On the 7th floor of the Brooklyn Army Terminal in Brooklyn, New York is HELL. That's right, I opened the doors and found myself in HELL. And not even the good hell where you can at least have fun being burned alive, but a hell like no other. A mail processing warehouse for some big bank group that really should be shut down for condemning anyone to endure such a life. Man I was pissed. This was not the data entry position that I'd told that bitch at the agency that I was applying for. Hell, this was not the "we only have data entry positions available now" position that bitch had told me they were hiring for.
I should have known better than to trust someone with that perky, squeaky, cheery fucking voice and attitude.
But back to my day in HELL. The place went on for MILES. Miles and miles of machines louder than an American Idol contestant. Before I could get the hell out of there (pun intended) The supervisor appeared (like minions do) and gave me a timecard. Man money will make people do just about anything. So I clocked in and waited for his boss to come welcome me to purgatory. But Vincent, the supervisor, strangely enough, looks exactly like the actor who played Michelle Rodriguez's father in Girlfright. [Maybe it's not so strange to you, but it felt strange to me at the time.] I felt better after acknowledging that, because I knew I wouldn't have a problem busting out of there if needed. If Michelle could kick his ass in the movie, I didn't have a thing to worry about. But Vin barely paid any attention to me, he just beckoned me to follow as he looked around to find me a perfect spot to spend my next 8hrs in hell.
"Willie," He shouted and I looked around in disgust because really no guy over the age of 14 should be called 'Willie,' but I saw no Willie. I heard him, but I couldn't see him. So I stepped forward and there sitting at a desk smiling was a pocket sized Vin Diesel.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Nola ..."
"Hey ... Willie." He responded, then casually pointed me to my station. A chair next to a small conveyor belt.
Goody. I get to stack mail. Eight years of school. Nice.
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