THE TEMP

I was watching MTV where David Lee Roth was bashing Duran Duran, trying to determine just how much worse things were gonna get in Van Halen. It was 4:50 PM when the call came in:

“Hello, may I speak with Kent please?”

“Speaking,” I replied.

It was the temp service, I had been waiting all week for their call, double sweating there in the Arizona sun. My parents were on my back, and I needed to earn some money. My mom was crazy, anyway, and I never knew if she was gonna kick me out.

“You're just lazy. I mean really, when I was your age I did all sorts of odd jobs...” she railed at me.

Maybe she was right, college dropout that I was and feeling like a failure. Anyway, anything was good NOT to be in that house and if I could make money while NOT being there, it was even better.

“Kent, I've got an opportunity for you. Let me tell ya what I got,” said Marty from Xpert Employment.

I had chosen them because of their slogans. They promised to “put people first” and to “meet the business needs of tomorrow” because after all, they were the xperts. Although my good friend, James was miffed because he was disregarded for a production job because he couldn't speak Spanish. He would go in for interviews where they would immediately notice his preference toward English and exclude him with “No, we don't need anyone.”

After one such turndown, he was greeted by a job counselor at Xpert with “Why you don't work today, Jame?”

“Jame.....he calls me Jame... I want to scream its JAMEEEZZZ. Can you believe it?" he yelled making me lose my place in the Pac Land game that was occupying my time.

“No, no, Jame, I can't,” I said.

You should have seen the way he glared at me.

“So Kyle,” Marty was saying. “You think you can handle that?”

“Absolutely,” I shot back, but then that's what you were supposed to say when anyone asked if you could do something.

The “opportunity” Marty had was this:

1) Go to Slacker Company Contracting.

2) Located at 1114 Waymont Drive.

3) Job starts at 8, be there at 7:40 AM.

4) Wear comfortable clothes and shoes that you can work in, lift in.

5) You will be digging. Yes digging. A trench. On the edge of the city. In the sun.

6) Pay is great. $5.10 an hour. They supply the water.

There it was, me and a few lucky others digging a ditch – being put first and foremost – at the top of the rung becoming xperts in our own right. Well, you can't live in Arizona and not appreciate the desert. I was down with it, though. I even went to bed early. Next morning, I was at Slacker Company 7:50 sharp (I had to wrestle with the snooze on the alarm, but at least it was better than 8:03 like my last report in.)

“Hello, can I help you?” asked the receptionist.

“I'm from Xpert Employment, I am...”

“Oh, ok then,” she cut me off.

I had already fallen a couple rungs on the people scale – have a seat over there. She motioned to the side of the lobby where an old man was sitting.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” she said and went back to stapling cards together.

I smiled at the old guy sitting over in the check-in area.

“Hello,” I said.

“I'm Winston,” he answered.

“Like the cigarette?” I asked nervously thinking of the few I had tucked away.

“No, like the fishing company. I hate cigarettes.”

“I'm Kent,” I smiled and shook his hands.

“You guys ready?” out walked a chubby middle-aged man with glasses. One look and I gathered he was The Supervisor.

We got up and followed him through a massive garage full of trucks and pipes.

“Winston, are you digging too?” I asked.

“Yep, that's what they said...”

The Supervisor led us into a small office. “Here's your gear,” as he handed us hard hats and gloves. Hard hats? For the Arizona heat?

“We have water to drink and shovels are in the back of the truck – unload when we get there.”

I was on fire already trying not to think about that hot sun. So we hopped in the truck, Winston and I, along with The Supervisor who looked like he needed to do a little digging, and we headed out to the spot.

“Ok, guys, here we are. The objective for today is to dig a trench starting here – all the way up to that metal post, just a shallow depth, a foot and a half.”

The Supervisor was carving a small area out to demonstrate. “We are going to put a sensor line in.”

I helped him unload the water, Winston and I grabbed the shovels and our lunches.

“I'll be back at 4:45 sharp – to get you to the office – I'll sign time sheets then,” he said.

Then the Supervisor jumped into the Slacker Industries, Inc. truck, waved and drove off.

“Well, this will be fun, let's git'er' done,” said Winston.

Little did I know, there on the edge of the Arizona desert, that my foray into Slacker Industries' trench digging would soon become my most memorable temp job, and would do so even before the heat of the day.

