TEMPORARY
TEMPORARY
HILARY LEICHTER
An Emily Books Original
Minneapolis and Brooklyn
2020
Copyright © 2020 by Hilary Leichter
Cover art and design by Sarah Evenson
Book design by Rachel Holscher
Author photograph © Sylvie Rosokoff
Coffee House Press books are available to the trade through our primary distributor, Consortium Book Sales & Distribution, cbsd.com or (800) 283-3572. For personal orders, catalogs, or other information, write to [email protected].
Coffee House Press is a nonprofit literary publishing house. Support from private foundations, corporate giving programs, government programs, and generous individuals helps make the publication of our books possible. We gratefully acknowledge their support in detail in the back of this book.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Leichter, Hilary, author.
Title: Temporary / Hilary Leichter.
Description: Minneapolis : Coffee House Press, 2020. | “An Emily Books Original.”
Identifiers: LCCN 2019015719 (print) | LCCN 2019016842 (ebook) | ISBN 9781566895743 (ebook) | ISBN 9781566895668 (trade pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Single women—Fiction. | Temporary employment—Fiction. | Precarious employment—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3612.E35557 (ebook) | LCC PS3612.E35557 T46 2020 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019015719
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
for Mom
Contents
ONBOARDING
CITY WORK
WATER WORK
FIRST WORK
BLOOD WORK
MEMORY WORK
SKY WORK
PAPER WORK
HOME WORK
POST WORK
EXIT INTERVIEW
Acknowledgments
Funder Acknowledgments
The Publisher’s Circle of Coffee House Press
It seemed to me that if she could remain transient here, she would not have to leave.
—Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping
TEMPORARY
ONBOARDING
There was the assassin. There was the child. There was the marketing and the fundraising and also the development. There was the keeper of the donor list. There was the shredder of the master list. There was the washer, and there was the dryer, and there was she who dispensed the dryer sheets. She donned them like veils, then dropped them in the machine. There was the folder of socks. There was the dropper of bombs. There was the knocker of doors. How many people live in your home, and would you like to support our cause? Will you buy some citrus fruit? Would you care for some literature? There was the house with the doors that opened and closed. There were solutions that needed managing. There was the shepherd of pamphlets. There was the checker of facts and, later, the checker of spells. There was the learning on the job, and the lying on the job. There was late for work, and there was early. There was even right on time. The box of stamps and the corkboard calendar and the pink book of message sheets to tell you what happened exactly, specifically, in detail, While You Were Out.
CITY WORK
I have a shorthand kind of career. Short tasks, short stays, short skirts. My temp agency is an uptown pleasure dome of powder-scented women in sensible shoes. As is customary, I place my employment in their manicured hands. With trusty carpal alchemy they knead my resume into a series of paychecks that constitute a life. The calls come on Mondays and Fridays, flanking each week with ephemeral placements. Like clockwork, like something sturdier than time, the agency allots my existence. After I prove reliably discreet and efficient, I am sent to various priority clients. Personal assistant jobs. Jobs assisting with personal things. “There is nothing more personal than doing your job,” something I read on a granola bar wrapper on my way to work. It’s a sentiment strong enough on which to hang my heart and purpose.
My boyfriends call these positions A Great Opportunity, but they’re company men. They carry comedic mugs to their offices and leave them on their desks overnight, little pools of sludge staining the ceramic bottoms. In the coffee grounds I divine their fortunes: my boyfriends will go gray at these same desks while purchasing cubicle-sized funeral plots.
I worry about those poor, abandoned mugs. How sad they must feel, how lonely, left to sit in their own filth. I worry about living the life of an unwashed vessel. The mold that fissures the leftover coffee, floating like a lily pad on forgotten dregs.
“But what’s your dream job?” my earnest boyfriend asks, his chin cupped in his hands.
“It’s hard to explain,” I say.
“Try!”
I consider my deepest wish. There are days I think I’ve achieved it, and then it’s gone, like a sneeze that gets swallowed. I’ve heard that at the first sign of permanence, the heart rate can increase, and blood can rise in the cheeks. I’ve read the brochures, the pamphlets. Some temporaries swear it’s that shiver, that elevated pulse, that prickly sweat, the biology of how you know it’s happening to you. I worry I’ll miss it, simply overlook the symptoms of my own permanence arriving. The steadiness, they call it.
“When you know, you just know,” the lucky temps say. “You can’t rush these things.”
Some temps never go steady, and they die before digging into the footholds of life.
“My dream job is a job that stays,” I tell my boyfriend. “It might not happen tomorrow, or overnight. One morning, I’ll wake up and be just like you.”
“Baby, you can be whatever you wanna be!” He smooths my hair with both hands, and it poufs back out again in the wake of his touch.
My earnest boyfriend does not live with me, he who plucks the spiders from my rug and tucks them onto window ledges. None of my boyfriends live with me, but some of their weekend sweaters do—pilling, furry creatures in my closet of corporate attire. I occasionally return the wrong sweater to the wrong man, but they don’t notice. We aren’t anything long-term, they know. They have their nights of the week, their weeks of the month, a chain of open sweater arms spreading toward Sunday like woolen paper dolls.
