Hardware Store Horrors: My Contribution To Temp Slave

<Temp Slave, Issue Six>

Reckoner's Note #1: "Back in the day" is an oft-abused expression, but an apt one for many occasions...especially when people evoke some bygone era that agrees with them better (as in, "Back in the day, you could smoke pot in our dorm lounge, and nobody blinked," or, "Back in the day, you could piss on the parking garage roof, but you wouldn't get busted"). 

As a unit of time, though, I'm going to assign 20 or more years to "back in the day." Simply because, when you hear the parties involved tossing it around, it's pretty obvious they don't mean last week, let alone last year.

Back in my day (the mid-'90s), you couldn't miss TEMP SLAVE, when 'zines were all the rage, scoring major media attention, even book deals on Madison Avenue. TEMP SLAVE started as an irreverent blast against the industry, in particular, but broadened its outlook to the work world, in general, and the sclerotic political system that allowed all its abuses, big and small, to flourish.

Though it's long gone, TEMP SLAVE isn't some quaint artifact. The themes it broached -- from America's mushrooming inequality, to the decline of regular work, and the abuses of fulltimer and temp alike -- seem more relevant than ever. So do the "permalance" hustles that keep workers forever on the company hook, without benefits or time off, let alone any say over their so-called careers and futures. Nobody can say that TEMP SLAVE''s creator, Jeff Kelly (Keffo), didn't try to warn us.

While digging through my papers, I came across my own long-forgotten contribution to TEMP SLAVE. I submitted it in the winter of '96, I think, after briefly becoming enmeshed in temping, while trying to survive in the unforgiving Windy City. My article did run in TEMP SLAVE, but I don't recall what issue, because I don't have it..

Here it is now, 23-odd years later, in all its ragged glory (with minor edits and notes, where applicable). As usual, the names have been changed to shield the innocent, and protect against retribution from the guilty.

<HOMESPUN HARDWARE'S THE PLACE (UNLESS YOU TEMP THERE)>

We've heard their jingles umpteen times: "Homespun Hardware's the place..." Doesn't that put a golfball-sized lump in your throat -- knowing some all-powerful father figure's scurrying to find you the right light bulb?

But you better look something like the Homespun Hardware Man, or else he won't let you temp there, as I learned from my one-day experience there in Wheeling, IL, thanks to Fly By Nite Talent Pool. 

When Fly By Nite called, during record wind chills of minus 70 below in January, I wasn't elated about a retail assignment. I'd just finished three pleasant weeks at a microfilm place, meaning all the free copies, office supplies and phone time that a freelance writer could want.

Thrilled or not, though, I took the gig, since Fly By Nite claimed it would run two weeks. To worsen matters, my North Side cubbyhole's just 35 miles from swinging Wheeling. When you're making $8 an hour, and gas $1.40 per gallon (minimum), you're hardly coming out ahead, especially if you're driving a 1983 Buick gas guzzler!

The job itself, which begins at 8:00 a.m., is pretty routine. Fly By Nite bills it as "general office." In reality, this gig only involves rearranging shelves to make room for new products, so I spend most of my time figuring out how to display chainsaws. It hardly matters where, because the manager vetoes most of my arrangements, anyhow, forcing me to get his "official" word before doing anything.

And woe to those poor customers asking, "Where do I find such-and-such a screwdriver?" I simply point to my supervisor. "Why don't you ask Trevor? He knows more than I do." As the morning drones on, I tire of this May-I-Help-You-Speak, and hide behind the nearest available shelf whenever customers approach.

I get some comic relief over break from reading the industry's views about theft in American Hardware. After questioning various Homespun outlets in Arizona, and Virginia, its lead article concludes the greatest danger to corporate profits isn't coming from customers (wow, really?), but (duh) employees, leading to some All-American notions about how to preclude such illicit redistribution of wealth.

For example, the article suggests, slip an extra $10 bill into somebody's register, to test their observancy (and honesty) at the same time. Also, keep big ticket items out of sight, so your employees can't "lose" them after closing time.

As a result, most retailers are using civil prosecutions against employees with aggravated sticky fingers. Unlike criminal cases, they only require 51 percent proof of guilt, and allow judges to levy restitution fees of four to five times the item's original value, plus the usual court costs. What a great way to grease the legal wheels!

I hear even better stuff from Trevor over lunch next door. After four years at Homespun Hardware, Trevor now makes $8 an hour, same as me. Not only that, he spends two hours a day driving to this sorry job from Oswego, in northern Illinois, which means he must rise and shine by 4:45 a.m. Nothing like enforced dedication, right?

As it happens, I don't see Trevor all afternoon, spending my last three hours at the mercy of his sidekick, Donnie, who fits every joke imaginable about sexually frustrated hardware men. 

Not that I care for his idea of humor, which involves yelling "Airmail!", followed by a 40-pound lawn bag hefted into my gut. I get even by ignoring his braying commands to "load those pallets!" by sitting on them, the minute he disappears, to bitch about his domestic life for the umpteenth time.

