This latest issue of Time Magazine features a letter to the editors in bold print. It is a response to a recent article that questioned if God is good how could there be a hell? If you are a believing Christian you know that our good God is also a just God. How can you have reward without punishment? A reader was compelled to express his opinion about hell. And Time Magazine showed no shame. Not only did they print the comment, but featured it in bold text. Hell is easy to define. It would be spending eternity with Evangelicals.
I suppose this was to show what a witty staff and readership this magazine sports. However this letter was shameful. I ask would Time Magazine dare publish a letter that defined hell as spending eternity with Jews? Or how about Muslims? Could they dare be so ignominious to claim spending eternity with Catholics be hell? While the subject of hell is a religious one could hell be defined as eternity spent with blacks or gays? How much more insensitive could the editorial staff and management of Time Magazine be? Oops, I forgot they are of the secular left.
The secular left claims to be all about inclusivity. Being warm and fuzzy, rallying around the social justice cause whether it's global warming or gay marriage. They cry, "Why can’t we all get along?" It is obvious it is all a façade. The gregarious welcome only goes so far. As long as you believe as the secular left believes, then you are a protected class, a class not to be offended. That's the rule.
Evangelical Christians, more than any other group, challenges the secular left. That makes us fair game. We are attackable. The secular left’s tactic is to attack those who take issue with their positions. This is not done on any level of logic, reason, debate or intelligent discussion. The tactic is to demean those who are not on their side. Mock and ridicule. How else can this shameful “joke” be published in Time Magazine? As a Christian I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.
There is one other explanation. Christians are reasonable. Attack a Christian and there is no demonstration in the street. They don't don headbands and chant "Death to Time Magazine". They don't go around issuing death threats or declaring Holy War against those who are non-believers. Instead, they pray for their enemy. They forgive their persecutors. They are in peace with God. One would be damned lucky to spend eternity with a Christian. But that won't happen unless you believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God who saved you by His grace.
I suggest Time Magazine feature the present day percussion of Christians in the Middle East and Africa. It is something mainstream media just won't do.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Strike 2
So what part was I responsible for? The president of the company was on my cell phone and she chewed my butt. I’m so thankful in moments like these that I have God to rest upon. I let him take control of the situation and my emotions. I felt like she was baiting me. If she could push me far enough and make me explode, she's have grounds to fire me. But I laughed instead. At least that was what Paul said I did. I don’t remember doing so. She went on and on. About how important this was. Important enough to keep a driver waiting (why hadn't someone told me this?). I walked into the field behind the redemption center and listened until she seemed to be finished and somewhat came to her senses saying she would see if she could do something. I doubted that would happen.
As an employee I really didn’t care if she had been up to 1:30 am, nights in a row trying to get things done. As an employee I really didn't care that she was just one person handling a work load doubled in size. As an employee I really didn’t care that she had just gotten the forms herself on Friday. As an employee all I cared about was my two crew members and I just get screwed out of medical coverage because the company tried to force us to make a decision that we all believed was too important to make without the proper information. As a person, I tried to care.
Here’s what happened. On Saturday my supervisor called. It’s a four day Easter weekend, but stupid me answered my phone. She wanted to meet me. She had the insurance forms that needed to be turned in on by Monday. They were due. Had to be in. Urgent. I agreed to meet her but wondered when she was going to arrive. I wanted to go to an Earth Day concert. At 3 PM (concert is over) she called and said she was running late. On top of that she couldn’t get a hold of my two team members. Of course not. One is just one step away from homelessness and doesn’t have a phone and the other has a cell plan that’s anemic. Her instructions were that she'd leave the paperwork at the redemption center. When we come in on Monday we are to fill it out and give it to a driver.
Simple enough, but I got visions of Nancy Pelosi and “have to pass the bill so you can know what’s in it.” When was the last time you enrolled in an employer health plan with two carriers to choose from? Remember how much packet info there is? I wanted to know my options. The co-pay, the deductibles, the benefit plan, the doctors, their locations... just the small details. And how much is going to come out of my paycheck. As a former HR manager we use to have enrollments that lasted a whole month. Well, maybe the driver won’t come until mid-morning. Maybe we will get a few minutes to look the stuff over.
