We Got The
Right on time. Schedule. Oh these miniscule failures, this society teeming with facts.
Anne is gone and I am therefore OCS's caseworker for the week. And in the mornings I'm also the receptionist and CEO and sidewalk shoveller and agency relations specialist. Five clients were in before noon today, and all for food. The warehouse is a mess. There aren't any bags pre-made up! I scramble to fill them, so that I can dart back out front to help the next person. Frozen hams are quite cold to handle and I think I may lose one of the thumbs due to frostbite. There are remnants from the holidays everywhere. Shopping carts full of haphazardly placed canned good donations. Piles of clothes that went out of style or don't fit anymore or choke you with the smell of mothballs or, in many cases, all of the above. Scraps of wrapping paper underfoot. Trash, everywhere, disorder. A swamp I must wade through, beware the leeches!
My brain is spinning. It's three thirty and I am no longer here alone; our receptionist has arrived and has spent the afternoon making phone calls on her cell phone for her side business selling Avon products. More people. More bags of food. Utility assistance. Middle aged woman in tears. Disbelief that I'm the twin of the caseworker. Psych experiment? The guy with the husky dog. Eyes blue like frozen steel. C.P. must have been smoking crack before he came in. Twitching. Not looking me in the eyes. Nervous. Guy who says he knows Slim Pickens. Cheap tobacco smell pinning me against the wall. Tick tock tick tock. "You were supposed to call me back about the Christmas presents and no one ever called me back huffy huffy!" Phone ringing. Ears ringing. More bags to fill. Cars to load. Bills to pay. Mouths to feed. It never ends, it never ends.
Anne is gone and I am therefore OCS's caseworker for the week. And in the mornings I'm also the receptionist and CEO and sidewalk shoveller and agency relations specialist. Five clients were in before noon today, and all for food. The warehouse is a mess. There aren't any bags pre-made up! I scramble to fill them, so that I can dart back out front to help the next person. Frozen hams are quite cold to handle and I think I may lose one of the thumbs due to frostbite. There are remnants from the holidays everywhere. Shopping carts full of haphazardly placed canned good donations. Piles of clothes that went out of style or don't fit anymore or choke you with the smell of mothballs or, in many cases, all of the above. Scraps of wrapping paper underfoot. Trash, everywhere, disorder. A swamp I must wade through, beware the leeches!
My brain is spinning. It's three thirty and I am no longer here alone; our receptionist has arrived and has spent the afternoon making phone calls on her cell phone for her side business selling Avon products. More people. More bags of food. Utility assistance. Middle aged woman in tears. Disbelief that I'm the twin of the caseworker. Psych experiment? The guy with the husky dog. Eyes blue like frozen steel. C.P. must have been smoking crack before he came in. Twitching. Not looking me in the eyes. Nervous. Guy who says he knows Slim Pickens. Cheap tobacco smell pinning me against the wall. Tick tock tick tock. "You were supposed to call me back about the Christmas presents and no one ever called me back huffy huffy!" Phone ringing. Ears ringing. More bags to fill. Cars to load. Bills to pay. Mouths to feed. It never ends, it never ends.
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