Loves Labor Day lost 8.30.01

With Labor Day upon us in the United States and Canada, I thought this might be a good opportunity to talk about work a little bit. You know, give a proper shout out to the men and women who work hard and get things done around here.
So in the spirit of Bruce Springsteen, Woody Guthrie, Caesar Chavez, Upton Sinclair, Norma Rae, the people in the fields, coal mines and factories, thanks for all the hard work, take a day off, you've earned it and please, for the love of God, don't overthrow us!
Anybody who has put in a full day breaking their back knows work can be a grind. I've done enough time walking beans, bailing hay, milking cows and hauling concrete around to know that I am glad I don't have to do it every day. It's too hard and I'm not used to that kind of labor. So I respect people who labor and are good at it.
My biggest complaint right now is the pop machine closest to my desk has Diet Mountain Dew but no regular Dew. What's up with that?
But there is one thing we all have no matter how good or bad our jobs are and that is the right as Americans to complain - long, loud and proud - about whatever work we do.
So this Labor Day, while you're taking it easy or hanging out with friends and family, take part in that great American working tradition and tell those work stories. You know the ones about bizarre customers or that boss that who ran the work site like Joseph Stalin.
I will get things rolling with a work story of my own. I already gave you the "Diet Dew" story, so here is one from the dark, distant past.
It was 1997 and I was working as an operator for the Psychic Hotline - not actually practicing fortune telling, you understand, just passing along the 900 number and explaining how the free minutes worked to the marks, I mean, clients.
It was night work from 10 to 6 in the morning when all the infomercials ran and the primary client base - sad, lonely insomniacs - was up.
Every night, the soma-driven epsilons who made up the staff would take hundreds of calls. We were eventually replaced by a recording - how insulting... or appropriate depending on how you look at it.
While it lasted, the money was good and we got to read while working. For a college job, it was pretty cool.
But like most irrelevant things, it made me think about the nature of humanity, especially that subsection known as "Americans."
You see, for every sad sucker who called genuinely interested in talking to a "real, live psychic," there were 20 drunks, speed freaks, perverts, naughty 12-year-olds or conspiracy theorists who thought that screaming "you suck! you suck! you suck!" at the top of their lungs into a phone in the dead of night made them the funniest thing since George Carlin.
I felt almost as sorry for them as I did myself.
The real trick was that most of the people who called only heard what they wanted so I never had to fool anybody. You could tell them 10 times they only got five minutes free and they would still stay on the phone for 45 minutes. Then they would call back and ask if they were going to be charged. Yeah, you will. Click.
Our call volume was high and it got boring saying the same thing every 45 seconds for eight hours. Our supervisors either did not care what we did or were control addicts who made us ask to go to the bathroom. That I cannot tolerate.
The only break we could hope for would be the occasional prank. We REALLY looked forward to getting them and sharing them with our co-workers.
The thing I hated most was how this job made me lose faith in my fellow citizens.
Occasionally, a call would come in from Canada, I could tell by the phone number on the caller I.D. I never got a bad prank call from a Canadian. Those people are wicked funny. A good sense of humor is a hallmark of intelligence. Oftentimes, the pranks were masterful in their artistry. One young Canuck had a standup routine he was apparently working on. I have never laughed so hard in my life.
It made me want to head for the Great White North at 90 per.
In fact, I made a few calls about becoming a Canadian, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I called Mike Ward at the Canadian Consulate in Chicago who was, not to perpetuate a stereotype, most helpful and friendly. His primary area of expertise was politics and trade so he couldn't give me the goods on citizenship. He passed me to Tony Brown who had been working in Canadian immigration for 25, fun-soaked years.
Becoming a Canadian is not as hard as you might think.
Canada is not desperate for newbies, but they do take just about anybody who wants to work. To get permission to work in Canada, all you need is a job. Take a vacation, check the papers, go to an interview, get hired and apply for a work permit. It's just that simple.
I might just stick around for a while and see how things work out in the U.S. before heading north.
Have a great labor day!
-Greg Jerrett is a Daily staff writer. He can be contacted at 328-1811 ext. 279 or by e-mail at gjerrett@nonpareilonline.com.