My days were long and I returned home tired and frazzled. I had even begun to look like my crazy-haired boss who always appeared well beaten and near emotional collapse. I often entered my apartment at 8:30 or later too wearily to make dinner, shower or process my laundry. The place became dirty and sloppy, as I probably did too. Unfortunately, skating was the first part of my life to suffer, robbing me of its multi-fold benefits. Skating provided exercise, social interaction, and release of tension through physical activity. All of these contributions had been eliminated. I was lucky to get to Hansie’s once each week. Even on the weekends, I was usually too drained to do much other than try to catch up with chores. Soiled clothing piled up, dust and cat hair accumulated, and the refrigerator’s stark emptiness reminded me of my suffering diet. When I did not simply fall into bed hungry, I ordered restaurant delivery, something I could not have afforded as a graduate student but had become a necessary expense as a workingwoman.
The company also demanded that I travel to professional conferences. I was not the only person selected for these duties, but the management seemed to have an agenda for flaunting their new doctoral acquisition. I often felt like an ornament, an excessively expensive new car bought for the sole purpose of driveway display to impress the neighbors. Ever since Luwanda quit, I served a distinct function; I did her job. Of course, I was still expected at my share of worthwhile and bogus meetings and still had to process a certain amount of ridiculous paperwork that ranged from butt covering to folder stuffing. Essentially, I was doing the work of two people, a consumer scientist and her assistant.
I pestered Ralph on a fairly regular basis: “Where is my new assistant?” This had become a joke between us and our exhaustion almost united Dr. Sebetich and I in friendship.
He often returned: “Look in the mirror, Kate.”
None of this was very funny. I was dead tired, more tired than I had been as a student. At the university, at least completing my research would eventually lead to graduation and accompanying changes. Working for Contessa Cosmetics resembled eternal damnation. My only way out was to hope a new person would be hired or to find another job. I asked Ralph if Luwanda’s workload could be distributed among other consumer scientists in the department, but he kept promising it would only be a little while longer.
Soon illness forced other people to help with my overwhelming duties as I fell sick and stayed home for a whole week. A doctor’s note faxed to Ralph Sebetich, which he promptly delivered to Gretchen’s office, excused my absence. Nobody likes to have the flu, but the malady gave me a few days of relief from a schedule I could not handle. My body simply gave up and succumbed to a virus that my immune system might have otherwise combated under less strained conditions. I rested in bed and in front of the television, wrapped cozily in a blanket. I sipped tea, took medicines, and vomited occasionally. The pills provided some breaks in my discomfort that were sufficient to send me to the sewing machine for a short while. During the time I was bedridden, I decided to have a serious discussion with my boss upon returning to work. I could not continue to function at this level and maintain my health or sanity. There had to be a solution to this problem.
I suggested hiring a temporary replacement until a permanent one could be found. A part-time worker could handle the evening groups. Unfortunately, Ralph informed me of a new development. Almost guiltily, unable to meet my glance, he admitted a recently implemented hiring freeze postponed locating a new assistant indefinitely. My eyes widened in horror as my future unfolded as endless months of long days, exhaustion, and sickness. I began to panic, knowing I could never keep up that pace. I repeated the suggestion of temporary workers to fill in the gaps. Ralph agreed this was a sensible idea and promised to discuss it with Gretchen.
Meanwhile, I was stuck with my job and Luwanda’s and a travel itinerary. My existence had become a vicious cycle including nothing of personal value. I worked to earn money, money that was depleted by the expenses of subsistence. I needed a job to pay for my apartment and needed the apartment so I could live near my job. Nothing else entered the equation. I had no extra time. After work, I ate and slept and performed minimal maintenance functions in order to rise again the next morning and repeat the tedious cycle. I did not even have a boyfriend or enough unclaimed hours to seek one.
Not everyone lived like this, I knew that to be a fact. Workaholics might fill their dockets with career obligations, but that is a choice. Those people do not skate or only pursue personal interests in a vague half-hearted way. Some of my coworkers at Contessa were addicted to their careers. Their scope of reality contained nothing more than labor; if they were not working, they did not know what to do with themselves. They worked late willingly, grabbed opportunities indiscriminately. Of course, this may be required to get ahead professionally; and, therefore, financially. I could not blame anyone for wanting to advance or better himself. I had a similar goal as a graduate student, but had since fallen into a situation that I did not view as better than the one I had in school. I was just living someplace more expensive and no longer shared accommodations with a roommate. Otherwise, my discretionary income did not differ significantly. I could not run out and buy a new car without strapping myself, nor could I effectively save for a house.