Each day when I arrive at work I have to literally set up the office because everything is shut down, and locked away each night. My desk folds up, the chairs, the laptop, the printer. Sometimes even the power has been be “set up”. And there is all the money to count. I pray everything works after I get it all plugged in and I log on to the computer. Sometimes Windows wants to make 20 updates. It takes nearly thirty minutes to get everything done, so I get come to work 15 minutes early. It's my spaz prevention plan.
When I arrived today the driver had already gotten his loads and was waiting. Now how was I suppose to set everything up and familiarize myself with insurance plans and complete enrollment forms? By 8 am? Sorry, I couldn’t make that happen and neither could my coworkers. It was unfair. It was not reasonable. I apologized to the driver. I held him up. He said he would wait. I’ve had drivers get huffy if I make them wait. I told him we couldn’t get the forms done. The customers began to roll in.
It was busy. We paid out just under $2000. Remember that is at five cents a whack. We averaged a customer every five minutes. That’s a customer coming in, sorting his material, weighting the material, making the computer entry, paying the customer and dumping the material into the bin. I was able to sit down at lunch time for 30 minutes at 1PM. By then the driver was long gone.
Fortunately, we were busy because if I had time to think about getting chewed out for not filling in the forms and sending the driver down the road, I would have exploded.
Why was this done at the last minute? The president had all the excuses. She even blamed me for not coming in and getting the paperwork on Saturday as if I knew where my coworkers were this weekend.
Something about wanting to make an intelligent decision. I believe that decision is to get back to NY as planned.
As an employee I really didn’t care if she had been up to 1:30 am, nights in a row trying to get things done. As an employee I really didn't care that she was just one person handling a work load doubled in size. As an employee I really didn’t care that she had just gotten the forms herself on Friday. As an employee all I cared about was my two crew members and I just get screwed out of medical coverage because the company tried to force us to make a decision that we all believed was too important to make without the proper information. As a person, I tried to care.
Here’s what happened. On Saturday my supervisor called. It’s a four day Easter weekend, but stupid me answered my phone. She wanted to meet me. She had the insurance forms that needed to be turned in on by Monday. They were due. Had to be in. Urgent. I agreed to meet her but wondered when she was going to arrive. I wanted to go to an Earth Day concert. At 3 PM (concert is over) she called and said she was running late. On top of that she couldn’t get a hold of my two team members. Of course not. One is just one step away from homelessness and doesn’t have a phone and the other has a cell plan that’s anemic. Her instructions were that she'd leave the paperwork at the redemption center. When we come in on Monday we are to fill it out and give it to a driver.
Simple enough, but I got visions of Nancy Pelosi and “have to pass the bill so you can know what’s in it.” When was the last time you enrolled in an employer health plan with two carriers to choose from? Remember how much packet info there is? I wanted to know my options. The co-pay, the deductibles, the benefit plan, the doctors, their locations... just the small details. And how much is going to come out of my paycheck. As a former HR manager we use to have enrollments that lasted a whole month. Well, maybe the driver won’t come until mid-morning. Maybe we will get a few minutes to look the stuff over.
Each day when I arrive at work I have to literally set up the office because everything is shut down, and locked away each night. My desk folds up, the chairs, the laptop, the printer. Sometimes even the power has been be “set up”. And there is all the money to count. I pray everything works after I get it all plugged in and I log on to the computer. Sometimes Windows wants to make 20 updates. It takes nearly thirty minutes to get everything done, so I get come to work 15 minutes early. It's my spaz prevention plan.
When I arrived today the driver had already gotten his loads and was waiting. Now how was I suppose to set everything up and familiarize myself with insurance plans and complete enrollment forms? By 8 am? Sorry, I couldn’t make that happen and neither could my coworkers. It was unfair. It was not reasonable. I apologized to the driver. I held him up. He said he would wait. I’ve had drivers get huffy if I make them wait. I told him we couldn’t get the forms done. The customers began to roll in.