I've hardly crawled home again at 5:30 p.m., when Fly By Nite calls. The rep's hardly asked how everything went, when she adds: "By the way, I've talked to the owner, and he's uncomfortable with your hair. He said, 'This is a community where people drive their Lexuses.' I don't think you'll be able to go back there."

Huh? I may be blond, and look something like Kurt Cobain from a distance, but am I that grungy-looking? Instead, I say, "Is this guy a charter member of the Christian Coalition, or what?" Especially I only met the owner, Chip, for about 30 seconds today. Does he have a wife named Dale, too?

"No. Maybe a little conservative, but I think he's just concerned."

"What about my time card?"

"Don't worry, Trevor will approve it."

POSTSCRIPT: FRIDAY

I've stopped off at Fly By Nite. While waiting for my one-day check, I overhear another molelike rep telling somebody: "Oh, sure, this job involves some light lifting -- but you can do it," A pause. "Where? It's up in Wheeling, so you'll need a car to get there."

I can't be sure, but it sounds like they're asking a woman to take those 40-pound bags. Maybe she'll have better luck with Chip than I did.

My total check came to $56 (seven hours). Uncle Sam took the remaining $5, meaning I worked one hour for free, basically. Assholes.

My 1983 Buick Rivera gave up the ghost about three months later, in April. It hasn't run since.

After spending one more day with Fly By Nite (January), and three weeks with Kelly (March), I've gone back into freelance music writing. I'm no longer temping for anyone.

POSTSCRIPT: NEW YEAR'S EVE 2019
Reckoner's Note #2: I'd forgotten one thing, after re-reading the above TEMP SLAVE piece -- but it popped back into my head, the minute I read it.

Right after Trevor and I got back from lunch, an older, heavyset gent with thick horn-rimmed glasses breezed through the entrance, stopped briefly to chat with a cashier or two, poked a glance around the aisle. He swiveled around, took a glance at me, and literally did a double take. As in, walked a couple quick steps back, but thought better of it. Then he scurried off.

"Who the hell was that?" I asked.

"Ah, that was Chip," Trevor said. "He owns this place. Don't worry about it."

We then parted ways, Trevor, to presumably mess with more shelving arrangements, and me, to the back room, where those 40-pound bags awaited my gut. 

This moment, I'm sure, triggered the situation that I confronted when I got home. Trevor seemingly shrugged it off as "no big deal," but I suspect he knew -- right then -- that I was toast, heading for a one-way ticket off the island. Not that he had any say in the matter (of course).

Even so, I'll never forget Chip's glance, brief as it was, one that conveyed a look of pure visceral disgust. Presumably, I fit the bill of all those left-leaning, drug-addled, US of A-hating misfits he'd heard so much about in the mainstream media.

Why didn't I mention that uneasy bit of eye contact? Who knows? In my own way, I guess I gave Chip a break, not that he'd return the favor. I wouldn't make that mistake again. At least -- not so soon! --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before You're Dragged Through The Temp Net):

Mark Maynard.com:
Jeff "Keffo" Kelly On Temp Slave:
http://markmaynard.com/2014/03/the-untold-history-of-zines-jeff-keffo-kelly-on-tempslave/

Print Fetish Collection: Temp Slave:
http://printfetish.com/2008/03/post.html

Shining Mr. Lincoln's Shoes (Letter To The Powers That Be, 1998)

"He's a temporary contract man

Since the union lost its clout

Got no meds or benefits
He's living hand to mouth

"In the shadow of the monument

He finally paid his dues

Dying of a heart attack

Shining Mr. Lincoln's shoes..."

(Wayne Kramer, "Shining Mr. Lincoln's Shoes")

While rummaging through our proverbial back pages, The Squawker and I have run across some interesting artifacts of our past. That's one of the fascinating things about cleaning: you never know what you're going to find, of which the following letter (below) stands out as a good example.

We've racked our brains, but can't recall where the letter went. The date coincides with our brief (three-and-a-half year) flirtation with the urban bohemian lifestyle, but -- other than that -- we can't recall the destination. At first, I assumed that we'd targeted one of the local alternative weeklies, until The Squawker reminded me: "Have you forgotten all the trouble that you encountered with temp agencies?"

And that's when the penny dropped, as they say in England.  I did a fair amount of office temping when we started our big city tenure. My best experience came as a phone collector at a microfilm company, where the assignment actually lasted the full three weeks. Most of the "slow-pay-no-play" clientele in this situation were established businesses, which diminished much of the guilt that you might have felt (say) for pursuing the marginal earners...but I digress.

