A Temp’s Guide to Survival//Allison Whittenberg

“Sit still! Don’t move your head!” I barked, yanking a section of Idella’s hair. Every morning, it was the same damn battle—a tug of war between me, her scalp, and time. I was rushing, pulling too tight, slathering on more petroleum grease like it was motor oil, hoping to slide the lint balls out of her curls.

“I’m gonna give you a bush!” I snapped.
She sniffled and wiped her nose.
And there it was—that gut-twisting moment. I felt like a bad mother.

It was my fault, really. Her hair was thick and coarse as a shoe brush—just like mine. Maybe a little worse. I often wondered what God was thinking. It’s like He gave more care to ponies than to us. Ponies got tails. We got labor. Real labor just to gather it into a puff.

At least I’m grown. I can throw on a wig and keep it moving. Idella’s stuck with the real thing. And after every styling session, my neck ached something awful—pain from a car accident years ago. That wasn’t my fault.

Ten years back, I was driving down City Line Avenue when a stalled car suddenly jerked into traffic and T-boned me on the driver’s side.
The driver—middle-aged, Black, and furious—got out yelling.
“Didn’t you see me stranded there?”
“You were on the other side of the street,” I told him.
“You should’ve seen me, dumb bitch,” he snapped.

The second accident was three years ago. A petite blonde in a shiny blue Corvette rear-ended me. This time, the cop gave me the ticket—for not carrying my insurance card.

“But she hit me,” I said.
“Show the card in court within seven days. The ticket’ll be erased,” the officer said, barely looking at me.
Then he turned to her, all concern. “Are you all right?”

Idella’s favorite toy was a paddle and ball.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The rhythm bored into the base of my skull. My neck was stiff, the kind of pain that wraps around the spine like a fist. It had gotten worse lately—sharp when I turned left, dull and electric when I turned right. Up or down didn’t matter. It hurt. My fingers tingled from the pinched nerves.

I missed the chiropractor, but that dream ended when my insurance ran out. All they ever did was snap bones back into place just to have them slip out again by the next visit. Still, for a while, I almost felt normal. Now, every sound grated. Even joy came at a cost.

“Idella,” I said.

She looked up.

“Please stop.”

She dropped the toy.

The toaster burned the last of the bread.
A plate slipped from my hands and shattered on the kitchen floor.
I didn’t bother to sweep it up right away.

“Mr. Warrington wants to see you,” a woman said. I didn’t know her name. I only knew Mr. Warrington’s because he signed my timesheets.

I walked to the back room. He was short, balding, and sipping the cold dregs of coffee. When I stepped in, he spun around in his chair.

“Have you ever heard of Kemmedy Street?” he asked.

“No. Where’s that?”

He leaned in. “You’ve never heard of Kemmedy Street?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t exist.”

“…Okay?”

He shoved a letter at me—the one I had typed. In it, my cursive “m” looked like an “n,” and so “Kennedy Street” had become “Kemmedy.” He tossed the letter at me like it was a weapon.

I turned away, flushed with shame.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you people,” he muttered.

“You people?” I asked, though I already knew.

“Yes. You people from the program. You people can’t even fry an egg.”

“I’m not from a program. I’m with a temp agency.”

“Well, you cost us the whole account,” he barked. Spit flew from his mouth.

I dug my nails into my palm. “What do you want me to do to fix it?”

“Nothing. It’s lost. You’re gone. I’ll get another girl tomorrow.”

His words were so casual, so final.
I repeated them, numb. “I’m gone?”

“Yes. You’re fired.”

That was it. I was discarded—like leaves, like broken glass, like garbage scraped off a

shovel. Locks clicked into place. There’s no arguing when you’re a temp. You can be let go for a typo or a Tuesday.

I hated being a temp. Everyone’s your superior. Every glance feels like judgment. No one

explains the rules, but everyone’s quick to call you out for breaking them. You can’t daydream, can’t leave leftovers in the fridge, can’t relax. You’re tolerated—barely.

If I had known I was getting fired, I would’ve brought my klepto bag. The black one. I 

would’ve lined it with post-its, taken a stapler or two. Maybe even an IBM if I was feeling bold.

Chestnut Street. Ten a.m. The air reeked of diesel and grease. Buses growled. Horns

barked. The sidewalks churned with shoppers and stragglers. Rat-infested pizza shops. Dollar stores. Pay-half stores. A concrete graveyard for optimism.

Once, women wouldn’t be caught on Chestnut without white gloves and a hat. Now, in 

this so-called "jobless recovery," it was a hellhole.

I walked aimlessly, thinking about that old Tercel—the one that died three months ago. It 

got me through two accidents and ten years of barely-getting-by. I hadn’t replaced it. Not because I missed it. I just couldn’t afford anything new.

Not grief. Just broke.

Most of my temp assignments were in the city anyway. I kept hoping one of the agencies 

would call. I was registered with four of them. When one called, they all did. Feast or famine. Lately, famine.

I was averaging about $398 a month. That’s $15,912 a year. Fifty-seven percent of it went 

to rent. The rest disappeared the moment it landed.