It was busy. We paid out just under $2000. Remember that is at five cents a whack. We averaged a customer every five minutes. That’s a customer coming in, sorting his material, weighting the material, making the computer entry, paying the customer and dumping the material into the bin. I was able to sit down at lunch time for 30 minutes at 1PM. By then the driver was long gone.
Fortunately, we were busy because if I had time to think about getting chewed out for not filling in the forms and sending the driver down the road, I would have exploded.
Why was this done at the last minute? The president had all the excuses. She even blamed me for not coming in and getting the paperwork on Saturday as if I knew where my coworkers were this weekend.
Something about wanting to make an intelligent decision. I believe that decision is to get back to NY as planned.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Details
Besides stuffing the laptop and 40 feet of cables, USB cords, power stripes and printer into a tool box every night after I print out and call in the end of the day reports to the office answering machine, I count the money in the safe and balance out with the cashier all the money we have on hand. I’ve learned I hate counting money unless it is in my basement done under the dim of a single naked light bulb in the wee hours of the night. All with a pencil tucked behind my ear.
The other day, I was fifteen dollars short in the safe. Not only was this not logically possible, it was not practically possible. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, my brain, normally fried, could not find the simple math error. The mistake laid hidden and I was holding the crew over as no one is to be on site alone with the safe open.
I called the missing fifteen dollars in to my supervisor. She went through the process of the day, but without numbers in front of her, she couldn’t see the problem either. I went home wondering what I screwed up. The next day, despite my day off, I had to go to the redemption center to give the one and only set of keys to the oncoming lead. It was an opportunity to grab the week’s paperwork and hunt down the missing fifteen. Sure enough with a refreshed set of eyes I immediately found the error. Three rolls of dimes equals fifteen dollars, not thirty dollars. There was my fifteen dollars. Ugh. Obviously, in my lifetime I have not worked as a cashier in retail.
I corrected the mistake and took off to run errands. By noon I swung around to the bank and checked my account balance at the ATM. It was payday and I expected big things in my account which ran a grand balance of $44.20. The amount was that large because I got sixteen dollars and change back from Lowes after I returned a pair of safety glasses. However, my balance had not improved. I thought about the rest of the employees who were depending on this first payday. Despite my paltry balance, I wasn’t. Thank God.
I learned years ago as a first line supervisor in an automotive manufacturing plant that you don’t mess with an employee’s family and you don’t mess with their checks. If this happens the employee's reactions are not pleasant and it impacts an entire crew once the shop talk gets fired up.
I called my supervisor. Before I could say anything she was overly apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I know you worked more than 41 hours in the past two weeks. Margret is working on the corrections. I want you to know we do know what we are doing!” Not only had my check not been deposited, apparently it was short about thirty hours.
“No worries,” I said. But what had gone wrong? Margret is the company owner. She handles the HR stuff and processes the payroll. I laughed to myself as I jumped back on my scooter to head home. Margret had been to my site last Sunday night and left us a note to clean up the office. I was puzzled. Each night after the barrels are hosed down, we stack them in the office so they don’t walk off in the middle of the night. Once they are crammed inside it is nearly impossible to reach the alarm system let alone make it to the desk where the cashier had left a few scraps of paper and a rubber band. House keeping has always been a priority in my manufacturing career. Despite the oils and machine shavings, the floors and machinery, were clean and parts in process were always stage properly. Her note stabbed me in my gut. I felt like I failed a surprise inspection.
It’s three days since payday and my bank account is still short. I now realize why I am working here. Soli Deo Gloria.
The other day, I was fifteen dollars short in the safe. Not only was this not logically possible, it was not practically possible. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, my brain, normally fried, could not find the simple math error. The mistake laid hidden and I was holding the crew over as no one is to be on site alone with the safe open.
