Prostitution

Temping in administration is like prostitution. A client rings the agency and asks for a girl with a particular skill set. The Madam rings one of her girls and, after negotiations with both the client and girl, sends the girl to a predetermined location on a predetermined date to perform pre-negotiated duties at a pre-negotiated rate.

I was a prostitute.

My first administration temping job was at Martin’s Industries, a Halstead pipe factory located in a semi-industrial area.

I sat alone on the second floor at a giant reception desk in a massive otherwise-empty room. The desk was in the opposite corner to a stairwell from where visitors appeared before walking ten metres across the dated and dusty interior to be greeted by me in a meek unconfident voice: “Hello, welcome to Martin’s Industries.”

For my two-week “assignment” I had to greet people, transfer calls, post and courier mail, type, sit at the desk until home time, and indulge Mr Martin.

Bill Martin, of Martin’s Industries, was the company’s seventy-year-old founder. Bill Martin was very important. Mr Bill Martin was Martin’s Industries.

If the phone was for Bill and he wasn’t in his office, I had to summons him via a loudspeaker broadcast over the factory floor by shouting into a microphone to cut through the factory noise – why the speaker’s volume couldn’t be turned up, I do not know.

At each temping assignment, one staff member tends to look after the temp. At Martin’s Industries, it was a woman from accounting with large curly ginger hair and perpetually-surprised round eyes like those of a Japanese animation character.

Although it was 2001, for my two weeks at Martin’s Industries, Mrs Accounting looked to have stepped out of a nineteen-eighties office – minus the giant white-brick cell phone. Mrs Accounting wore immaculate matching skirt-suits: green, purple, yellow or blue, and the jackets had giant shoulder pads. She was fascinating to watch. Quiet and confident, Mrs Accounting ignored my negative reactions to her requests as if she hadn’t heard them because behind her wide animation eyes was gentle goodness, numerical calculations and a willingness to help.

She taught me how to summons Mr Martin.

She was one of those people who unknowingly get in your personal space. Even though the room was massive, she pulled her chair close to mine, held the microphone to her mouth and looked into the distance before giving everything to best demonstrate how to summons Bill Martin.

During my lesson, in the friendliest, most supportive way, Mrs Accounting grilled me and through example and patience made me the factory-speaker announcer I am today.

“Like this,” she said, her circle-eyes locked on the far wall in a permanent state of wonder. There was something sexual about Mrs Accounting, the way she was lost to herself and oblivious to others; when she filled her chest with air, her shoulder pads seemed to inflate.

With great earnestness, Mrs Accounting addressed an imagined factory floor.

“Bill Martin,” long pause, “please contact reception.” Long pause. “Bill Martin,” long pause, “please contact reception.”

Bill was down there, somewhere. And he would be found.

The weirdest part was the pauses. During these three-second intervals, Mrs Accounting froze, like her thoughts had vanished or she was mid-way through a game of freeze tag and determined to win.

As in many situations which seem funny to me but no one else, I had started to laugh so looked away and scolded myself. When I turned back, Mrs Accounting had finished and pre-emptive shame washed over me.

I took the microphone and with little enthusiasm said, “Bill Martin. Please contact reception.”

Mrs Accounting gave me one of those you-are-a-slow-learner pity looks reserved for children or special needs students, before expressing warmth and gentle patience speaking in a soft tone: “It’s essential you repeat the announcement twice.”

I looked away and took a deep breath, faced the back wall, steadied my eyes, and mimicking her mesmerised state, shouted at the stairwell to an imagined visitor, “Bill Martin,” long pause, “please contact reception.” Long pause, “Bill Martin,” long pause, “please contact reception.”

She waited. Obviously I had to do it again.

I turned to face the back wall and lifted my chin, “Bill Martin,” pause, “please contact reception.” Long pause, “Bill Martin,” long pause, “please contact reception.”

