My first cautious steps into the water of retail sales began, and likely ended, last week with a five day gig at a department store in Portland's historic, supposedly haunted Meier and Frank building. The 1905 building features five aboveground stories and multiple bleak, dusty subterranean levels for storage and receiving, connected somewhere to the notorious, also-haunted Shanghai Tunnels. A pre-fame Clark Gable supposedly once worked in the building selling neck ties in the 1920s.

The first day of any temp job can be stressful (see my earlier blog, "The Curse of the Christmas Kitty"), and this time I was working with 7-10 other rotating temps. Working within a crew adds another element of stress, as these are often people you would never socialize with in the real world, but with whom you'll have to spend hours working with. Besides a couple interchangeable straight male worker bees, there was Eric, a 19yo California stoner who may or may not be illiterate who claimed to be married though he had no ring; Carrie, a Mary Poppins-like ("perfectly pleasing in every way") tool who was raised never to question male authority, have fun, or cut corners; Jose, a recently sprung from prison Mexican American who constantly said "fabulous!," perhaps in imitation of the store's fantastically gay permanent clientele (two of whom winked at me, and one of whom told me that I shouldn't try operating a drill with a limp wrist); Star, a pagan/goth chick who quit after the first day because she did not want to attend her German Philosophy class dusty and sweaty; and one cute gay temp, whom I'll leave nameless in case I meet him again, who was moved to another department after the first day - just my luck.

Of the work itself, there is little of entertainment value to report. The most difficult day, ironically, was spent stacking pillows, blankets and towels. They were to be arranged by brand, size, thread count and color (by color, naturally I mean, "green tea," "chamomile," "Aegean," "daffodil," "linen" and "spa"). But, being the only gay temp left by day three, most of my work was performed under the tutelage of St. Martha. Radiant B&W photos of Ms. Stewart hung from each wall in home wares, like Big Sister supervising from an eye in the sky. There was no household task that did not cause Martha to smile ear to ear. If I'd worked in bathroom supplies, I'm sure I would have seen Martha smile beatifically as she plunged a stopped-up toilet or scrubbed urine stains off tiles. I designed several displays from a Martha Stewart magazine bible that featured detailed, coded diagrams of precisely what was to be displayed where, and how. Once, I stacked a group of colanders too high, partially obscuring the corner of one of the ubiquitous Martha pictures, and a supervisor rushed up telling me, "Oh no! Nothing should sit above Martha!"

Of course, most of the time I was hunting the elusive ghost. Although I did not see any direct evidence, I got a good idea of how the legend grew. The stockrooms on each floor were the kind of bleak, quiet, claustrophobic spaces where you expect a scare scene in a slasher movie. And the cavernous lower basement levels could conceal anything, they were the kind of place the Scooby Gang solved mysteries. I took every opportunity to visit the basement, which had the added bonus of being a place where I'd catch a glimpse of the cute gay temp. The elevators contained the only vague evidence of the supernatural. The freight elevator seemed to have a mind of its own, working perfectly sometimes, but at others shorting out every 9 seconds (I timed it) causing the simplest trip to the basement to become a half hour ordeal. As for the passenger elevators - and this might be a mere result of my magical thinking - I'd often find one of them waiting for me patiently when I returned from lunch or break, closing only after I'd boarded. Thanks, ghost! But, really, if you had the run of the afterlife, would you choose to spend eternity as an elevator operator?

At the end of the week, I neither saw proof of the afterlife, nor scored a date with that cute gayboy, but it did warm me up to the idea of retail as a career and partially improve my dark recent mood.

I'd been scared off by the potentially combustible customer interaction and temperamental employee interactions, but I found it much more exciting than drab office work, and enjoyed the comparatively down-to-earth people (although I winced when I saw them forced to answer the phone, "How may I provide you with excellent customer service?"). But of course, everything looks more enjoyable when you only have to do it for a week.

Being a temp is sort of like being a sad, elevator operating ghost: a fleeting glimpse of a certain reality with the ability to affect very little we see.