I called the missing fifteen dollars in to my supervisor. She went through the process of the day, but without numbers in front of her, she couldn’t see the problem either. I went home wondering what I screwed up. The next day, despite my day off, I had to go to the redemption center to give the one and only set of keys to the oncoming lead. It was an opportunity to grab the week’s paperwork and hunt down the missing fifteen. Sure enough with a refreshed set of eyes I immediately found the error. Three rolls of dimes equals fifteen dollars, not thirty dollars. There was my fifteen dollars. Ugh. Obviously, in my lifetime I have not worked as a cashier in retail.
I corrected the mistake and took off to run errands. By noon I swung around to the bank and checked my account balance at the ATM. It was payday and I expected big things in my account which ran a grand balance of $44.20. The amount was that large because I got sixteen dollars and change back from Lowes after I returned a pair of safety glasses. However, my balance had not improved. I thought about the rest of the employees who were depending on this first payday. Despite my paltry balance, I wasn’t. Thank God.
I learned years ago as a first line supervisor in an automotive manufacturing plant that you don’t mess with an employee’s family and you don’t mess with their checks. If this happens the employee's reactions are not pleasant and it impacts an entire crew once the shop talk gets fired up.
I called my supervisor. Before I could say anything she was overly apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I know you worked more than 41 hours in the past two weeks. Margret is working on the corrections. I want you to know we do know what we are doing!” Not only had my check not been deposited, apparently it was short about thirty hours.
“No worries,” I said. But what had gone wrong? Margret is the company owner. She handles the HR stuff and processes the payroll. I laughed to myself as I jumped back on my scooter to head home. Margret had been to my site last Sunday night and left us a note to clean up the office. I was puzzled. Each night after the barrels are hosed down, we stack them in the office so they don’t walk off in the middle of the night. Once they are crammed inside it is nearly impossible to reach the alarm system let alone make it to the desk where the cashier had left a few scraps of paper and a rubber band. House keeping has always been a priority in my manufacturing career. Despite the oils and machine shavings, the floors and machinery, were clean and parts in process were always stage properly. Her note stabbed me in my gut. I felt like I failed a surprise inspection.
It’s three days since payday and my bank account is still short. I now realize why I am working here. Soli Deo Gloria.
The System
When I joined the Army I actually thought the war was over, but not until Saigon fell did the war end. By then, I had been in the Army a little over two years. I got to wear The Everybody Button on my dress uniform signifying that I was in the United States Army sometime during the period of time from November 1, 1955 to April 30, 1975. That makes me a Vietnam Era Vet.
After my discharge I applied for the GI Bill. All of my undergraduate work at Georgia State was paid via the benefit. I had a full scholarship and stipend to the University of Michigan so the checks from the government made ends meet while I pursued my MBA. That was the last time I applied for or used any veteran benefits-26 years ago.
As a person of limited income since returning from the Peace Corps in 2005 I have eked out a living relying on my rental properties, and odd employment opportunities. When I moved out of Tennessee health insurance got too expensive so I dropped it about three years ago. Next month as a result of my new job at the redemption center, I’ll pick up coverage once again.
As a fiscal conservative I have been reluctant to apply for any governmental assistance. At any moment I could get off my ass and get a real job. I’ve been lucky to be healthy. I watch what I eat, watch my weight, and regularly exercise. I maintain my body in a way that is responsible. My only vice is Chap Stick. For my aches and pains I say screw it and work through the creaks complaining to my doctor every year that it sucks to get old.
But getting old is a reality. So before I landed my job I applied to the Veterans Administration to see if I might qualify for VA insurance. Last week I was notified that due to my limited income I am qualified, but due to my assets I must pay a small co-pay for doctor’s visits, and specialists. Prescription drugs are $9.00. The only prescription I have is for migraines and I buy them out of Canada. Otherwise each pill cost $35.00.
This afternoon with my recently received Letter of Eligibility in hand, I attempted to enter the Veterans Affairs “the system.” In the Kona office I signed in and as instructed I slid the little shield over my name for privacy purposes. The security guard and I recognized each other from the redemption center. I live on an island. What are you going to keep private?
