Yay, I get a
job for $16.90/hour at the census bureau.
It begins in April.
I get an email
with two forms I need to complete. I
fill out the first form. I can’t fill
out the second form because the site doesn’t support Apple’s Safari
browser. I mean, really, like Safari is
some unknown entity that few people use.
I want to quit already.
Next, I need
to call and schedule a time to come to a downtown office in order to fill out
more forms and get fingerprinted.
I call. Ten minutes on hold and I finally get a very-efficient
Ashley. She tells me that the pre-job meeting
(making it clear I am not getting paid for this time) is about 90 minutes. “Why do I need to get fingerprinted again,
since I was just fingerprinted in 2010 when I was a census enumerator,” I
ask. She responds, “To make sure you haven’t
been arrested since then.” BUT MY
FINGERPRINTS HAVEN’T CHANGED I want to scream but don’t. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is how we do
it. No exceptions.” Then I hear her whispering. I think she is complaining about me to
another employee. She takes forever to
respond. I say, “Ashley, Ashley, are you
still there?” To this she replies,
somewhat snippily, “Please, you have to
show patience. I am doing sign language
interpretation,” Huh? I’m supposed to know this? I don’t even know what it means! Why would a hearing-impaired person be
trained to handle phone calls? The
conversation drags on. The call is
taking forever, as everything we say is then whispered to another person. Plus,
Ashley can’t tell me why I need to be fingerprinted again. “If you like, I can get my supervisor who can
explain,” she snaps. I accept her
offer.
I wait and
wait. Finally Elvis comes on. He provides no answers, but is nicer than
Ashley. His explanation is a simple one,
“I assume the government has their reasons.”
Trying to be helpful, Elvis tells me that instead of coming in, he can
mail me the forms to complete and I can complete them at home (much better, I’m
thinking) and I can get fingerprinted at my local precinct (much more
convenient than traveling an-hour downtown).
Then I hear Ashley interrupt nice Elvis.
She assumes her schoolmarm demeanor.
I’m sure she’d just love to whip poor Elvis into place. Me too if she could. “No.
We make no exceptions. You must
come down to our offices. You must get
fingerprinted.” Then she whispers inaudibly
what she just said to the person who is learning sign language or teaching it
or something.
“Whoa, whoa,
whoa,” I say to Ashley. “I thought Elvis was your supervisor and he said he could send me the forms.” “No,” Ashley now admits. “I couldn’t get a supervisor; Elvis is someone else who works here.” “But
Ashley, you put me on hold, made me wait for a supervisor, and then led me to
believe I was talking to one.” Our inane conversation continues and goes nowhere.
Now Ashley
hates me. I hate them. Working for a government agency is the
worst. Working for so little money is
sad. Following protocols that make no
sense is something I am definitely not good at.
And now having to go to the library to use their computer because I
don’t own a PC is ridiculous.
$16.90 an
hour. Barely worth it.