A Lovely Shade of Yellow

by Julien Lowenfels

You try screaming “Zan Blandella” into a headset over the sounds of churning margarine. You just try IT.

There’s nothing like sitting in the front desk at a margarine factory to really drive home the fact that you are not, as previously thought, going to be a movie star. I was thinking this as the next call came in.

“Good morning, Saffola Quality Foods – how may I direct your call?”  It’s 7:05 a.m., I’m sitting at the reception desk in a factory with an ambient temperature of fifty degrees in the City of Industry and I sound this chipper – I am a good actor, dammit!

“May I speak to Bob Apodaca?” the voice on the other end chirps. I conclude that these calls are coming from some other part of the factory because there are the sounds of big machinery behind the callers, and it’s really difficult to hear. Bob Apa-who? Are these real names? I’m beginning to think I’m on one of those Candid Camera-esque set-up shows.  

“Bob, who?” I ask. I think the voice yells “A-PO-DA-CA!”  I place the caller on hold and remember Rule Number 3 of my personal set of life rules – do a good job no matter how demeaning it might be, because life is not about what humiliating experience you have to endure, it’s about your attitude while being subjected to the current humiliation, whatever that might be. It’s like a test, right? Except I don’t know who is giving this test or what I get if I pass it. It’s probably just some bullshit I’ve made up, so I don’t have to deal with the fucked-up reality of my life. With all of this in mind, I say into the intercom system, “Bob Apodaca, you have a call on line 2.”

Far behind me, there is a wall separating the reception and office area from the factory. Against the wall, there is a table holding several trays of bagels and saltine crackers smeared with copious amounts of margarine in varying shades of yellow. To the right of the table is the double door leading to the factory. The right door swings open and a short, round factory worker in a pair of dirty, white coveralls appears and says, “Who?!” He seems a bit miffed. To my immediate left, the manager steps out of his glass box office and says, “You have to say the names louder into the mic, so the guys can hear you over the machinery,” and slams his door. The worker gives me a dirty look and then slams his door, too.

The manager and the grungy factory worker don’t seem to understand that I can’t hear the callers, which makes me insecure about loudly shouting the names. I don’t want to yell a name incorrectly and have the factory workers laugh at me - that would be devastating. I mean, temping at a margarine factory is bad enough – not being good at temping at a margarine factory is grounds for a huge self esteem collapse. The two names I’ve paged so far, Zan Blandella and Bob Apodaca, are so strange to me, I’m fairly certain I didn’t hear them correctly. No one is named Zan? That can’t be right.

I move the mic on the headset closer to my mouth and repeat in a firm, controlled voice “Bob Apodaca, you have a call on line 2.” Then the phone rings.

“Good morning, Saffola Quality Foods, how may I direct your call?” I’m impressed with my ability to continue to stay chipper even in this uncomfortable situation. Take that, cosmic test giver! See – I’m still smiling! You’re not going to win this one!

The caller says, “Clarenore Flaremella, please.” Oh. . .give. . .me. . . a. . .break. 

As I move to switch on the paging system, I notice that Bob Apodaca has not picked up his call on Line 2 yet.  I switch on the mic and in a modulated and well-supported deep voice I say, “Clarenore Flaremella, you have a call on Line 3; Bob Apodaca, you have a call on Line 2.” I’ve just paged two at once; now that manager is going to see what a gifted temporary margarine factory receptionist he’s got hold of.

The factory door swings open once more. The dirty little round guy is fuming. He yells ‘Not LOUD ENOUGH!!” We CANNOT HEAR YOU!” and slams the door. With that, the manager steps from his office and approaches the desk. He’s a sweet, pudgy man who has clearly sampled too much butter substitute. He leans in close to my face.

“You really have to shout into that thing. The churners back there are really, really loud. I mean, literally, shout into the mic, o.k.? Really give it all you’ve got, k?” He turns and walks back to his office. If he only knew just how bloody uncomfortable I am.

Apparently, the regular receptionist must be a very large person. I have come to this conclusion because the tension settings on the receptionist’s chair are set incredibly high – it would take the weight of a very large person to expand the seat into a comfortable position. It’s like sitting in an upholstered bear trap that’s been triggered. The backrest is flexing all the way forcing my entire body forward, so that I am leaning over the desk.  My weight is not enough to force the seat down, so my feet aren’t touching the ground and therefore I am unable to straighten up because I cannot create leverage.  What’s more, the tension setting devices on the chair are all stuck, so readjustment is not possible. Not only does this position make it difficult to answer the phone, it also makes it difficult to take the deep breath I need in order to shout names into the paging system, as requested. But the worst part of leaning this far forward is that this position places my head in close proximity with the surrounding cubicle walls, which are covered with business card-sized pieces of paper all inscribed with daily affirmations for Jehovah’s Witnesses. The cards say darkly cryptic things such as “Some people call on the power of the spirits to try to heal sicknesses. The power behind this practice is Satan,”  and “The soul dies; it does not live on after death,” also “Learn to hate what God says is bad.” The cards deeply confirm my feeling that I have died, and hell has turned out to be a margarine factory.

