Working in the Nut House

Sometimes it is hard to see the humor in a situation when you are the one in the middle of it. Well, I found a way to see the now obvious hilarity of working for an insane, cat loving, cougar at RRA, and like before, I am beginning to see the clear comedic value of my current job working for "The Man".

Ironically, I actually work for three women at the government institution that is the VA hospital. Yes, three. I have dubbed them little boss, middle boss and big boss. Little boss is a boss in name only, acknowledging that we are really more peers than anything else. Middle boss only appears to praise me to my face or to stir-up drama behind my back, depending on which way her bipolar pendulum is swinging on any given day, and big boss is the one who gives me my assignments and the one who usually protects me from middle boss's tantrums.

More about the holy trinity later. The most recent source of insanity has been provided courtesy of what I call our "rehab hires". I always wondered how the morons roaming the halls actually acquired the coveted government positions. In an enlightening conversation with Little Boss, I found my answer. There are several avenues to government employment; you can be an extremely qualified military veteran with a perfect record and a college education (like me), you can start working at the hospital while in high school as a part-time helper and simply stay put until they offer you full-time work, or you can get hired as part of a rehabilitation/ADA initiative. Yes, many of our blue collar employees are recovering drug addicts and mentally deranged individuals. Why they think a mentally ill person is the right guy to courier medications between floors or sort the mail in a hospital is beyond me. It does answer quite a few questions though.

Up until last Friday I was merely bemused and a bit wary of these particular employees. There is a medicine courier in our Brooklyn hospital who looks remarkably like the hunchback of Notre Dame and has the interesting penchant for screaming inappropriate rants at unsuspecting bystanders. Entering the elevator one day, he was able to screech out "Fucking fat-ass" at a woman who just missed the closing doors. He continued mumbling to himself as the elevator descended and exited the elevator just in time to scream another unintelligible insult at the first person he saw. When I asked about this peculiar man, all anyone would say is, "oh, that's just Allen". Okaaaay. This was before I learned about the "rehab hires" and I was left a bit confused.

Back at the Manhattan branch, I was sent to the basement on a supply run one day. The rather fascist supply girl barked at me to come back after 1:00pm. I learned that we are only allowed three of any given item and supply is only open one day a week from 1-4 in the afternoon. Okaaay. When I returned at the appropriate time, a line had formed and everyone was waiting anxiously for the disgruntled clerk. While we waited a man kept wandering into the hallway screaming "Do you know Paul Smith? Where is Paul? Where is Paaaaul!?" Everyone ignored him, which was my first indication that perhaps he was not addressing us directly. After he disappeared into the mail sorting room, the screeching began. The noises brought to mind the cries of Sloth from The Goonies. I was more than disturbed by the animal like noises coming from behind the wall, but what I found equally disturbing was the lack of response from my fellow line inhabitants. "Am I the only one hearing this!?" Seeing the zombie-like stares of those around me, I thought it best to keep my concerns to myself. Talk about Twilight Zone!

A short while later I learned about the unusual hiring practices employed by our great bureaucracy. I have not returned to the basement since and thankfully I have been able to avoid these employees except for the occasional lurching woman who pushes an empty cart around the hallways, until last Friday that is.

After conducting discharge rounds on Friday I grabbed a coffee and began reading over my notes on the way back to my office. I was walking through a set of double doors when a man emerged from them, holding the door behind him. Taking a sip of my coffee, I passed him with out a word. He turned almost immediately and shrieked "OH, you're not going to thank me for holding the door?" I glanced over my shoulder and mumbled "Thanks" and went back to my notes, thinking this was the end of it. I was mistaken. Half way down the hallway I heard the man come back through the door and he promptly began shouting his objections. "I don't hold the door for nobody and you not even gonna thank me? What is your problem bitch?!" I spun on my heels to face the barrage. Not today homie, not on a Friday! "Excuse me? I obviously was thinking about something other than you and I did not notice you" I began as he continued ranting, "You need to relax, calm it down man!" He continued grumbling as he retreated back out the door as the large travel clerk from my office came through. Her eyes became even more enlarged than usual as she asked me what the hell was us with him. She was rather impressed with my aggressive stance, commenting that "Felicia's the wrong one, she'll buck up on you!" Cackle, Cackle. I wonder what type of hire she was....

Let's recap: Crazy people and drug addicts roam the halls, the clerks I work with consist of an obese cackler who often is unable to complete her tasks because of the errant globs of cheese from her danishes and a man who sings to me under his breath. The office I inhabit is a storage room for another department and the man who runs that department likes to come in and simply hover. I have yet to figure out if he is trying to intimidate me or hit on me. He might be gay actually. I have three bosses, two of which exist only to alternate between befriending and sabotaging me and one who assigns me outlandishly huge jobs and they tells me that my good work is making other employees jealous. A large part of my position is to manipulate the other employees into giving me information to bring back to Big Boss and into thinking that I know what the fuck I am doing. Oh, and I am the lowest paid employee in the department.

One definitely flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, the question is who is crazier, the patients on the 17th floor psych ward or the employees making a larger salary than I am? Perhaps I am the nut, I am finally starting to see the hysterical reality that is my 9-5.

