The wRECk

       

      “It’s not too bad,” Heidi said. “It’s a lot of typing, but you get alternating five and ten-minute breaks every hour.” 

       Heidi was a friend and former coworker who now worked at the Remote Encoding Center. Breaks every hour sounded pretty sweet. Besides, I was 25 and my parents had been badgering me to get a job with health insurance before I got kicked off their plan. 

       The application was horrific. I had to dig up outdated addresses, employment dates and contact information for every job I’d ever had. All the forms had to be completed online and then again on paper, and the instructions threatened that if any part was left incomplete, I would be disqualified. After finally getting through that, there was a waiting game of a few months, then a series of clerical tests, a drug test, a background check, an interview, and fingerprints. 

        The official title of this position was Data Conversion Operator, or DCO for short. Here's how it was expained. All the postal mail goes to a Processing and Distribution Center, where the addresses are scanned by computers. If the computer can't decipher the address for some reason, a human at the REC reads it on a computer screen and directs it where it needs to go. 

       I got the job. After orientation, our trainer gave us a tour of the place, taking us first into what they called the “work room floor.” It was filled with tiny cubicles, about a third of their normal size. They were arranged in long, uniform rows, each one labeled with a letter and number. Employees sat motionless in their chairs, staring dully into their computer screens. No one spoke a word. The only sound to be heard on the floor was constant, rapid typing on a sea of computer keyboards. My stomach turned.

       I was glad I wouldn't have to deal with customers, but this job looked boring as Hell. I subdued my inner hippie by telling myself I’d stick it out for a few months to save money, then find something more interesting.  

       Rule number one on the work room floor was "no talking." If you wanted to socialize during your thirty-minute lunch, you'd better be ok with showing everyone your mashed up tuna sandwich swimming around in your mouth hole too. As for breaks, forget about it. You'd have a talking-to if you went over five minutes, so if you tried to talk to someone you'd be looking at your watch every five seconds and then have to cut them off mid-sentence to scurry back to your computer.
         Working at the REC was a lot like riding the bus in Seattle. Most people avoided eye contact, their headphones tuning them out of the world and into their iPods or phones at all times. There were even mini cubicles on the side of the break room where you could eat your lunch while staring at a wall. I only did that if it was one of those days where I couldn't stop crying.
        
        So, how does a young woman with a history of depression and anxiety cope with a place like this? Stay tuned to find out (scroll up and enter your email on the right in "follow by email")!