Going Postal: Day 26

usps1.jpgDay 26: The Epilog

The first things I discovered when I went to work for the United States Postal Service were that nothing makes sense, and no one knows what is going on. I applied and was hired as a temporary holiday employee. When I showed up for orientation, I was informed that I had actually been hired through to the end of February. When I showed for my first day in action, I was informed that I had been hired through December 2008.

Over the course of the next five weeks, I was told that I was part of the crew that was being kept around for a year. I wasn’t too thrilled about this, as this was not a job I wanted to stick with for that long. As I diligently performed my duties as an official postal worker, I dreamed of my eventual escape, and hoped that someone would change their mind, and decide they didn’t want to keep me around. This past Friday night, a list was posted of all the temp employees who were being let go, and all of those being kept on. I was on the list of those being kept on the plantation. But I had already made up my mind that I was not going to stay.

My plan was to call in sick on Saturday, which I did, and then call in sick today. Then I was going to talk to one of the supervisors after the New Year, and tell them I had messed up my shoulder (which is the truth), and that I needed to be taken off the schedule. This way, I would not burn any bridges. Don’t ask me why I was so concerned about leaving on good graces…I just was. So, I called in sick today, only to find out that I had been moved to the list of people being let go as of today. In other words, I was being laid off before I could quit! Who the fuck were they to fire me?!? That pissed me off. Suddenly, I wanted the job, even if it meant losing all feeling in both my hands on a permanent basis.

When I got off the phone, I was mumbling to myself, “They fucking fired me,” over and over again. It was a lot like someone breaking up with you, before you could break up with them. Thankfully, I quickly came to my senses, and remembered that I hated the job, and wanted to be done with it anyway. Of course, I’m willing to bet that when I go to drop off my ID badge, one of the supervisors will tell me that I’m being kept around—because good slaves are hard to find.


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