The lady behind the sliding glass window smiled politely as I explained that I had my eligibility letter and I wanted to get my photo ID as the letter instructed. “No problem’, she smiled. I was in luck because they take photo IDs only four days a month and I showed up on the afternoon of the great photo shoot. Immediately, I was escorted back where the young male photographer dressed in a Hawaiian shirt asked me for my last four. Last four what? DUI’s. Children? Addresses? Books I read? I gave him the last four digits of my social security number. Except, he couldn’t find me in “the system.” Not even with my full nine digits.
Back to the front desk. And, of course, back to the back of the line. Approach glass window. The receptionist re-examines my letter and notices my New York address. “New York? You’re in Hawaii now.”
“Yes, but I thought I was in the United States.”
“It’s a different district. That’s why you’re not in ‘the system’. No worries. I need a little information.” She handed me a one page sheet, after highlighting all ten questions on the page. There’s nothing on the back. Name, next of kin, emergency contact, Medicare information and my DD214 discharge papers. I return to the line after I complete the required information in about 42 seconds, printing as neatly as possible. She took my paper. “Okay, please have a seat.”
Less than 30 seconds later she called me back to the window. Now everybody knows I’m here. “I don’t have enough information.” She handed me a four page form very similar to the on-line form I completed weeks ago when I first applied. Highlighted are previous year’s income, total spent on unreimbursed medical including dental, assets from real estate to stocks and bonds, other valuables and again, next of kin. Do they know something I don't?
When I completed the on-line application I had my tax information in front of me. Now I was guessing. I looked at the line wanting other valuables. I thought of the homeless guy who drown last week in the Kona boat harbor—one fishing pole, a box full of lures, a bike and a pair of shorts. I wrote estimate all over everything. I’m sure nothing matched the on-line application. Why do they need this again?
I return the completed form. The receptionist dismissed me while she began to enter more information in “the system.” Getting me “into the system” for a photo ID was proving difficult.
Once again she called me to the window.
“Ms. Perez.”
Oh brother. Truly, I tried not to roll my eyes.
“I need more information.”
“I don’t have my DD 214,” I blurted out.
She replied, “That might be a problem.”
“I’m already classified as 7c. I’m eligible. I have a letter.” I wasn’t upset or anything, just stating the facts. I noticed the security guard eyeing me from his desk in the corner. Quickly, I look away.
“I’ll try to get you into ‘the system.’ It is now asking me for some more information. Branch?”
“Army.”
“Service date?”
“March 27, 1973.” One’s enlistment date is never forgotten.
“Date discharged?”
“March 26 1976.” A date of significant importance in my life.
“Type of discharge?”
“Honorable.”
“Okay. I think you are in. Please have a seat.”
The young photographer asked me to follow him back to his digital camera perched on a tripod in a room not bigger than a linen closet. He repeated his request, “Last four?”
I spew out four numbers.
“Valerie Perez. Got you. ‘The system’ says you are pending. I can’t take your photo. Can you come back next week?”
Now I remember why I haven’t approached “the system” in 26 years.
After my discharge I applied for the GI Bill. All of my undergraduate work at Georgia State was paid via the benefit. I had a full scholarship and stipend to the University of Michigan so the checks from the government made ends meet while I pursued my MBA. That was the last time I applied for or used any veteran benefits-26 years ago.
As a person of limited income since returning from the Peace Corps in 2005 I have eked out a living relying on my rental properties, and odd employment opportunities. When I moved out of Tennessee health insurance got too expensive so I dropped it about three years ago. Next month as a result of my new job at the redemption center, I’ll pick up coverage once again.
As a fiscal conservative I have been reluctant to apply for any governmental assistance. At any moment I could get off my ass and get a real job. I’ve been lucky to be healthy. I watch what I eat, watch my weight, and regularly exercise. I maintain my body in a way that is responsible. My only vice is Chap Stick. For my aches and pains I say screw it and work through the creaks complaining to my doctor every year that it sucks to get old.
