All I Want for Christmas is My Job

This morning, while peacefully enjoying my morning cup of Earl Grey, I caught the faint aroma of brimstone. I looked up, and stared into the face of evil.

This was only the third time I had seen this woman, including my first day of work and a chance meeting in the break room. She is my Kelly Representative, or as she would prefer to be called, Her Most Majestic and Omnipotent Workplace Overlord, Queen and Master of Temps, Devourer of Hopes and Dreams, and Sovereign Over All Lunch Breaks. Supposedly, her job is to be there to assist the Kelly Temps on-site. In practice, this means she’s there to spy on me and, if given the opportunity, call me into her office to inform me that I’m fired. Maybe my job got shipped to Bangalore, or maybe I took a lunch break fifteen minutes too long. The suspense is all part of the fun.

I’m not really sure what she does on the days she’s not firing people. I know that some of that time is spent thoughtfully composing her semi-weekly e-mail announcements. Last week, for instance, I got her Christmas e-mail, which informed us that the Christmas break was not paid. Stop asking. This was followed by a list of rules that, if broken, would mean that she could (and would!) fire us. Oh, and Happy Non-Denominational Holidays.

I tell you this so you’ll understand that her sudden presence at my desk this morning was as ominous and unwelcome as it was unprecedented. The conversation that followed, as I recall, went something like this:

Her: Hi.
Me: Hi.
Her: Merry Christmas.
Me: You too.
Her: I got your present here.

The blood rushed out of my face. I hadn’t gotten the Workplace Overlord anything. I’d briefly considered anonymously giving her a Darth Vader doll, but later dismissed the idea as a waste of money.

She flashed me her teeth in an expression that wasn’t exactly a smile, and then reached her hand into the depths of a paper bag. “Merry Christmas,” she repeated, handing me a sticker with “Kelly Services” logo on it, and a candy cane.

I hate candy canes.

I grinned maniacally like my job depended on it until she was out of sight. Then, and only then, did my heart resume beating.

I’ve composed a haiku to commemorate this moment:

A whiff of brimstone,
The creeping touch of Evil,
Am I still employed?