... so I think if we reinvest our dividends in mutual funds, we'll be looking good."

"Henry, I gotta tell you. I think you're just plain wrong on this one."

"I don't think so, Marge."

The boss steps in and says, "Well there's only one way to settle this then: the 50-yard dash!"

The crowd gasps.

That's right, the 50-yard dash: the final and definitive measure to separate the kids from the... uh... slower kids. In my neighborhood, the fastest kid was always the most revered and therefore he was always right. It didn't matter that he couldn't tie his own shoes or that he only bathed on a biweekly basis. He was fastest, so he was king.

Dating as I see it is far too complex could therefore use a dose of childhood as well. I say we go back to schoolyard rules. If I punch you in the arm and you smile, we're boyfriend and girlfriend until you accept the punch of another. There's no room for miscommunication or mixed signals. Of course, the next phase of relationships would be the sitting in a tree, followed by the K-I-S-S-I-N-G and so forth.

By the way, whatever happened to recess? Somehow, that brief opportunity to stop and engage in the social or physical activity of one's choosing for 20 minutes after lunch faded sometime around the onset of puberty. Well, I think it's about time we brought it back. Recess, not puberty. Imagine how much happier everyone would be if their company instituted mandatory kickball games every day at 2:30. The losers would have to go back to work, while the winners would get first dibs on the best spots on the reading rug. It's a win-win situation. Well, except for the losers. So I guess it's more of a win-lose situation. But who cares? Kickball!

In conclusion, I'd like to offer everyone the advice of keeping the childhood spirit within alive. Chase each other through the halls without rhyme or reason, but for the sheer childish joy of it. Watch cartoons until your brain rots. Start fights with your sister and say that she started it. Be amazed every time you see a teacher in a public place, confused as you realize that they do exist outside of the classroom and that they are "just like real people." Just do whatever it takes to hold on to the beauty of that innocence. Tag. You're it.

Business Trips Gone Terribly Awry

One of the most exciting aspects to the co-op experience is the opportunity to go on business trips to exotic locations throughout the working world. Sadly, the corporation that currently employs me makes it a point not to deal with companies in any quasi-interesting places. Naturally, they have no problem sending me on various pilgrimages to these havens of boredom.

One of my first work related trips also turned out to be one of the most awkward trips I've ever been on. I'd been asked to join a meeting that was to take place at a factory in New York. Southwestern New York state, that is, in a town that might as well have been called Horse Foot, West Virginia.

The first pleasure of this trip was sharing a five hour car ride with a man almost three times my age who I had only conversed with one time prior to this trip. As you might imagine, jump starting our relationship by spending five hours together was not on my original agenda.

Early on in the ride, he asks me, completely serious, how my 401k was looking. Somehow, I got immediately into bullshit mode and without even thinking I say to him straight-faced, "Looking strong. Strong to kickass."

Was he serious? He was lucky that I had overheard a conversation the day before and even knew what a 401k was. Apparently it involves investment and retirement plans, which are clinching indicators that the fun in your life is over. Besides, I'm only 21 years old! My retirement plan consists of nothing more than a baseball card collection and some old G.I. JOE action figures.

When put to the test, you'd be surprised how quickly one can exhaust every topic of conversation known to man. After discussing the last thing I could think of (if he happened to catch the latest episode of Gilmore Girls), I then asked how much longer we had to go in the ride. "About 4 1/2 hours," he says in a voice complete void of emotion. Shoot me now.

While undergoing this tortuous experience, I thought to myself, "Well, self, it can't get much more awkward than this, now can it?" Words such as these deserve to be followed by an ominous crash of thunder. A subsequent beating of yours truly would also have been in order as punishment my tempting the gods of fate as I later learned yes; it can get quite more awkward. Later that evening, we found ourselves dining with two guys from other companies attending the meeting. One guy married his now ex-best friend's wife two months ago. The other guy's wife had left him the previous week. Ouch is right.

Our final destination proved to be little better as Deer Screw, Indiana is such a small town that the local radio station doesn't even use last names:

"In the news today, Rupert got busted for driving drunk again. But Darryl let him off since he was only riding Tommy's three wheeler on the interstate. AT least he was goin' with traffic this time. Boy, I'll bet he's got Mabel madder'n a pig in a chicken coop! And a Happy Birthday goes out to Fred, who turns 68 years young today."

Yet the chaos in my life continued as my latest work related travel saw me heading to New York City, all by my lonesome self. I was a little intimidated, but felt that I was up to the challenge. Once I received my instructions, I soon became extremely intimidated of the trip I came to know as Mission Frickin' Impossible. No lie; here are my only instructions, word for word:

"Take the train from Philly to New York." (So far, so good) "When you arrive in New York, head to the regional rail platform. The list of trains on the giant display won't say they are going where you are headed, but one of them is. Stare at that display until your train pops up, though it won't say which track it is on. Follow the mass, chaotic rush onto your train. When you arrive at the next station, go outside and take a left. Look for the ugly building. Once you're inside, you'll know what to do from there."

Speechless. Utterly speechless. You're probably wondering how I possibly navigated such bizarre and cryptic instructions to reach my final destination. Let's just say that it required the assistance of no less than seven railroad employees, passersby and prostitutes. Guess who was the friendliest. I still don't know what she meant when she offered to see my Long Island for twenty bucks. I was going to Manhattan. Plus I live in Pennsylvania!