But getting old is a reality. So before I landed my job I applied to the Veterans Administration to see if I might qualify for VA insurance. Last week I was notified that due to my limited income I am qualified, but due to my assets I must pay a small co-pay for doctor’s visits, and specialists. Prescription drugs are $9.00. The only prescription I have is for migraines and I buy them out of Canada. Otherwise each pill cost $35.00.
This afternoon with my recently received Letter of Eligibility in hand, I attempted to enter the Veterans Affairs “the system.” In the Kona office I signed in and as instructed I slid the little shield over my name for privacy purposes. The security guard and I recognized each other from the redemption center. I live on an island. What are you going to keep private?
The lady behind the sliding glass window smiled politely as I explained that I had my eligibility letter and I wanted to get my photo ID as the letter instructed. “No problem’, she smiled. I was in luck because they take photo IDs only four days a month and I showed up on the afternoon of the great photo shoot. Immediately, I was escorted back where the young male photographer dressed in a Hawaiian shirt asked me for my last four. Last four what? DUI’s. Children? Addresses? Books I read? I gave him the last four digits of my social security number. Except, he couldn’t find me in “the system.” Not even with my full nine digits.
Back to the front desk. And, of course, back to the back of the line. Approach glass window. The receptionist re-examines my letter and notices my New York address. “New York? You’re in Hawaii now.”
“Yes, but I thought I was in the United States.”
“It’s a different district. That’s why you’re not in ‘the system’. No worries. I need a little information.” She handed me a one page sheet, after highlighting all ten questions on the page. There’s nothing on the back. Name, next of kin, emergency contact, Medicare information and my DD214 discharge papers. I return to the line after I complete the required information in about 42 seconds, printing as neatly as possible. She took my paper. “Okay, please have a seat.”
Less than 30 seconds later she called me back to the window. Now everybody knows I’m here. “I don’t have enough information.” She handed me a four page form very similar to the on-line form I completed weeks ago when I first applied. Highlighted are previous year’s income, total spent on unreimbursed medical including dental, assets from real estate to stocks and bonds, other valuables and again, next of kin. Do they know something I don't?
When I completed the on-line application I had my tax information in front of me. Now I was guessing. I looked at the line wanting other valuables. I thought of the homeless guy who drown last week in the Kona boat harbor—one fishing pole, a box full of lures, a bike and a pair of shorts. I wrote estimate all over everything. I’m sure nothing matched the on-line application. Why do they need this again?
I return the completed form. The receptionist dismissed me while she began to enter more information in “the system.” Getting me “into the system” for a photo ID was proving difficult.
Once again she called me to the window.
“Ms. Perez.”
Oh brother. Truly, I tried not to roll my eyes.
“I need more information.”
“I don’t have my DD 214,” I blurted out.
She replied, “That might be a problem.”
“I’m already classified as 7c. I’m eligible. I have a letter.” I wasn’t upset or anything, just stating the facts. I noticed the security guard eyeing me from his desk in the corner. Quickly, I look away.
“I’ll try to get you into ‘the system.’ It is now asking me for some more information. Branch?”
“Army.”
“Service date?”
“March 27, 1973.” One’s enlistment date is never forgotten.
“Date discharged?”
“March 26 1976.” A date of significant importance in my life.
“Type of discharge?”
“Honorable.”
“Okay. I think you are in. Please have a seat.”
The young photographer asked me to follow him back to his digital camera perched on a tripod in a room not bigger than a linen closet. He repeated his request, “Last four?”
I spew out four numbers.
“Valerie Perez. Got you. ‘The system’ says you are pending. I can’t take your photo. Can you come back next week?”
Now I remember why I haven’t approached “the system” in 26 years.
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Change You Can Have
It’s amazing how we all wanted change during the last presidential election (are you through with that stupid slogan?), yet when introduced to a seemingly inconsequential change there is a tendency to spazz-out. That’s human nature. Take the person who washes their aluminum cans and plastic bottles then meticulously counts each item. He shows up at the redemption center announcing, “I have 117 aluminum cans, 27 glass bottles and 26 plastics.”
“Sir, if I weight them, I’ll pay you the scrap value for the material.” It’s more.
