It's the small stuff

I usually drive to work but due to an ice-related car accident, I am now enjoying all the fruitful joy that is the NJ Transit system. It's so nice not having to drive, just traveling slowly through Manhattan early in the morning, soaking in all that the city has to offer. Ah, is that urine I smell? Oh look, it's coming from that questionably alive guy slumped over in the corner there. Or perhaps it's that mystery smell that seems to linger in New Yorkers' hair and clothing for much longer than would be deemed acceptable.

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Wait a minute, did I actually say that I was enjoying taking the train to the train to the bus to work? No. Not when it takes me 2 1/2 hours to get there. Not when the bus stops at every. single. fucking. stop. And you start to question if having a job and making money is really all that worth it anyway. I should just develop [more of] a drinking problem, never wash my hair and become a hipster or an arteest or something that would give me a good excuse to sleep til three and chain smoke all night.



Here's a tip: try at all costs to avoid getting stuck in the elevator at my work. It goes at the rate of 0.0000000001 mph, so you might falsely think you are stuck. Also the heavy AC blowing at you from above does not help to warm your fingers and toes from the FREEZING WEATHER OUTSIDE. But mostly, don't get stuck in the elevator, like a couple of old ladies did today, because we will leave you in there for over 30 minutes, while my manager is feigning concern while reading her latest issue of People or Parenting Magazine or Jersey Weekly or whatever she pretends is the stuff that she's actually supposed to be reading. Also, don't call the office to ask if we can call the fire department, because my manager will flat out say "no" and dial 6 numbers on her phone and talk to the dead air.

In fact, I haven't quite figured out what she exactly does do. There's a large stack of charts on her desk, all from post-op surgery patients, waiting to be sent to insurance companies. Some of them are from December, she told me as she was haphazardly rummaging through them for a lost chart the other day. We are horrendously understaffed, and we're all dying as we are juggling going through charts and answering the incessant phones and talking to patients about "omg i might be dying! oh wait it was just gas," and she wanders about all day saying things she thinks are hip and cool like "wuzzup."

One thing I have figured out though, is that people are out of shape. With the elevator broken, people actually had to walk. Up stairs. Not an escalator. Everyone comes into the office, grabbing for air like one would grab Hennessey while looting a liquor store in Detroit, collapsing onto the front desk, and almost fainting when we tell them they have to exert themselves once more: to fill out some paperwork.