Working at Goodwill — again
Last week I got a new temp assignment. I’m working at Goodwill, answering phones at the Santa Cruz and Monterey County headquarters. My office has no windows. In the hallway I hear people telling each other how nice it is outside. I wish I could see for myself.
People call to have pieces of furniture and large numbers of boxes picked up at their houses, and I schedule the date and time for the trucks to come. It’s an easy job, but a boring one. The vice president doesn’t like her office workers browsing the internet. No more online games or Herbert Kornfeld for me. Though, I can sneak on once in a while when no one’s around. Yesterday, the VP came into my office while I was writing in my journal and said, “Oh. You’re writing. Well then, I’ll have to find more work for you.” There’s more data entry to do, but no one’s trained me on it. Plus, complimentary coffee and hot chocolate are in the lunch room. Oh yeah. I love temp jobs.
This is the second time I’ve worked for Goodwill. During my senior year in high school I worked in the donation hub at the Goodwill store in Coralville. I was a six month temp and only worked Thursday after school and all day on Sunday. Back then I stood by the side door and sorted the donations. Clothes, electronics, kitchenware, and all other types of jumbled stuff were put in their separate piles and bins if they were good enough for resale. If they weren’t I threw them away. The clothes we couldn’t sell were dumped into big boxes and shipped to regional headquarters. From there I think they were sent to third world countries. I was never sure of that, though.
It was the classic high school job: bottom tier, low paying, and busy. I hated it. I was the youngest person there. My co-workers were lazy. I liked to keep the donation bins empty and stay caught up on work. Everyone else let the bins overflow. They stood around in the back and played with the cool gadgets and toys people dropped off. I did the same, but only when there was nothing to sort. On slow nights, when nobody was driving through the donation station, I played on the electronic typewriters. I’d open the door near the electronics corner and watch traffic wiz by on Highway 6 as the sun set, typing fake news stories about the mysterious and gruesome death of my manager.
Working at Goodwill was an experience. It opened my eyes to many things. I smoked marijuana for the first time on the back loading dock. I even remember the date: December 31, 2000. It was a slow Sunday and nobody was donating. One of the hippies, a UI student, asked if I smoked weed and I said I did. It was a complete lie, but I wanted to try it. We went out back and he packed a bowl and lit up. He passed the pipe to me. I had no clue what to do. I knew I had to hold the smoke in my lungs for a few seconds to let the THC soak into the tissue. But that was it. I didn’t know how to use a pipe. I asked, “Is it lit?” He exhaled and nodded, “It’s cherried. It’s good.” I put my lips to the short, glass hitter. I laughed at everything for the next couple hours.
When I rummaged through the clothes and knickknacks people discarded I was able to get a glimpse of their lives, discern their tastes and habits. Soccer moms donated clothes their children had grown out of, and those who drove through the drive-thru in a BMW or giant SUV had bags of designer and brand name jeans. My dad even donated one day while I was working. He pulled up in his old, blue Plymouth Grand Voyager and dropped off a bag of his old work clothes and some slacks he bought at Kmart. (He pulled in the wrong way, too. It pissed me off when people did that.)
One cold, busy Sunday a dirty Chevy truck rumbled into the drive-thru. It was pulling a rusted, red horse trailer. I saw it through the small, porthole window of the side door and shook my head. I knew the trailer was full of junk.
Two men got out. They were wearing dirty jeans, camouflage shirts, and sleeveless jackets. The hair hanging below their caps was long and greasy. They unloaded a few long boxes from the trailer. Printed on the cardboard was the name Winchester. One of the men knocked on the door. He told me they had more stuff at home and asked if they could come back. I said it was okay.
I rolled the bin with their stuff inside. Darcy, a UI student who also worked in the back, started opening and sorting through the boxes. After ten minutes a scream rocked the donation area and everyone looked to Darcy. She held a small, square container with the lid off. “It’s a used diaphragm!” she screamed. We rushed over to see what else the men had donated. A large, half full tube of anal lube was also in the box.
When the dirty Chevy rumbled into the drive-thru again I announced its arrival. Each of us took a turn at the porthole to watch the two men unload more boxes. We wondered who they were and why anyone would donate a used diaphragm and a half used tube of anal lube. There was a story behind the men and the things they donated, as there was with everyone and all the items we received. But none of us wanted to hear it.
