Bukowski named the factotum and yet he was one of them. He spent his twenties passing from menial job to menial job until he had a big enough stake for the horse races that he could quit them. Then he would get drunk for days, weeks or months until that luck ran out, and the whiskey and the women ran out and he was forced to once again find work as a factotum.
On Thursday I take a job as a factotum: an individual who performs repeated actions for a nominal wage, devoid of any chance to make a decision that has not already made by the corporation. For someone of average intelligence this job has a shelf life of about two and a half weeks.
Then, the experience begins to mold into a monotony of repeated tasks with minor variations. Your relations with your co-workers, who like you, are factotums, begin to begin to take on a similar monotony. Until the day when, figuring out a new function on a copier, you realize this, the crowning achievement of your day, your minor victory, is only making you more productive, the company more money, and ultimately raising the bar for every other factotum in the industry’s expected productivity level.
My job description will probably consist of helping customers on the image making machines, running the cash register and making color prints for the holiday season. The last time I had this job, at a kinko’s (ironically there is a kinko’s just across the street), I quit the job by standing on the counter and reading a fiery speech I had prepared.
But, since this job will only consist of four weeks of work, and I wish to continue on my unemployment claim, I have decided to document my experience, in writing, delving back into the world of the factotum.
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