by Orgy Philly…
I’m not ashamed to say, I did my internship at this big bookseller corporation. Okay, wait a minute; maybe I am ashamed. I’m not going to say the name of the company because that would be inappropriate. McScrew-Hell.
Truth is, McScrew-Hell is not a nice-little bookworm company like you might think. They’re a big scary corporation, something right out of the Hudsucker Proxy. After working one summer there, McScrew-Hell scares me worse than zombies, and zombies scare me a lot.
I’m a business major at a large sea-grant college. Last summer I did an internship at McScrew-Hell and all I can say is that it really opened my eyes. I never knew anything about big business except what I’d seen in movies, but all of a sudden I was tossed into this big room with hundreds of other people and all I can say is: I felt like I was lost at sea. The anonymity of the whole thing was downright scary. At that moment, if I had a choice between being me and a sardine, I think I would have chosen the stinky little fish.
There wasn’t really anything wrong with the place or the job itself, nothing I could actually quantify. The work was easy, the people were nice, and the hours were good. But there was something wrong, an incalculable variable at play that I just couldn’t put my finger on. In short, it gave me the willies to be in that place.
All of a sudden, it was like I didn’t count at all. Like I didn’t even exist. Of course, the awful truth about life is that we really don’t count, that we don’t really exist. When plopped down in a setting like that, you really come to terms with reality. Like being in the army. I would hate being in the army.
When you’re alone, at least you get the false impression that you mean something, that you’re actually someone. But that place, hundreds of people all lined up in rows. All these people banging away at their keyboards, it’s really not that much different than it was fifty years ago. Like in the movie The Apartment. Yes, just like Jack Lemmon in The Apartment.
And the worst part: where was all the corporate nookie? If I was going to whore myself out to corporate America, the least it could do in return is throw me a little of that Fortune 500 beaver. From everything I’d seen in the movies and on TV, I was expecting a veritable Roman orgy. You know, Caligula style. Instead, I felt like a galley slave, an oarsman on a Roman barge more akin to Ben Hur.
Where were all the hilarious hijinks and compromising situations like in The Secret of My Succe$s , or Mad Men. Where was the quickie in the copy room, the blow job in the bathroom? There was nothing, not even a reach around in the supply closet.
The only thing worse than the feeling like I was part of some Hitler youth group was, believe it or not, the boredom. I even thought about finding a pair of those eyes-in-the-glasses, glasses. You know, the ones with the open eyes in the lenses that make you look like you’re awake even when you’re sleeping? The ones Homer Simpson had.
There was this one time I saw a guy in the bathroom with a pile of white stuff and I thought Yes. Finally. But it turned out to be BC Powder, instead.
So that was my great experience with corporate America and boy did it open my eyes. How boring. How droll. I only added Caligula to the title because without it you might not even read this at all.
Studying about business in school is one thing, getting a taste of real corporate life, inside the sardine can, is another altogether. Most colleges are supposed to brainwash students into becoming card-carrying liberals, not corporate robots. But I couldn’t have cared less about politics. My current lifestyle as a couch potato could very well be coming to an end, and that’s what I was concerned with most.
About the Author
Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by New York Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas. Find out more about Loyd at PhilipLoyd.com
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