I am fucking miserable and I’ve only been here twenty-five minutes.

I look at the switchboard and realize that neither Bob nor Clarenore have answered their calls. The phone rings again, and a voice says, “May I speak to Zan Blandella?” I realize what I must now do. I switch on the intercom system and I push hard with my hands on the top of the desk, so I can straighten up – for a millisecond it works beautifully, and I take a deep swig of air and prepare to shout all three names into the mic. Unfortunately, pushing hard on the desktop with my hands also causes the chair to roll backward across the cement floor at top speed from the desk and just before I yell the three names, the headset cord, stretched by my roll backward to its limit, unplugs from the phone system. I’m now careening through the middle of the room screaming “BOB APODACA – LINE 1! CLARENORE FLAREMELLA – LINE 2! ZAN BLANDELLA – LINE 3!" My voice echoes in the reception area as the chair and I slow to a stop just in front of the snack table. Sensing my impending mental breakdown, the manager emerges from his office, approaches me, picks-up a cracker covered with a miniature Mt. Everest in jaundice-colored paste and offers it to me. Apparently, margarine is the glue that holds this man’s universe together. I swallow my rising vomit.

“No thank you. I’ve already eaten,” I say struggling to feign an appreciative smile. He looks utterly destroyed. Not only have I failed to adequately announce calls, but I have turned down the substance which is his raison d’etre.  He sets the cracker back down on the snack table (somebody will want that) and returns to his office looking rather dejected. I push my chair back to the reception desk and plug in my headset. The switchboard lights have cleared. I guess Bob’s, Zan’s and Clarenore’s friends have given up. Before I can sigh with relief, the phone rings again.

I hear some mumbling and it sounds like the caller is asking for Bartgol Hermreema. Well, of course, good ol’ Bartgol. Must be a family name.

I stand for this one. Taking the deepest breath possible, I inhale and literally scream as loudly as possible into the mic, “BARTGOL HERMREEMA! LINE 1!!!” Too bad I forgot to switch on the paging system first. I’ve just opera-yelled the name back at the caller. I hear what sounds like the caller moaning in pain. I hang up. 

I look at one of the cards on the wall. It reads, “Before this earth can become a paradise, wicked people must be removed.” Let’s start with the person who invented this paging system. The phone rings again.

“BOB APODACA PUH-LEASE!” the apparently frustrated caller yells. I place them on hold, take a deep breath, switch on the paging system and yell “BOB APODACA LINE 1!!!” I hear the roar of applause from behind the factory doors. I guess that one was loud enough. The manager steps from his office and says, “Good job. Keep this up and I’ll make it worth your while.” I hope he means a little cash bonus. My worst fear is that he’ll offer me a permanent position, or worse, a free tub of margarine. 

By three o’clock, I’ve lost my voice. There have been nearly one hundred calls, and I have had to scream every bizarre name into the paging system. I’m exhausted and sweaty when the UPS man comes to deliver a package. I sign for it and leave it on the floor next to the desk exactly where he left it.

Just then, the manager emerges from his office. He announces that the office is closing early today so we can all celebrate the launch of a new margarine. With much fan fair, his assistant presents a tub of the stuff and places it on the snack table. Everyone gathers around the table. Crackers are smeared, many backs are patted, and a few employees seize the opportunity to kiss up to the boss. I hear someone say, “Great packaging!” and another voice say, “It’s such a lovely shade of yellow.” Many smiles and congratulatory handshakes are exchanged and then the manager breaks away from the group and heads towards me holding something behind his back. Alright, it must be my bonus.

With a big smile he proudly hands me a cheap nylon baseball cap with the name “Saffola” in big red letters on the brow. “Here’s something for you go for being such a good sport. You can go now, but feel free to eat as much as you’d like before you go,” he says, gesturing to the crowd of plump people who are all standing around the snack table socializing with crackers full of margarine in their fleshy hands.

I am unable to respond. I stand up, switch the phone to “night,” and walk out the door.

Three weeks later I receive a call from my temp agency. Apparently, I signed for a package that day at Saffola Quality Foods and no one can find it. I’ve been accused of stealing. I deny the accusations. For a week I am harassed by the agency and the manager at the factory is offering the fact that I didn’t want to hang-out and celebrate the launch of the new margarine as evidence that I was hiding something therefore explaining my abrupt departure. Saffola Quality Foods is threatening me with legal action.

For two days, I hear nothing, then a phone call from my agency. Without receiving an apology, I am told that the missing package, which contained Saffola Quality Foods t-shirts to be handed out at the product launch, has been found. Apparently, it had slipped under the reception desk where the obese receptionist had been physically unable to look. I am told that while I have been cleared of all accusations, the experience has been awkward and upsetting and my agency no longer wishes to place me in any temporary work situations.

That’s alright with me – I’m just glad my name isn’t Bartgol.