“But I’ve counted them.” To prove his efforts, he thrusts a scrap paper with his scribbled counts in my face.
“If you want them counted, we will count them, but I guarantee you’ll get more if I weight them.”
Not convinced of this, he says, “I have the count right here.” Again with the paper.
“I appreciate that, but if you want to be paid for the count I must verify the count.”
“You didn’t do that before.” (there’s another change)
“That’s because I never did this before. We are a new company (change) and we must verify counts. Anything up to 200. (change) Then we only weigh (change).
“Well count then.”
Now I am thinking, “shit.” I hate counting. I always lose track of my numbers.
I finish the count. My numbers match his. I take note of the smug look on his face. I carry the bins to the scales and enter his counts into the computer.
“That’s $8.50.” I give him his receipt and direct him to the cashier. Then I weighed his material. He would have received $10.01 for the scrap value. That’s change I could live with. It’s money my company keeps.
“Sir, if I weight them, I’ll pay you the scrap value for the material.” It’s more.
“But I’ve counted them.” To prove his efforts, he thrusts a scrap paper with his scribbled counts in my face.
“If you want them counted, we will count them, but I guarantee you’ll get more if I weight them.”
Not convinced of this, he says, “I have the count right here.” Again with the paper.
“I appreciate that, but if you want to be paid for the count I must verify the count.”
“You didn’t do that before.” (there’s another change)
“That’s because I never did this before. We are a new company (change) and we must verify counts. Anything up to 200. (change) Then we only weigh (change).
“Well count then.”
Now I am thinking, “shit.” I hate counting. I always lose track of my numbers.
I finish the count. My numbers match his. I take note of the smug look on his face. I carry the bins to the scales and enter his counts into the computer.
“That’s $8.50.” I give him his receipt and direct him to the cashier. Then I weighed his material. He would have received $10.01 for the scrap value. That’s change I could live with. It’s money my company keeps.
Monday, April 04, 2011
Working: Day Three
After working a full day at the redemption center I wasn't so filthy to be embarrassingly caught in the grocery store buying bread. Nor was I dead tired. But my brain was definitely fried. Never had I been so nervous for an enter day.
Before buying the bread I let the cashier know that Allen, the bakery dude, said that the prices were marked wrong on the bread, but ring them up per the coupon price. Sure enough the register misread the price. The cashier calmly whipped out her cell phone with slide keyboard from her bra (no lie) and manually calculated the refund. Then she went through an elaborate series of keystrokes – more than what would be used to write a short story - on the register. As she performed this amazing feat I looked at the other cashiers and elevated my appreciation for the job.
Presently I feel doomed to run back and forth to the dump for four days a week to face computer programs that are filled with glitches. The customers have been impressed to see our new portable office, a computer system run on solar and the “local material” bamboo structure that serves as the staging area for the operation. But I know I am using a system that has no mistake proofing and more bugs than the cockroaches that wander around the center. I can just about enter anything in any input field and the computer will let me get away with it. And since I am the lead, I’ve slowed the sorters down so that I’m sure I enter everything correctly. Due to one typo I made, the guys had to reweigh over 300 dollars worth of glass. And you only get twelve cents a pound. That’s a lot of glass. It was my fault. I felt really bad. I apologized to them and the waiting customer, but as I explained, “otherwise, you owe me seventy cents.” Because that was what the computer said.
Not all the problems are mine. This morning, my first solo day as lead, the computer and the scale refused to communicate. I’m getting way to familiar with the software tech guy in New Hampshire. He walked me through all sorts of troubleshooting but to no avail. Meanwhile we were swamped with customers. Maybe it was because the local paper ran a little write up about the new business operating the redemption center. Everybody and their auntie came to recycle and check us out. Don’t these people go to church? Thank God I wasn’t talking to a guy with an Indian accent. My two-man sort crew resorted to weighting the barrel and manually computing the scrap values for aluminum, glass and plastic. Not as simple as .05 cents a can.
