Sudden Surprise

After putting up with Anita, today at 5 p.m., after slaving away all week to reach overtime, Anita's ever loyal sidekick and another burnt-out associate handed us a bomb-shell. Escape from Stalag 17, an avid Tom the Temp reader, couldn't have put what happened today better:

"Today the burnt-out associate spent the day on her throne {within her glass encased cubicle} and then gave audience at 5:15 to make the order 'off with their heads.' She closed it {the project} down for a week or more."

Apparently, after having been promised six months of steady employment (many of us turned down other projects based on this assumption), over 100 of us were suddenly, without notice, dumped out onto the sidewalk just three weeks after the project had commenced. We were told not to return back to work until Monday, February 13th. Tom the Temp understands the contingent nature of contract labor. The ruthlessness, however, of making false promises, of raising the false expectations of people (many of whom are raising children and/or paying mortgages) about overtime and project steadiness/duration is truly unconscionable.

Hey, Hey/Yo, Yo - The Eunuch Has Got To Go!

Someone finally told off the Eunuch!

The Eunuch is a weak bully. The purpose of bullying is to hide inadequacy. Good managers manage, bad managers bully. Bullies bully to hide their inadequacy and weakness, and to divert attention away from their incompetence.

Tonight, the Eunuch emerged from his glass-encased cube, as he typically does after Anita leaves for the day, ready to pick a fight. In a condescending tone, he announced to the weary-eyed group (many of whom had been working since 8 a.m.) that we were to stop talking immediately, as it was "only" 7 p.m.

Typically, this is the type of condescending crap that you learn to deal with when you accept one of these gigs. Sometimes, however, a turning point may be reached when the employee finally realizes that they are not dealing with a normal human being like themselves, but with a dysfunctional, disordered individual who feels the need to exploit a fraudulent and broken system. One brave individual realized this and defiantly shouted out the simple word "So," in response to the Eunuch's observation that it was only 7 p.m.

Boy, was the Eunuch pissed. He hammered, stammered, and spun around a few times before demanding to know, "Who said that!" The Eunuch then went on to threaten us, in his always prepubescent voice, by asking us if, "Anyone has a problem with that?"

Yeah, Eunuch. Tom the Temp has a problem with it. He is sick and tired of putting up with your crap -- with your demeaning and domineering management style; with the bitterness that you are causing; with the low morale that you generating throughout the project. I have come to the sudden realization that you have just got to go.

Anita and the Eunuch

Yesterday was another turbulent day at work. Anita informed us that we were not allowed to leave the floor, a.k.a. our crammed workspaces, without first signing out with her. This new rule will be strictly enforced (it applies even to those taking a two minute cigarette break) and anyone caught violating it will be fired on the spot. The Eunuch, meanwhile, stood nodding in agreement with the new resolution and kindly reminded us that we were still allowed to use the bathroom. He warned us, however, not to abuse the privilege and to spend as little time in there as possible.

Confusion ensued, however, when someone asked if this new rule applied to the use of the kitchen sink. Anita and the Eunuch appeared perplexed by the unexpected inquiry and told us that they would have to get back to us with the exact parameters of what constitutes a bathroom break.

Lockdown

Periodically, when you have 100 weary, strung-out temps forced to review documents for 11-12 hours per day and only 2-3 supervisors to oversee the whole dysfunctional operation, the project goes into something known as "lock-down" mode. In "lock-down" mode, woe to those who dare go to kitchen to grab a cup of coffee or even take an extended bathroom break. In "lock-down" mode all bets are off, it's every woman/man for him/herself.

It just happens that last Friday at 5p.m., the project unexpectedly shifted into "lock-down" mode. The perpetrator of this sudden shift was Anita, the project manager.

Anita, with her six foot male sidekick, begins to troll up and down the aisles. A thin, pale, middle aged man in the center of the room is clueless about what is about to hit him. Apparently, unaware of the sudden "lock-down," this eye-strained individual, exhausted from nine straight hours of document coding, thought he could get away with a surreptitious game of mine-sweeper. He is in for the public scolding of a lifetime.

Like a tiger on the hunt, Anita closes in and pounces on her helpless prey.

"How dare you!"

A hundred people gather around to watch the impending slaughter. As if she were scolding an out of line school child, she tersely admonishes:

"You can't play a game. How did you get that game?"

"Brian {the tech guy}, I thought I made it clear to you that you were supposed to take everything off the systems of 'those' people."

The man, red as a tomato, and understandly mortified beyond belief, remains shaken like a leaf. The next day the man's possessions were packed away and his seat sat empty.

The Great Escape

Friday, 1/20/06:

It's 4p.m. I have been sitting at my workstation for the last nine hours. I am numb. I have been staring into a white, flourescent computer screen for the last three days from 9 o'clock in the morning until 9 o'clock at night. A sudden, intense pain shoots up my right arm indicative of early carpal tunnel. I can't bear to read another e-mail, review another spreadsheet, or code another document. There is no escape. There is no internet. There is no telephone. There is just me and the clickity-click of the coders around me.

In a sudden spat of desperation, I rise like a phoenix. I make it my mission to reach the Starbucks across the street. I quickly grab my coat and head for the door. A hundred stunned and silent eyes jealously stare me down as I skillfully weave my way past row upon row of coding terminals. One wrong move can lead to sudden unemployment. But, luckily, this time I am safe. The project manager, sealed off in her glass-encased cubicle, appears to be pre-occupied with the latest issue of the Joyce Leslie catalogue.

I have made it out. I am safe. I am a bona-fide refugee of temp land. As I quickly gulp down my steaming, hot cup of java, I am hit by a disturbing realization. How am I going to get back into templand?

The Mill

I started a new project today. You probably can't tell just by reading this but I am utterly exhausted. All I want to do is go to bed and cry. Once again, the agency lied to me. Although the physical infastructure of the project was adequate, the atmosphere was absolutely stringent. There was no telephone, internet, or any other communication allowed with the outside world. You MUST work 60-70 hours a week and you MUST arrive by 9a.m. Also, you MUST take an hour lunch and you MUST leave at 8p.m. Although you MUST work until 8p.m., there was, of course, no dinner or transportation provided. The project was an absolute mill. The idea that an attorney will be able to competently undertake document review for six hours straight after working an 11 hour day in a hellhole is utterly preposterous. The corporate clients are in no way served by such a fictitious farce. What a complete and utter waste of time and money!

Legal Sweatshop Award

Who would you nominate for legal sweatshop of the month? Who, while requiring you to bill 80 hours a week, sticks you in an airless hell-hole and cheats you out of overtime? While Tom the Temp and several front-line sources definitely have some candidates in mind, he is more than eager to receive input from his blog-reading audience. tomthetemp@hotmail.com