Winston was working, telling me about his three ex-wives and his worthless daughter when all of a sudden, he clasped his chest.

“Oh,” he said simply going pale.

“Man, are you ok?” I asked dropping the shovel.

“I hurt some, and I'm a little....dizzy.”

“Let me help you,” I grabbed him by the arm and walked him over to the one sparse tree that was offering shade.

“Winston, man – really should you be digging?” I asked.

He looked at me with a wan smile.”

“Nobody ever said I couldn't,”

“Here drink this water,” I said.

I nervously fished for one of my Winstons and examined him from a distance – did he meet the worksheet criteria as outlined by Xpert?

1) Able to work in an outdoor location.

2) Ability to perform strenuous manual labor as the job requires.

3) Frequent walking, bending, stooping, squatting, lifting, moving.

Nope, don't think so, maybe he was inspired by that ad in the paper: Find your next ditch digging job and jumpstart your career!

“Winston, I'm gonna get back to it, you just rest here....”

He looked back at me with glassy eyes.

Oh God...was he gonna die, what the hell was I going to do?

I got up and paced....

“Winston, you ok?”

“Yes,” he squeaked. “Don't worry about me, son.”

I picked up my shovel and began digging. Winston moaned on and off. I would run over with water. The sun beat down. I was sweating and was getting dizzy myself – since I was saving as much of the water as possible for him.

I looked at the clock, 11:45. Great, only 5 more hours.

“Winston, how are you doing?”

“I'm ok...just have a hard time....breathing...a little...not terrible...”

“Can you name three animals?”

“What animals...those poison lizards?”

“Any animals,” I said. Then to myself...is that the test for losing your mind and not heart attack victims? “What lizards??” The lizards had just registered.

“Those Gila Monsters out there where we are digging... black and yellow.” he broke off. “You ought to quit smoking, you know...it's bad for you.” Winston stopped talking.

I dug. I watered him. I watered me. I helped him walk over to another tree to go to the bathroom. I dug some more. The clock dragged. The sun beat. I thought about my career options which appeared limited at the moment. I decided I was definitely not Slacker material. Winston moaned and muttered and sometimes made perfect sense. I took a nap and dreamt I uncovered a whole den of yellow lizards.

“Winston, you want lunch”?” I sat beside him. He shook his head.

“Did I tell you about Gloria?”

I was back to digging and thought I heard a rattlesnake. Then Winston yelped like a dog.

“Man? Hey Man?” I ran over. He was holding his chest again. I wish I had paid more attention to learning CPR in health class. I lightly shook him.

“Winston!”

He was passed out. I pushed him over and was about to start something. He woke up. I needed another Winston, the one with the filter and also maybe a good, stiff alcoholic drink. I had half a cigarette left.

“Winston – hey man! Wake up!” “Come on!”

“Inez? Did.... I ….tell ...I ...I...I...” he trailed off. His eyes began to roll. I pushed down and started pumping. Trying to remember three pumps? Five compressions? Three breaths? Oh hell!!!

I pinched his nose, blew in his mouth, pump, pump, pump.

He went limp. I felt his pulse. It was over.

I sat against the tree, exhausted. Nerves shot, no cigarettes. It was finally 4:30.

So close, so close. I waited for the Slacker Supervisor. Finally, the truck pulled up...

“Ok, let's go,” he says.

“Ummm...I'm gonna need some help with him,” I said pointing.

“What's this? Is he asleep? I'm gonna have to dock his pay...”

“Nope,” I say. “He's dead.”

The Supervisor turned to me wide-eyed.

“Heart attack, or stroke, or something...”I said.

The Supervisor was rattled. Probably wondering if Winston had family and what this might cost the company. The ride back was quiet. I fidgeted and squirmed. No cigarettes. We pulled in the garage, and he called for help. There would be an investigation. He was calling the ambulance, coroner....all of them.

“Mr. Jones,” I motioned.

He attempted to wave me away.

“Sorry, but I do need this time sheet signed.”

It was 1984, I had spent a long emotional day in the desert. Winston was probably in a better place, I needed cigarettes, and well, Van Halen was on tour...coming to town.

*Image courtesy of Pixabay.