I introduced them to my mother but only once, following the prescribed rules of the temporary life. She reviewed their pictures in advance, the photos unfurling from my wallet in a slim accordion that grazed her kitchen floor.
“This one,” she said. “Nice eyes.”
“My culinary boyfriend.”
“Your tummy will always be full. Good girl. And him?”
“My tallest boyfriend.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t look very tall.”
“Well, the camera cut him off a bit.”
“Hmm.”
“This one’s my favorite,” I said, shuffling the selfies and headshots. She squinted to assess his particular grin. “Do you approve?”
“What do I look like, a matchmaker?” she asked, tossing the pictures on the table, disappointed in this gesture I’d made at constancy.
In my mother’s kitchen, the mugs were clean and dry and stacked in a far cabinet. Her dresses were starched and pressed, and her lips were colored with something called a stain. Even when she wasn’t feeling well, she wore her favorite earrings.
“Be reasonable,” I can still hear her say, “and tell me about your jobs.”
Farren is my primary contact at the agency. Her face is fresh and lip glossed, a properly moisturized beacon of confidence and self-care. Her nails are always painted with a sparkly glitter polish, fingertips flashing from below her neutral sleeves like hidden constellations peeking through
the clouds. So these are the hands reaching down from the sky, I think, shuffling forms and contracts to guarantee me some honest employment.
During our initial interview, she hoisted herself atop her desk and seated me in her comfortable chair. The arrangement felt as strange and unsettled as if she’d scaled the ceiling and harnessed me to a system of ropes. I wondered if it was a test and struggled to maintain an alert position.
“How’s this?” she asked, shoving a pile of papers to the side with a flourish to make room for her legs.
“Wow, Farren, this is just great.” The lumbar support immediately put me at ease, into a trance, or both.
Did I fall asleep? Maybe.
What happened next, I’m not entirely certain. Perhaps this was the specific moment of ergonomic telepathy, the agency’s chance to divine my pure internal mechanism. The secret gear, the hidden nut or bolt at my core that revealed the truest rhythm of my potential for labor. And then: a shiver, a swift unease, like a swiveling chair that tips back a notch too far. Maybe this is what the steadiness feels like, I thought, my mind careening forward down a narrow, hopeful lane. I checked my pulse. I listened for a tune or a bell or another oblique sign that I had been granted permanence.
But no—provisional employment rushed back through my veins. Everything was familiar and fleeting again.
“You OK?” Farren asked. She handed me a form and touched my elbow with a cold, outstretched tip of shimmering nail. Just the nail, not the finger. I couldn’t tell if it was meant to soothe or scratch.
“I’m fine. Thanks, Farren.”
“Good! Because I wouldn’t want you to miss out on this dream placement!”
I didn’t want to miss out either. I don’t. I’m filling out forms, always. I’m shaking hands. I’m gainfully employed, again and again and again. The surest path to permanence is to do my placements, and to do them well.
Everyone knows Farren’s priority clients are top of the heap. Heads of state and heads of house, leaders of industry, leaders of followers.
I worked my way up like anyone else, starting with the bottom-barrel business, those city-living jobs that make a city pretty.
I shined the shoes of important showmen and watched them tap and hoof themselves all the way through Grand Central. They taught me a few moves on the sly.
I washed the windows on skyscrapers that truly scraped the skies, those cloud-raking tines of weather vanes, satellites, rods of steel like stilettos. I could squeegee and dance my way down the sides of the buildings, shimmy shimmy shake, falling for what felt like miles. “From roof to Duluth,” my fellow washers would say.
“From the sky to a slice of pie” was the usual response, and then we’d all go grab some coffee and apple crumb, or cheesecake, or whatever was on special.
Next I tried my hand at directing traffic. The stop and the start of it all. Then I tried my feet at pounding the pavement. But literally, with a jackhammer. And filling in for the mailman. Filling in for the mural artist on Tenth Street. Filling in for that woman who hails a taxi every afternoon at that huge intersection, you know the one. She hails that cab with such gusto, and the tourists love it to death. But I don’t ever hop in the cab. I just hail it.
Finally Farren sends me to fill in for the Chairman of the Board at the very, very major corporation, Major Corp.
I sign documents I don’t understand, sit in on conference calls, stack memos and stamp the dates, fiduciary and filibuster and finance and finesse and fill the office walls with art selected from a list of hip emerging painters, and finish each assignment before anything can be explained in full. Everyone has a parcel of work they don’t want to do themselves, and what can I say? I’m a purveyor of finished parcels.
As Chairman of the Board, I wear a fashionable dotted scarf with my suit, knotted around my collar so it resembles a tie. “Details count for something,” my mother used to say, “but not for everything.”
“And what of today’s vote?” my assistant asks. The boardroom is lively, and all are in attendance. I take my place at the head of the table.
“Well,” says a shareholder, “might I encourage a show of hands?”
“No, no,” says a more significant shareholder. “An anonymous vote or no vote at all.”
“Spoken like someone who hasn’t been to a meeting in a year,” mutters the first shareholder.