On the last day, our boss actually bought doughnuts for all of us contract types, which I've never seen anybody do before, nor since. The typical assignments, however, never lasted more than a couple days, or a week. On one occasion, yours truly found himself told not to return after putting in an eigh-hour shift rearranging and organizing shelves at a hardware store...because the owner came in, and didn't like the look of me. I still remember the paycheck: $64 for the day, of which $8 went back to Caesar in taxes!  Over to you, Mr,  Kramer, for that last verse:

"In the shadow of the monument

With those mop-n-bucket blues

His soul sang sweet surrender

While shining Mr. Lincoln's shoes..."

Eventually, I found a dreary office job that required 45 minutes of travel back and forth every day to some northern suburban enclave -- which, for awhile, seemed like a better bargain than patching together this or that assignment to satisfy the weekly and monthly bottom line. However, my lasting memory of those daily bus rides isn't the job itself, nor my co-workers, but the ugly '50s and '60s architecture dotting the town...great, big lumps of concrete with right angles and corners jutting out here, there and there, I'd always think...how much money did someone plunk down to get the village looking like this?

In any event, the following letter brings back numerous memories of my short-lived temping experiences, which The Squawker and myself saw chronicled in 'zines like Temp Slave -- then, and now, one of the few publications that told the truth about what was really happening then. I have vivid memories of seeing the Redi-Men buses cruising the city, sneaking a glance at the occupants as they kept their heads down, or gazed randomly out the window, wondering how to play the crooked hand that life had dealt them...feeling too exhausted to do anything about today, and uncertain if tomorrow might bring anything marginally better.

Few knew it then, I'm sure, but the system was grooming everyone involved for a new life...the 19th-century-style insecurity of the Gigger Nation, and the uncertain world of shining Mr. Lincoln's shoes.  The letter follows now...

December 13, 1998

OK, Folks --

Your latest fly-the-flag-of-capitalism pitch is like watching a multi-cubicle pileup on the interstate. You've lost track of the flying glass and metal shards because you refuse to see what you're seeing. Your smart-mouthed managers' work-hard-play-by-the-rules pitch is nauseating in all its naked dishonesty, so stark and stunning is the mental impoverishment on display here.

To recap -- only a complete fool, or Armani-coated apologist, is unaware that capitalism creates savage, unforgiving divisions in society. To shrug one's shoulders and say, "I'm all right, Jack, but if you're not, that's not my problem," sounds suspiciously like Marie Antoinette's parting words before those unwashed lemmings stormed the Bastille to kick her powdered-wigged ass. In an American society speedily returning to Twenties-on-Prozac levels of inequality, your commercial is a gross insult to working people dying on the vine, with nothing to show for all their college-educated, 50- to 60-hour workweeks except loss of meaningful benefits, and carpal tunnel syndrome.

Oh, and while I'm clearing out my chest's unbridled arsenals of rage against your slack-jawed, complacent idiocy, let's not forget that a great majority of wealth -- in America, or anywhere else, for that matter -- is inherited. My current boss currently owes his $1.2 million annual gross ($180,000 per month, you denim-clad morons!) to his dad's death in 1983. Like an old plate, the bugger expired, and his son cashed in accordingly -- who, incidentally, thinks nothing of cheating his own salespeople out of $25 commissions (or paying me $9.75 per hour, sans benefits).

Ah, there I go, getting pissed again, what's the use -- I'm sure some weaselly spinmaster at your company will fire off some mindless "now there, there, it's not all bad" letter, or the equally inane, "Aw, c'mon, man, it's just a commercial, can't you take a joke?"

Don't waste your time if either response emanates from your stinking spin mill. Save it for the Third World men and women struggling to keep body and soul together in your vast, octopus-like sweatshop network. I'm not sure if they'd be able to afford a corrugated tin shanty on what you pay them!

No Regards,
The Reckoner & The Squawker

CODA: PS...
Whilst looking around for suitable images to accompany these unfortunate recollections, I came across an interesting broadside from a German anarchist group that's launched a campaign to abolish temp work:

http://libcom.org/library/abolish-temporary-work-campaign-fau-iwa

The heading in the graphic ("Gleicher Lohn fur gleicher Arbeit! Leiharbeit Abschaffen!") roughly translates to, "Equal pay for equal work! Abolish temporary work!"...though, honestly, I preferred the original Google translation for the last half of the slogan ("Leiharbeit Abschaffen!" = "Temporary Exterminating!").

At any rate, you'll find some interesting commentary awaiting you, once you pull that translation trigger.  For more disturbing reading, look no farther than The New York Times ("Temporary Workers, Permanent Problems": 6/28/13):

http://6thfloor.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/06/28/temp-workers-permanent-problems/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0

For me, the phrase that leaps out is this one: "The temp industry is expanding at a rate 10 times that of the private sector -- it's easy to speculate that this growth comes at the expense of full-time jobs." D'oh, y'think? Nah, never mind...anyway, to round things off, here's the song that started this whole meditation:

"Shining Mr. Lincoln's Shoes" (Wayne Kramer):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lgPoHKZZZE

"Happy" reading and listening, one and all...The Reckoner