While able to afford the high cost of ice skating, I lacked the time to indulge in this pleasure, a pleasure that had made my world turn on its axis for the last several years. If I could not enjoy life because I was perpetually shackled to a job, I questioned the purpose of participating in this cyclical argument. I derived little pleasure from my role as a consumer scientist (or one’s assistant). It was merely a means of earning a living and did not replace the other joys I had known. There were plenty of things I would have rather been doing than hosting focus groups or analyzing their data. This is not true for everyone. Some people genuinely love their work. They do not long for the ice. Their bodies do not ache to jump and spin. They check their email on vacation, carry pagers and cellular telephones, and feel important when their electronic communications devices buzz or vibrate. Recognizing the difference between enjoying one’s work and being obsessed with it, I envied the people who like their professions but pitied those whose lives lack dimension.
I would rather punch out on a time clock as I did at the bridal salon and drive away, leaving the rigors of the day behind. As much as the bridal shop became a symbol of failure in my quest for employment, it remained a sanctuary of paid happiness. Through my experience with Contessa Cosmetics, I began to learn about myself as a working person. I was not the type of individual who went the extra mile for money alone and the pursuit of an impressive title. I did not devour opportunities, and certainly would never trample anyone to grab glory for myself. I just wanted to do an honest day’s work and go home at a decent hour. In my heart, I was still just a bridal consultant, though my nameplate read “Ph.D.”
The phone on my desk rang in short bursts indicating an inside call. I picked up the receiver and recognized the vice president of product development’s voice. Gretchen asked me to report to her office. I happily agreed. Finally, my pleas for mercy had reached the top. Ralph’s proposal of a temporary assistant had been received favorably, and the boss decided to discuss the prospect with me.
With a pleasant smile on my face, I greeted Gretchen and sat in one of the luxurious guest chairs positioned in front of her huge wooden desk. Behind the desk, in a leather upholstered executive chair, sat a homely little woman who was almost as wide as she was tall. She dressed that dumpy body in a designer suit, though I could not imagine any high fashion designer creating ready-to-wear in Gretchen’s size. A mole on her chin begged for surgical removal, yet she accented her mangy features with the subtle sparkle of Contessa make-up. Gold and diamonds tastefully adorned her fingers, wrists, earlobes, and neckline. If Gretchen were a little taller, a little less squat, and slightly less ugly she would look like quite a sophisticated woman. As it was, in the present climate of the company, dissatisfied workers nicknamed her “The Troll”, a title that could not have been more visually appropriate.
“Dr. Sebetich tells me you need a temporary assistant,” Gretchen began.
“Yes, that would be very helpful,” I concurred.
The woman laced her stubby bejeweled fingers and placed them on her polished desktop. “And Ralph told you about the hiring freeze?”
“Yes, he did. I believe a temporary employee is a suitable compromise.”
Gretchen shifted her cumbersome backside in her chair producing the sound of nylon hosiery brushing against whatever material lined her skirt. “Word is getting around that you are not a hard worker, Kate. Is that true?”
My mouth opened in shock. I was completely unprepared for such a horrible and unfair accusation. I had been breaking my ass to keep up with an inequitable workload, and for what? To be accused of being lazy? My eyes searched The Troll’s nasty features, almost expecting her to crack a joking smile, as any human being should have. But she sat there unyielding, a stony expression mashing her lips together into a squiggly little crack. I assumed Gretchen was angry that I had taken ill and missed a week of work. I wasn’t tough enough. I was wimp for not coming to work with the influenza virus when I would have infected half of my office and plenty of consumer panelists who generously volunteered their time to answer our petty questions and collect our product grab bags. A sick interviewer would have sent many of them fleeing and unwilling to return. Gretchen knew this, but I had obviously done something to offend her.