My inevitable tardiness also had a negative effect on my work. I missed out on the introductions of the meeting (along with the first two hours of it), making my assigned task of recording who said what and for which company increasingly difficult as the twenty three representatives of various companies before me were not marked by easily identifiable uniforms, matching color schemes or name tags of any kind.

Yet neither of these adventures compare with my first trip, which landed me in St. Louis, Missouri. They took my appendix out. They freakin' cut me. That's all you need to know. Trust me, even without the appendix part it was worse than the other trips, just so you know what I think of St. Louis. The "Show Me State?" You can "Show Me" the hell out of this freak infested, organ thieving province asap, sweetheart.

After my brief stint with the corporate world, I've decided to look into being a professional hermit. It's clear to be me by now that I'm not intended to leave the house. I thought one thing that would prevent my experiences from being entirely in vain would be my attempts to include emotional stress on my expense reports. However, my company felt that it is impossible to put a price on my happiness and personal well-being. So they refuse to do so.

How to Lose a Job in 10 Days

Many of you out there may be finding yourselves in the midst of the co-op hunting season. Some are getting back into the Great Co-Op Search, while others are going through this experience for the first time. Whether you be a co-op pro or an interview novice, I am offering a little insight on what you can expect from your upcoming trial size of the real world. Am I doing this because I find great joy in offering others the opportunity to benefit from my experience? No. To be quite honest, I have an hour to kill before I get off of work and absolutely nothing to do. So this is merely an effort to make me look busy for the rest of the day. Thanks.

Securing your dream co-op starts with writing your resume. My only advice is two words: artistic freedom. Provided you manage to maneuver the resume appropriately, you're off to your interviews.

It is often said that first impressions are the most important. In order to assist, I'll give you a tip that results from my observation of the current state of corporate America. The thing is that, in the working world, accents are all the rage these days. You see, the American education system isn't exactly tops right now. So an accent can help convey a superior educational background. Even if you're not native born, but have mastered the English language, throw in some incorrect pronunciations, missed metaphors and an indiscernible dialect and you'll be rolling in the money in no time. Communication confusion now means big bucks later. Trust me like your family horse, mate.

Let me save you some aggravation right off the bat. The first 15 minutes of any interview is going to be a dreadfully boring account of the company's history. As soon as you hear the words, "This company, or I should say a former incarnation of this company, was founded in 1908 by a colony of Finnish dwarves..." feel free to nod off. As you might imagine, at no point during the interview will you be tested on this material. Just listen for the words "...and that's where we stand today" and you'll be fine.

With these tips, you'll easily secure the job, so let's get right to what you should expect once your employment begins. The first thing you need to know is what "administrative tasks" means. It may sound important, but the similarity between the words "administrative" and "administration" is merely to deceive you into thinking you're doing something of great significance. Administrative tasks" translates into "bitch work. I don't mean this in a chauvinistic sense, but in that when learning that your day will be filled with copying, scanning, faxing and maybe even some light vacuuming, you'll most likely instinctively mutter, "Son of a bitch!"

Another thing to note is that the communication skills in the workplace are not exactly crystal clear. Too often I've had to sit through a fifteen minute explanation of a three minute task, which I already knew how to do before this great orator of the office decided to "help."

Speaking of coworkers, I would be doing you a disservice if I failed to prepare you for the sordid array of characters you'll be sharing your time with for the next six months. It's a guarantee that you'll be employed with at least one of these sad individuals. The basics include the Sports Nut, Johnny Nicknames, Creepy Stalker Guy, the Perky Princess and the Man-Without-a-Childhood.

The Sports Nut's deal is pretty obvious in that he exclusively uses athletic metaphors and superfluous sports vocabulary. You'll routinely hear this fool make unnecessary celebratory remarks as "You know Microsoft Outlook? Alright! Slam Dunk, buddy!", followed by an obligatory high-five. The annoyances of Johnny Nicknames and the Perky Princess are self explanatory. One missed her calling as the next Barney the Dinosaur and the other assigns asinine nicknames to all coworkers. I don't know why, but I'm the one that is called Fluffy Bunny Pants.

The Man-Without-a-Childhood is somewhat of an oddity and should rightly be placed in a circus side show due to the fact that you cannot possibly imagine this man ever being young. From the looks of him, he was born a middle-aged, plainly dressed man whose everyday vocabulary has always included words like "nomenclature," "non-issue," and "paradigm shift."

Creepy Stalker Guy is an altogether different brand of freak in that his super power is the ability to make you feel dirty just by looking at you as he slinks around the office. He's generally aged 45-60, lives alone and you can't help but feel that he vehemently supports the Internet Use Privacy Act.

Just because I like you, I'm going to reveal what is quite possibly the most crucial piece of information you'll learn in your professional experience. The ALT-TAB keyboard combination can save you in ways you can hardly imagine. In case you don't speak dork, pressing ALT and TAB on your keyboard at the same time will switch between the different programs running on your computer without having to suspiciously use the mouse. "Oh, do I hear the footsteps of a superior approaching? Goodbye Lizzie McGuire Fan Club site. Hello generic looking spreadsheet!" Trust me.

My final word of advice to you is to be afraid, be VERY afraid. In recent years, interns have become the scapegoat for all kinds of trouble in the working world. In my opinion, it was Monica Lewinsky who helped usher in this golden age of corporate scandal. First President Clinton, then Enron executives benefited from the old "the intern did it" excuse. It works every time, so keep your eyes open and your hands clean.