When my first temp assignment at a Mad Ave ad shop ended abruptly, without warning, I was more than a little disillusioned. An inexpensive college grad had been hired to take my place. Although the account team took me out for lunch and we had a warm sendoff, all their well wishing could not wish me into a new position. I was banking on my agency to cough up some equally cozy affair for me. I was nervous – after all, this job had been synonymous with my beginnings in New York – I got it right away when I moved to town. It was a private cubicle, no phones to answer except my own, unlimited internet, and everyone brought the work to me, always asking me if I had time before assigning tasks. I never said no, being raised with that cursed old-world work ethic that prescribes instant guilt for the slacker. Anyhow, a nicer bunch of girls I’ve never worked for. But it was also fairly boring, and I was ready for a change.

I was not, however, ready for unemployment. It was too early in the game to not be working, and my rent was due. So I did what every temp does, call every agency he’s ever known and get on the list, or register for work. I must have racked up 8 or 9 agencies, and I couldn’t tell you today most of their names or where they are – I just know they’re in that ‘temp central’ place over there, my own personal hell, at the corner of Madison and 42^nd Street. If you’ve temped, chances are you’ve become far too familiar with those few buildings, nesting places for hundreds of over-tanned women in black suits that ilve in places like Teaneck, Tenafly, Tuckahoe.

So, after days of "Oh! I’m so glad you called! I’ll be in touch with you!" or "Yeah! Great! Glad you called! No! Nothing right now!" I got desperate. I paid a visit to the regional office of Starbucks Coffee. I figured, this is the least I can do – at least I’ll have benefits. I shoved my resume (as if a resume would help me get a job pulling espresso shots!) under the door, and I was told they would be in touch.

Also attended a hiring fair for the new Borders, over there on 2^nd Avenue, held at a flashy trashy tourist hotel over by Penn Station. They had free water, and they were pleasant people, from Long Island. Being a gabber, I wowed the first interviewer, and was quickly taken in for a second. We chatted, we jived, we discussed music, we had fun. I figured it was done.

Not so fast, Sparky. Two weeks passed, I’d heard from neither. Calls to Starbucks were placed, and to no avail. I’d been lost in the system. All of a sudden I get a call from a store on Third Avenue. I’d asked specifically, repeatedly for the Upper West Side. I returned the call, got put on hold for 15 minutes before hanging up.

Another couple days, I’m really hurting. I take a cross-town bus to Third Avenue. Entering the store, I introduce myself. The manager doesn’t remember calling me, and never saw my application. Apparently. The store is sloppily run, the employees are huffing and puffing about the counter, everything’s a mess. It’s obviously understaffed. Well, I think, they could use someone with a sense of organization like myself.

Could you please fill out another application with the regional office, she asks. I tell her I don’t really have the time – she offers to look again for the existing application. No avail. She asks me to come in the next day for an interview anyway. She obviously needs the help. I’m frustrated. This will be my fourth Starbucks interview in six months and three cities, with no results.

I am not an idiot. I am an organized, well-spoken individual that knows his coffee, drinks plenty of it. I kick ass on the Caramel Macchiato, know my mocha from my chai, non-fat from no-whip. I know how to make harried women smile, and I try not to cop an attitude with the customer. It’s one of those things, being a customer, that makes me want to kill when on the receiving end.

On the bus ride home, I get defiant. There will be no interview. They can kiss my ass.

In the mean time, I got smart, signed on with yet another host of agencies, and one day found myself greatly rewarded for the troubles – the tenth (and hopefully, last ever) agency I signed on with found me a fantastic desktop publishing position, where I meet all sorts of aimless young creative people not unlike myself, and we make good money doing low key work.

I happened to read about the Borders Grand Opening recently – over on 2^nd Avenue there. There were gay folk singers and lesbian snake handlers on hand for the gala event. Or something like that.