Finally the owner’s son arrived. He set up the computer so I could manually enter the material, weight and tare weight. The rest of the day smoothed out after lunch. At the end of the day I came up $10.00 short. Piss. I couldn’t find the error and by 5 PM I was blinded by an eye migraine. I couldn’t even see the numbers.
At least I didn’t have to jump into a bin of aluminum cans to retrieve plastic. I did that on my first day. Wading up to your waste in – well waste – isn’t something you get to do everyday. Getting into the bin was easy. Getting out was difficult. Mixed recycled material can result in a ten grand fine by the state.
And the cops didn’t come and take my scooter away like they did to one of my coworkers. He bought it on Craig’s List two weeks ago. A customer recognized it was his and called the cops. It had been stolen. Now my coworker is out $900, a scooter and a ride to work. But because the ad was still posted on Craig’s List, they nabbed the guy who sold it to him.
And yesterday the cops showed up looking for a homeless guy named Frank who had been by the day before. Apparently, after he collected a few bucks recycling, he used his redemption money to buy a few pills and booze, then fell off the rocks at the harbor and drown.
If I were a writer, would I have material!
Before buying the bread I let the cashier know that Allen, the bakery dude, said that the prices were marked wrong on the bread, but ring them up per the coupon price. Sure enough the register misread the price. The cashier calmly whipped out her cell phone with slide keyboard from her bra (no lie) and manually calculated the refund. Then she went through an elaborate series of keystrokes – more than what would be used to write a short story - on the register. As she performed this amazing feat I looked at the other cashiers and elevated my appreciation for the job.
Presently I feel doomed to run back and forth to the dump for four days a week to face computer programs that are filled with glitches. The customers have been impressed to see our new portable office, a computer system run on solar and the “local material” bamboo structure that serves as the staging area for the operation. But I know I am using a system that has no mistake proofing and more bugs than the cockroaches that wander around the center. I can just about enter anything in any input field and the computer will let me get away with it. And since I am the lead, I’ve slowed the sorters down so that I’m sure I enter everything correctly. Due to one typo I made, the guys had to reweigh over 300 dollars worth of glass. And you only get twelve cents a pound. That’s a lot of glass. It was my fault. I felt really bad. I apologized to them and the waiting customer, but as I explained, “otherwise, you owe me seventy cents.” Because that was what the computer said.
Not all the problems are mine. This morning, my first solo day as lead, the computer and the scale refused to communicate. I’m getting way to familiar with the software tech guy in New Hampshire. He walked me through all sorts of troubleshooting but to no avail. Meanwhile we were swamped with customers. Maybe it was because the local paper ran a little write up about the new business operating the redemption center. Everybody and their auntie came to recycle and check us out. Don’t these people go to church? Thank God I wasn’t talking to a guy with an Indian accent. My two-man sort crew resorted to weighting the barrel and manually computing the scrap values for aluminum, glass and plastic. Not as simple as .05 cents a can.
Finally the owner’s son arrived. He set up the computer so I could manually enter the material, weight and tare weight. The rest of the day smoothed out after lunch. At the end of the day I came up $10.00 short. Piss. I couldn’t find the error and by 5 PM I was blinded by an eye migraine. I couldn’t even see the numbers.
At least I didn’t have to jump into a bin of aluminum cans to retrieve plastic. I did that on my first day. Wading up to your waste in – well waste – isn’t something you get to do everyday. Getting into the bin was easy. Getting out was difficult. Mixed recycled material can result in a ten grand fine by the state.
And the cops didn’t come and take my scooter away like they did to one of my coworkers. He bought it on Craig’s List two weeks ago. A customer recognized it was his and called the cops. It had been stolen. Now my coworker is out $900, a scooter and a ride to work. But because the ad was still posted on Craig’s List, they nabbed the guy who sold it to him.
And yesterday the cops showed up looking for a homeless guy named Frank who had been by the day before. Apparently, after he collected a few bucks recycling, he used his redemption money to buy a few pills and booze, then fell off the rocks at the harbor and drown.
If I were a writer, would I have material!
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