Follies at Work

I've become the utility man at work. I have two bosses, and they're always competing over what bull shit menial task they can make me do. That, or maybe one of the Israelis will have me buy them cigarettes. I got a job to do here, but that certainly isn't it, asshole. My one boss will leave for a few minutes then the other one will show up and tell me to transfer like two-hundred eggs from the things they were delivered in into metal baskets. My other boss showed up and told me, referring to my other boss, "you don't work for him, come with me." Then my other boss gets pissed at me for not finishing with the eggs.

My "main" boss was having me transfer empty boxes from point A to point B, and I asked if I could use the club car (golf cart). He said yes, and asked if I knew how to use it. I said to him "Don't worry, I used to be a caddy," and confidently hopped into the car. It quickly dawned on me that I had no idea what to do. Obviously club cars aren't the most complicated contraptions ever built, but still I had trouble getting the brake off, and once I did I stepped on the gas and went straight... backwards into the wall behind me. Oops. My boss ran over to me.

"Out, out, out!" he said.

Luckily nothing was broken. Another Ethiopian, a nice 22-year-old guy that barely speaks English, started laughing his ass off. I'll be god damned if I wasn't laughing a little bit myself.

There's another thing I have to do at work constantly: moving boxes on these stupid impossible to fucking use carts. I swear to god, there should be a class teaching how to use these things. They're so fucking frustrating I want to tear my hair out. Trying to navigate them in tight spaces is a skill that I can't seem to pick up. It always ends up like that scene from the first Austin Powers where he's driving that little vehicle through the halls and some how ends up perfectly perpendicular to both walls, completely immobilized. That's what happens to me with the cart ALL THE TIME. Maybe not perpendicular to two walls in specifically but one way or another the fucking thing gets stuck and I end up feeling like a shmuck when my boss comes along and effortlessly weaves the cart through whatever space I got it stuck in with the grace of a painter and his brush. Seriously, fuck him and his skills with moving carts. We're not all born perfect.

Oh, and that 22-year-old I mentioned before has managed to convey to me in his English that he thinks I'm a gangster, like Al Pacino, because of the way I walk. Me and him can't help but laugh every time we walk by each other, mainly at the last thing he made fun of me for.

Ah, the life of a worker.