She went on with the same dreadful speech about having to go the extra mile as a professional employee. If spread over the hours I actually spent working, that professional Ph.D. salary dwindled to the humble amount I might have earned with a bachelors degree. Contessa Cosmetics was taking advantage of a naïve new graduate. Anger burned in my throat as my voice interrupted her droning propaganda.
I countered that I was doing my best under difficult circumstances to perform the functions of two people. I was working long hours and making personal sacrifices. Asking for temporary help in this situation should be viewed as practicality, not laziness. I had been willing to fill in, but now it was time to look for a longer-term solution.
The vice president shifted again her chair and the leather squeaked its retort. She either respected my self-possession or considered me a troublemaker. I did not look away from Gretchen, but calmly awaited her response.
“You may return to your desk, Kate.”
The narrowness of The Troll’s eyes declared the discussion closed. She would not dignify my commentary with a response. There would be no temporary assistant. I knew that now.
I banged on Ralph Sebetich’s door.
“Come in,” he returned pleasantly.
Wanting to decapitate the scrawny mathematician, I pushed the door aside determinedly.
Ralph looked up from his computer monitor, smiled and asked me to sit down. He read my expression instantly. “You’ve spoken to Gretchen?”
“Yes. Ralph, what did you say to her?” I demanded hotly.
“I tried, Kate. I really did. She was adamant. If you get a temp, everyone is going to want the same. There are a lot of overworked people here these days.”
Ralph undoubtedly included himself in the overworked category. My face softened as I began to feel sorry for him. Dr. Sebetich may have been putting up with these horrible hours for years. Of course, he made that choice. Contessa Cosmetics did not enslave him. As a manager, he probably earned twice the salary I did. Maybe more should be expected of him. He received stocks and bonuses. I received nothing extra, not even time-and-a-half.
“She accused me of not being a hard worker.”
Even browbeaten Ralph Sebetich dropped his palms on the desk and pushed his computer monitor away to look at me seriously. This shocked Ralph as much as it had shocked me. “What?”
“That’s right. Where would she get such a terrible idea?” I realized Ralph had done nothing to plant the seed. My supervisor genuinely liked me. He had agreed with my proposal for a temporary assistant.
“I don’t know, Kate. I really don’t.”
“This isn’t what I signed up for, Ralph, not at all.”
I shared the story with Christos over lunch. It was a fair day and we sat outside on a bench. Christos nodded. He had been in similar situations. People who reported to him were also in difficult positions. The workload never decreased, but the number of people available to meet the demand had reduced significantly over the last few years.
“You’re a smart girl, Kate. You can get another job.” Christos did not think my short tenure at Contessa presented an obstacle to seeking alternate employment. He also seemed personally dissatisfied but surprisingly tolerant.
“What about you, Christos. Why don’t you move on? With your degree in physical chemistry wouldn’t you rather be doing research at a university or something? What are you doing formulating smudge-proof lipstick?”
Christos chuckled. He had a research position before Contessa Cosmetics. It did not pay enough. He and his wife had wanted to start a family, and a corporate salary made that a comfortable possibility. Christos was not a workaholic. He thought the corporate mumbo-jumbo was a bunch of crap, but his happy-go-lucky personality allowed him to derive pleasure from the people around him. He had few outside interests and considered providing for his wife and children his primary obligation. Christos, as a selfish creature, simply did not exist. That persona would reemerge in later years after his children had grown. The chemist’s eyes were open for better jobs that would not require uprooting his family, but he would make the best of Contessa in the meantime.
So I began to feverishly send out resumes. Contessa Cosmetics was taking advantage of me and did not deserve my loyalty or hard work. Too many people had already mistreated me and I had grown tired of it. I would not allow anyone else that opportunity. Katherine Northcott had been screwed for the last time. My goal was to apply for two positions per week. I searched newspapers, Internet employment sites, trade journals, placement centers of my various alma matres, and picked the brains of people I trusted. By the end of the summer, less than one year into my career, I had a new job.
The weeks that followed were an exercise in exhaustion. I had two evening focus groups per week and occasionally three. Requests for consumer research from all over the company flooded in during springtime, drawing upon panels of volunteers who were paid in free products and coupons for their insights before summer months released their children from school and sent them on vacation. It was almost impossible to reliably assemble consumer panels during the summer. People had other priorities and a box of complimentary personal care products did little to sway them.
Chapter 61 posted 10/17/02
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