I wandered for a while, drifting in the lull between panic and hunger. At 11:30, a 

sandwich board caught my eye:

SHRIMP – $2.99

I love shrimp. That was enough reason.

“How many shrimp do you get?” I asked the guy behind the register.

“About ten. Maybe twenty,” he shrugged.

“Twenty shrimp for $2.99?”

“They’re po’ boy shrimp.”

“That’s just perfect,” I mumbled. “Since I’m a po’ girl.”

“You wanna make it a combo for a dollar more?”

I thought of my $62 in the bank.
No. I couldn’t combo it.
A grown woman with sixty-two pathetic dollars eating po’ boy shrimp in a grimy corner 

joint.

I handed him three dollars.

He looked at the register. “It’s more than that. You’re downtown. Ten percent sales tax.”

Of course it was.

I found a booth, sat down, and opened the paper bag. I tried my first shrimp—too hot to touch, let alone eat. Not spicy hot—lava hot. And then I saw it. The shrimp hadn’t been deveined. That black line running through it? Waste. I peeled back the breading and found it under my fingernails.

“These po’ boy shrimp are laced with crap,” I muttered.

I grabbed a napkin, wiping hard.

“Shit,” I said out loud.

A woman in uniform—postal, I think—shot me a look.

I glanced at her bundle of mail. “Shouldn’t you be delivering something right now?”

“I’m on break, bitch,” she snapped.

Of course.

I see postal workers everywhere, perched in their trucks, chomping hoagies. And my 

mail? Never shows up before six.

Here’s the next polished section, continuing from the po’ boy shrimp shop into the 

downpour, the fall, and the moment of grace with the doorman. This is the emotional heart of the story—the breaking point before something quiet and redemptive begins.

I stepped back onto the street, still hungry, still stinging from everything.
Then the sky opened up.
Rain fell fast and hard, slapping the pavement like it had a score to settle.

It soaked through my shoes in seconds. The toes of my cheap flats squelched with every 

step. I pulled a newspaper from my handbag and held it over my head. It wilted almost immediately, melting like tissue in the downpour.

Down the block, a hotel doorman waved at me. He was motioning—gesturing something I couldn’t quite make out.

I stepped closer, squinting through the rain.

“You need an umbrella,” he said.

That was it. Not an offer, not a solution. Just a truth.
You need an umbrella.
Yeah, well—I need a lot of things.

The rain kept coming, cold and full of judgment. My feet slipped on the wet sidewalk, 

and then I went down. Hard. On my side, in a puddle.

I didn’t move right away. I just sat there, soaking. So tired. So done.

For a second, I thought: This is it. This would be a good place to die. Let the cops draw a 

chalk outline around where I fell. Maybe someone would cover me with a tarp before they bagged me.

But then that pesky survival instinct kicked in, and I pulled myself up, dripping and 

bruised.

I walked into the first store I saw. It was one of those bright, trendy chain clothing 

shops—mannequins all grinning in cropped jackets and clean white jeans.

The first shirt I touched cost $62.

My wig was soaked. I took it off, wrung it out like a rag, then plopped it back on my 

head. The women in the store stared, horrified. As if they'd never seen a drenched Black woman with a wet wig and nothing to lose.

“It’s really raining out,” I said.

Sometimes I think I’m going crazy.
A thousand tiny pinpricks bleeding slow—so slow I only notice on days like this. Days 

when it all crashes down at once.

I guess I could do it again. Pull on that goddamn interview suit, the one that pinches 

tighter every year. Look in the mirror and wonder why I don’t see the girl I saw ten years ago. Wonder why Idella’s father never married me. Wonder why I didn’t learn a trade.

I should register at another agency. The more, the merrier.

Question: What’s the difference between having sixty-two dollars in the bank and having 

nothing?
          Answer: I was about to find out.

I walked to one of those gourmet food markets on Locust Street—the kind where 

everything looks prettier than it tastes—and I shopped like a drunken sailor. No money for laundry, no money for aspirin or nail polish remover. But tonight? Tonight we’d eat steak. T-bones.

I went home. Put the bags down. Drew a bath.

The hot water worked like a spell. My body softened, melted. The strain slid off me in 

layers. I didn’t realize how tight I’d been holding myself until I let go.

Afterward, I put on my gown and robe. Started the potatoes. Made garlic rolls. Arranged 

the flowers I had bought—little discount daisies, but bright enough to fool the eye.

When Idella came home, her whole face lit up. She hugged me and jumped up and down.

“Everything looks so pretty,” she said, her voice like a baby bird.

We sat down to dinner.

“I’m sorry, Idella,” I said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For yelling this morning. For your hair.”

She shrugged. “You always yell when you do my hair.”

She picked up her fork, smiling. “This is great.”

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

And I smiled back. It was the first real smile I’d shared with anyone in a long, long time.

Small defeats, small victories.

Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

Allison Whittenberg is an award winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Feminist Studies,J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a six-time Pushcart Prize
nominee. They Were Horrible Cooks is her collection of poetry.