Diary of a Mrs Dad 4: Back on the Chain Gang
Dudina: You have to breathe to stay wide. If you don’t breathe, you get skinny and flat.
Due to circumstances beyond my control, the Breadwinner was no longer bringing in the bread, so I sprang into action, networking and calling in old favours to launch myself back into my profession and bring in some dosh quickly. This didn’t go quite to plan, so I ended up on Job Seek on the Internet.
My present Mrs Dad expertise meant I was qualified to cut sandwiches and do school drop-offs. This, in turn, meant I was either eligible to work in a lunch bar or be a lollipop guard. Seek reckoned I should be a paintball referee or a telemarketer. With no response from the paintball people, I fronted up at a small telemarketing office in the shadow of some multi-storied housing commission flats.
As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I passed rows of people sitting at computers with headphones, smiley voices, and faces with all hope and life drained from them. It resembled the phone room from the save-a-sick-kiddie telethons on television, if they were run by Kamahl on crack. The word ‘sweatshop’ popped into my head.
I tried filling out the application form, but the only pen in the room was like me: a dud. In strode the interviewer, Rohit, whose confidence and disdain reminded me of the genie from The Thief of Bagdad. As half a dozen of us sat listening to Rohit ramble on, I glanced at a whiteboard that had the list of names of working callers: Sanjur, Arpana, Tanu, Srinath and Greg. I was comfortable being the only Caucasian in the interview room, as my acting background meant I could bung on an Indian accent if needed; just like Greg, I imagine.
Dude: You know, everyone is just cheering for themselves.
Rohit grilled me in front of the others.
‘How do you perform under pressure?’ he asked.
‘Brilliantly,’ I replied, feeling like Bill Murray in Stripes, meaning that I couldn’t give a toss.
‘Tell me something about yourself ...’ Rohit looked down at the list of names, ‘... Matt.’
‘I have an unemployed wife, two kids and I need some cash,’ I reeled off.
‘I like your honesty ...’ he looked at the list again, ‘... Matt. You know, everyone, there is a lot of pressure in this job ...’
From downstairs, I could hear the floor supervisor in the phone room barking repeatedly, ‘Come on! Come on! Fifteen minutes left in the hour. More calls. More customers. More calls!’
Dudina: It’s a dinosaurus rex!
The other applicants introduced themselves: a young Indira Gandhi lookalike, who had a Bachelor of Business degree; an Asian engineering student; and a Sri Lankan woman who had worked in the communications industry in her place of birth. What they all had in common was that they were new to the country and ready to be taken advantage of for daring to work rather than cop benefits.
‘It’s sixteen dollars an hour, plus bonuses,’ said Rohit, completing his spiel.
‘The advertisement said eighteen dollars fifty an hour,’ fronted the young Indira Gandhi.
‘No,’ replied Rohit with a finality that left the impression that if anyone were to question his maths, they were out the door.
Dudina: It’s a little tiny giant. Only a little bit big.
‘What do you think, Matt?’ Rohit said ‘Matt’ as if he were a toddler trying out a new word.
‘Yeah, I’ll have to get back to you, Rohit,’ I replied, turning the tables and putting the genie back in his bottle.
As I descended the stairs, the Kamahl on crack, who appeared to be nearly half my age, rested on the handrail and eyed the new cattle as they passed by his slaughter yard. I had the confidence of someone who was never going to pass through these doors again and smiled cheerily at him. He gave me a look so devoid of compassion and humanity that it gave me the shivers when I thought of these immigrants’ introduction to Australia’s workplace relations.
The truth is, I could never go back because every time the Kamahl on crack would yell at me to ‘Come on!’, I’d tell him to ‘Shut the fuck up! I’m on the phone!’
Dudina: Listen, Dad, you can hear the wind talking.
Dad: What’s it saying?
Dudina: I don’t know, I don’t speak wind.
Matt Quartermaine is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian. With Matt Parkinson, Tim Smith and Andrew Goodone, he produces ‘The Chat’, a weekly podcast in which ‘four grown men in comfortable chairs spill their guts’. Click here to download it for free at iTunes.
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