“I have various commitments!”
“I propose a new kind of vote,” says an entirely insignificant shareholder, “in which we vote the way we think our grandmothers would’ve voted, contrast this against the votes our unborn grandchildren might make, then, using a system of charts and graphs, concede to the hypotenuse of the two hypotheticals, in the name of our forbearers and our descendants.”
“That shareholder is entirely insignificant,” my assistant whispers to me.
“Can I ask,” I say, clearing my throat, “what are we voting on, exactly?”
“We are voting on the frequency and content of future votes!” everyone chants in unison.
“Or,” says a man at the far end of the table, “you know, maybe we could just put a pin in it?”
At the suggestion of pins, there are audible sighs of relief. “Yes, yes, yes,” the room agrees. From their briefcases emerge a proliferation of tacks, which they stick into the leather flesh of the briefing books. And the meeting is done.
The Major Corp office building is one of great proportions and minor distinctions. The coffee is hot and the soda is warm and the snack pantry is plentiful, boasting a bumper crop of bananas and candies and granola bars. There is a microwave that smells of popcorn. Cigarette breaks are long and recommended, so I learn to smoke my mandatory smoke, knowing that someday, for another job, I’ll probably need to unlearn the habit, knock the bitter twist from my lip. I put that knowledge in the bottom of my bag like a receipt.
Smoking my very third cigarette ever, I see a woman standing near the exit. She weeps, loudly, and I consider that in one of my morning meetings, I probably put a pin in her employment. Or worse. I pass her my dotted scarf to dry her tears and enter the role of comforting stranger, which isn’t a paid placement but one I feel fit to cover nonetheless.
“I’ve worked here for twenty-four years,” she says with a large sob.
“I’ve worked here for twenty-four hours!” I say, squeezing her shoulder. She laughs and receives the comfort with real class. It’s a real good deed to let someone else comfort you, because the comfort goes both ways. I’m grateful to her for letting me perform this function. I give her shoulder one more squeeze, then a third miscalculated squeeze, then a fourth and truly unadvisable squeeze. She has magnificent arms. What brand of idiot would fire someone with such magnificent arms?
“Um, OK,” she says. She smiles over her potentially injured shoulder as she walks away. She probably thinks I’m nobody, and I am.
I stay after hours on my last day at Major Corp. I like to loosen the boundaries of my employment and remain longer than I’m needed. I can feel my necessity slipping away with every extra minute; it’s a rich, complicated sort of sensation, like napping, or dying.
And how I love an office building in the evening! I can pee in the bathroom anonymously. I can clean dirty mugs, construct rubber band booby traps, paper clip trapezoids. A motion sensor controls the overhead lights, so when my colleagues have gone home for the night, I retreat to the dim, postfluorescent glow of my temporary corner office. There is nothing lonelier than lights extinguishing themselves at the end of a long day, no one left to do them the simple kindness of snuffing out.
On my final snack pantry excursion, between the towers of Twizzlers, I find I’m not alone. A man sits at the rear of the snug enclosure, shelling pistachios one-handed.
“Are you quite done?” he asks. “With your work?”
“Nearly,” I say to the real Chairman of the Board. I recognize him from his portrait in the lobby but not from the portrait in his office, which does him no justice. He’s a strin
g bean in a suit, with a full head of white hair and a pocket square in his coat. I maybe recognize him from somewhere else too. After all, he’s a prominent figure, both numerically and physically.
“Why are you hiding?” I ask.
“I’m not hiding, I’m dying.” He shells a nut and eats it, then eats each half of the shell. “Now that you’re done replacing me,” he asks, “are you available for a new job? I have an unusual request.”
I direct him to the agency, to Farren, but they’ve already been in touch. Life moves faster than protocol. It’s in this way that a small box arrives on my stoop. In the box is an urn, and in the urn is the man, and the man is dust.
“You are meant to carry him with you,” Farren explains, “so he can be about town. See, he was a man about town, and now he still is.”
“When does the assignment end?” I ask.
“When does anything end in this infinite world?” asks Farren. I can hear her starry fingertips tapping on her desk.
It’s a messy task to transfer the Chairman into the necklace charm. With the help of my handy boyfriend, I construct a miniature paper funnel and pour the remains in an unsteady stream.
A repurposed gift from my handy boyfriend, the necklace trinket once held a tiny bubble of his favorite bourbon. I remember his chapped face on the cold night he presented it from his pocket like a rabbit from a hat, so resourceful and kind, his eyes welling with satisfaction. Jewelry, a sign of attachment, I’ve been told. Also pets, plants.
“I made this for you!” he said, a sliver of expectation gilding his voice.
He undid the clasp with thick, gloved fingers, the kind of minor feat that usually charms my socks off.
He expected me to wear the necklace always. The expectation puddled in his every pore. He was ever lying in wait for congratulations on this one nice thing he did this one time. Luckily, since I didn’t see my handy boyfriend more than once a month, I could construct a fable in which I wore the necklace every day. In this story I wore the necklace noon and night, and I didn’t by any means take it off each time we parted ways.
Temporary Page 1