People call to have pieces of furniture and large numbers of boxes picked up at their houses, and I schedule the date and time for the trucks to come. It’s an easy job, but a boring one. The vice president doesn’t like her office workers browsing the internet. No more online games or Herbert Kornfeld for me. Though, I can sneak on once in a while when no one’s around. Yesterday, the VP came into my office while I was writing in my journal and said, “Oh. You’re writing. Well then, I’ll have to find more work for you.” There’s more data entry to do, but no one’s trained me on it. Plus, complimentary coffee and hot chocolate are in the lunch room. Oh yeah. I love temp jobs.
This is the second time I’ve worked for Goodwill. During my senior year in high school I worked in the donation hub at the Goodwill store in Coralville. I was a six month temp and only worked Thursday after school and all day on Sunday. Back then I stood by the side door and sorted the donations. Clothes, electronics, kitchenware, and all other types of jumbled stuff were put in their separate piles and bins if they were good enough for resale. If they weren’t I threw them away. The clothes we couldn’t sell were dumped into big boxes and shipped to regional headquarters. From there I think they were sent to third world countries. I was never sure of that, though.
It was the classic high school job: bottom tier, low paying, and busy. I hated it. I was the youngest person there. My co-workers were lazy. I liked to keep the donation bins empty and stay caught up on work. Everyone else let the bins overflow. They stood around in the back and played with the cool gadgets and toys people dropped off. I did the same, but only when there was nothing to sort. On slow nights, when nobody was driving through the donation station, I played on the electronic typewriters. I’d open the door near the electronics corner and watch traffic wiz by on Highway 6 as the sun set, typing fake news stories about the mysterious and gruesome death of my manager.
Working at Goodwill was an experience. It opened my eyes to many things. I smoked marijuana for the first time on the back loading dock. I even remember the date: December 31, 2000. It was a slow Sunday and nobody was donating. One of the hippies, a UI student, asked if I smoked weed and I said I did. It was a complete lie, but I wanted to try it. We went out back and he packed a bowl and lit up. He passed the pipe to me. I had no clue what to do. I knew I had to hold the smoke in my lungs for a few seconds to let the THC soak into the tissue. But that was it. I didn’t know how to use a pipe. I asked, “Is it lit?” He exhaled and nodded, “It’s cherried. It’s good.” I put my lips to the short, glass hitter. I laughed at everything for the next couple hours.
When I rummaged through the clothes and knickknacks people discarded I was able to get a glimpse of their lives, discern their tastes and habits. Soccer moms donated clothes their children had grown out of, and those who drove through the drive-thru in a BMW or giant SUV had bags of designer and brand name jeans. My dad even donated one day while I was working. He pulled up in his old, blue Plymouth Grand Voyager and dropped off a bag of his old work clothes and some slacks he bought at Kmart. (He pulled in the wrong way, too. It pissed me off when people did that.)
One cold, busy Sunday a dirty Chevy truck rumbled into the drive-thru. It was pulling a rusted, red horse trailer. I saw it through the small, porthole window of the side door and shook my head. I knew the trailer was full of junk.
Two men got out. They were wearing dirty jeans, camouflage shirts, and sleeveless jackets. The hair hanging below their caps was long and greasy. They unloaded a few long boxes from the trailer. Printed on the cardboard was the name Winchester. One of the men knocked on the door. He told me they had more stuff at home and asked if they could come back. I said it was okay.
I rolled the bin with their stuff inside. Darcy, a UI student who also worked in the back, started opening and sorting through the boxes. After ten minutes a scream rocked the donation area and everyone looked to Darcy. She held a small, square container with the lid off. “It’s a used diaphragm!” she screamed. We rushed over to see what else the men had donated. A large, half full tube of anal lube was also in the box.
When the dirty Chevy rumbled into the drive-thru again I announced its arrival. Each of us took a turn at the porthole to watch the two men unload more boxes. We wondered who they were and why anyone would donate a used diaphragm and a half used tube of anal lube. There was a story behind the men and the things they donated, as there was with everyone and all the items we received. But none of us wanted to hear it.
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