temperate

A year ago I woke up at six fifteen. I was told at five the night before when, and to which office, I was to report to work. Once there, I was handed a clipboard with a few sheets of paperwork. On top of the papers was a map. It was derived from a Mapquest best-guess set of directions and was rarely completely correct. By seven-thirty the day would begin.

As the day, already in the mid-seventies, got warmer, the sweat would start to pour out of me. I’d drink two or three thirty-two ounce reused Gatorade bottles filled with water. I’d be dehydrated.

The day’s work consisted of moving large objects up and down stairs between a house or apartment and a truck. The lifting and walking weren’t bad because I’d already adjusted, but the heat was overwhelming. Pieces would slip in my sweaty grip. The strain of the overworked muscles was only compounded by the sun on the black-on-black uniforms every trip out to the truck. The interior of the truck was stifling and musty. The sweat soaked through each layer of clothes and my deodorant failed miserably to keep up. A stench filled the truck and followed everywhere.

The houses and apartments we moved from had their air conditioning units, if they were equipped with one, on a low setting to reduce cost. The places we moved to were either without, because it was brought along with the move, or not on to reduce the cost of having the doors open for prolonged periods of time. The nice customers kept the air on, but forced us to close the door upon entering or leaving—thus adding about a third to our overall move time. The very nice ones kept the conditioner running and accepted the cost. The very nice ones were rare.

Waters were offered and rarely a lunch would be paid for, but the vast majority of customers wanted the move done as quickly as possible so they could get to their unpacking or pay less. While understandable, this led to more exertion. On the hottest days the morale was entirely too low for polite conversation. The tips, erratic in size, were not at all correlated to the amount moved or the heat of the day.

Today I woke up at six-thirty. I get up at the same time—aside from a snooze or two—every day. I get to work and start a series of mind-numbing maintenance projects before getting into relevant pieces. Some of the work is tedious or repetitive or unnecessary. I work until four forty-five almost every day. I’m rushed only when a project is due.

I started today with an email. A site is being reviewed by a new employee before going live. The email was worded with subtlety, but wreaked of condescension. It implied that only small changes should be suggested because most decisions were made before they were employed here. It also defended the necessity of a redundant and unnecessary page. It was a pathetic attempt to show power in the office politic.

The head of the department routinely yells out of her office door for people thirty to forty feet away instead of dialing their extension. She speaks at a volume at or near the bark of a rottweiler. The words are raspy and strained with the aural tinge of cigarette smoke. The power struggle between personalities in the department is absurd and laces even the most mundane project. Communication is low and project turnaround is high. The office is a relatively consistent seventy degrees.

It’s not that bad.