The Island of Misfit Toys

Here in the land of misfit toys….

I have been waiting a lot lately. This morning I waited in a long line for my government subsidized metro card and again for my first cup of coffee of the day. I suppose waiting is the name of the game right now. Looking around me at the bland crowd, I realized that this must be the place where all the invisible masses of unremarkable people on the streets of Manhattan must be headed. Walking through the city, I generally only take notice of the beautiful, stylish or outlandish,all the others just kind of blend together. I don’t think I am unique in that way, I bet a lot of people do it. Looking around this hospital I see that I am surrounded by them, their blandness adding to the bleakness of this place.

Taking a closer look you will find that this is not merely a bland way station, it is also a little shop of horrors. There are, of course,the sick and deteriorating old men, but take another look, the employees are not all what they seem either. I used to marvel at the fact that these people had government jobs when they are so notoriously hard to come by. Apparently, other than being a military veteran with a good education and clean background, you can acquire one of these position simply by working here part-time as a High school student and never leaving, you can actually have a severe mental of physical handicap and get in on some other government program, or, my favorite, you can have a serious drug problem and work here as part of your rehabilitation.

Yes, I admit it, when I see them limping around the hospital,screaming unintelligible babble, or even just looking content in their mediocrity, I cringe. Holy shit! Case-in-point: a mass e-mail just went out and it is grammatically incorrect. Then instead of than, I know they have no idea they made the mistake. This type of thing iseverywhere: the letters on the signs are crooked, people useprint-outs with different typefaces, taped over each other to make nameplates. This place is a shrine to minimal effort. I pray that I don’t look like them. The residents, no wonder they walk through the halls speaking only to one another. I don’t blame them for relishing the fact that they are “just passing through”. I suppose I am too, I just wish it were as obvious as their purple embroidered scrubs.

I know I could shine here, but I don’t want to shine in a place like this, where the bar is set so low. I want to shine in a place I can be proud of. I suppose I am afraid of becoming like these people:invisible, boring, old, unremarkable.

The ones who are not total freaks, the normal simple ones, they remind me of a time when this would have been more than enough. I remember being with Steven, planning on moving to Tampa (because he wanted to)and working at the VA there. Simple 9-4:30 work, steady pay, good benefits. All that leaving time to have barbecues and parties with my delightful man. Even thinking about it now, it feels like enough, andit feels terrifying because I remember how he tore himself away from me, the way that in the end it was only him that made that future enough.

I have always had two competing sides: one of them craves the exotic-travel, success, power, novelty; the other craves simplicity- small towns, nothing to reach for except your family and friends, back yard parties and attainable cravings. Which do you think is winning?Somehow simple is never quite enough. It’s like craving a dish and being disappointed each time you eat it, yet craving it again nonetheless. I suppose all that is to say that between the disgust,fear and nostalgia; I am not fitting in here!

I know it’s wrong, but walking through the halls on my way to do rounds, being stuck behind the obese man wheezing then painfully watching the gimpy man struggle to pass, hearing the crazy man scream down the hallways; it always brings to mind the old Christmas song,“Here in the land of misfit toys….” I don’t really remember the rest of it, I just remember the hodgepodge of broken, freakish toys dancing about because there on that island, they were normal.Hopefully, I can get out of here with an ounce of humanity and style,because I have a feeling that if left waiting here too long, I will become the one screaming through the halls.

Drinking to Sober-up

I have been a very naughty girl lately. Midweek cocktails, not eating, smoking like a chimney; the usual behavior when I am doing mental gymnastics. I am like some kind of manic animal, searching high and low, running from the quiet like my life depends on it.

What exactly am I running away from, or toward? That is the question, isn't it? It is as though wires have somehow been crossed in my mind, with the tsunami going on up there, it is really no big surprise. The solace I usually find in the silence has been replaced by a near desperate need to fill it. I play music at work and at home, though I am not spending much time there lately either. Perhaps it was the roaring silence that kept me up all night on Sunday.

I am the type of person who likes to have the answers. I suppose the fact is, I'm overloaded. Like a computer overheating, my mind just has too many variables floating around in it and not enough constants. It is certainly hard to find answers with a combination like that.

Well, my calendar is full, my play list is pumping and I am about as clear as a binge drinker on a particularly gregarious night. What a mess! Focus, Focus, Focus Fi! Through the haze of my mind only one answer slurs out: "I don't know".

I don't know what? Who fucking knows. It is just one of those seasons, they certainly come around with a perplexing irregularity. Maybe when I am ready to face the silence, face the questions, I will find that which I am simultaneously looking for and running from. Until then, I will try to not beat myself up too badly, physically or mentally!

I am full of shit.

I just turned off the music, and there it was. Waiting for me like a cornered tiger preparing to be snared. I know what I am avoiding. It terrifies and confuses me. It is a problem with no good solution and I am just not ready to face it yet. So I am going to turn my music back on, close my eyes, and back slowly out of that room.

Why is it that life won't take care of our biggest conundrums for us? When did life get so damned complicated? My compass is spinning and my heart is turned upside down. No wonder I feel so out of control. Welcome to beautiful 2010, no one said it was going to be easy!