She beamed. Her pupils dilated. She was impressed. Mr Martin was sure to come to reception. I was the temp they paid the big money for. Soon I would wear matching skirt-suits and work in accounting.

At home with Ellie, I undertook an embarrassment-level check because Ellie had come to be my voice of reason since sometimes, without realising, I offend people or misinterpret situations. I had discovered I could explain situations to Ellie and she would decode them. It was a good system.

On the couch in the lounge at home, I completed a speaker-announcement embarrassment-level-decipher-check. I needed to know if my shame was justified or an overreaction, and if speaker announcing was an unreasonable expectation from Martin’s Industries.

After consulting with Ellie, she said yes, I had correctly determined the embarrassment level, and shame and apprehension in this situation were natural. However, Martin’s Industries’ treatment of me was not cruel and unacceptable and their expectations were nothing to walk out of a job over.

I trusted Ellie – but struggled to agree.

Usually the kindest person in the world, Ellie had me demonstrate the humiliating loudspeaker announcement technique over and over again, each time laughing as hard as the last. I laughed along with her and thought of Mrs Accounting sitting beside me at the isolated reception desk. If only she knew I was practicing at home, she would have been proud.

Mr Martin had another jaw-dropping request.

Stuck in a nineteen-fifties-office-etiquette time warp, Mr Martin had me “get somebody on the line.”

He explained his peculiar request to me on my first day and I looked at him dumbfounded, a look he probably mistook for a woman’s inferior intellect.
“So.” I thought repeating his request back would highlight its ridiculousness. “You are asking me to call someone and tell them you want to speak with them?”

He nodded.

“Then if they say ‘yes’, I call you and tell you they are on the line, then transfer the call to you?” At the question end I pitched my voice higher than usual, to overemphasise the question and say “Really?” without words.

He looked at me like he didn’t understand if I was asking a question; obviously, I understood his requirements. “That’s correct,” said Mr Martin, now blank-faced and imagining what “the little lady” was making him for dinner that night. He walked away.

A few minutes later I got a phone call.

“Oh, hello Mr Martin,” I said, in a flat unfriendly tone.

“Can you please get Mr Other Person on the line for me?” He hung up, not giving me a chance to refuse.

I found Mr Other Person’s phone number on an ancient Rollerdex and made the call. A receptionist answered and asked, “Can I ask who is calling?”

“Yes, it’s the receptionist from Martin’s Industries. I’m calling on behalf of Bill Martin. Mr Martin wants to speak with Mr Other Person.” She paused, until understanding came, then transferred me.

Mr Other Person answered, “Hello, Mr Other Person here.”

“Hello, it’s Marie from Martin’s Industries. Bill Martin would like to speak with you.” Another pause followed as Mr Other Person processed the situation.
“Okay. Thank you. Put him through.”

I put Mr Other Person on hold and dialled Mr Martin. “Mr Martin, I have Mr Other Person on the phone for you.”

“Thank you. Please put him through.”

Exasperated by Mr Martin operating this way, I sought solace from Mrs Accountant. I explained the awful degrading things Mr Martin made me do. I said it was laughable.

“I mean really. What year is this? Nineteen-fifty-two?”

Mrs Accountant received my concerns with her familiar blank wordless stare and flattened a crease from her blue skirt.

I needed Mrs Accounting to understand. By expressing my concerns, maybe I could make change and save the next receptionist from a demeaning life.

I used stronger words, “It’s stupid how he makes me call someone for him and transfer the call. It’s stupid.”

Mrs Accountant remained impartial and extracted a long hair from the arm of her suit jacket, she looked at her watch, she had to put every minute down to a code, her mind drifted to the Excel formula she would use to total her week.

Hating my first office experience, I had to believe office temping was merely a stepping stone to greater career success. I had my twenties to find my calling and, being realistic, knew no one landed their dream job at twenty-one years old. I hoped the resentment I felt towards this menial job would spur me forward. I believed it was only a matter of time until someone saw my potential and helped me on my way.