Well, it’s official: I literally work in a sweatshop. And in the time it takes me to write this, I will have lost seven ounces of waterweight—all sweat.
It’s brutally hot outside, but it’s a damn oven in here because the guy with his name on the front door refuses to pay for us to use the central air conditioning. He claims the unit is too small to effectively cool the entire office, it’s too leaky because the ductwork system was so poorly retrofitted into this old, piece-of-shit building and there’s not enough insulation. We were using it fine for the first month I was here, and now it’s forbidden. “Not efficient,” he says.
All the fixes to the problems I just explained are very, very possible. Granted, it might cost of few dollars upfront, but the fixes are also very, very necessary. Sorry, dude, you run a business. You have got make the space decent enough to work. Fix the damn AC!
But why should he do any of it? He’s got a window unit that keeps his office at a cool 71 degrees, while the rest of us in the office cook!!!
Basically, I think it’s clear to everyone now that he’s a cheap bastard/slumlord, and this is one shitlaw job. I knew things wouldn’t be great when I started here after graduating this June, but nobody told me I’d be working in blistering heat.
To make matters worse, my boss would prefer if we dressed more “office professional” around here, but he’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m ruining my only two wool suits so I can sit around and sweat my day away. I’ve already noticed nasty pit stains in some of my dress shirts. And I’m not exactly flush with cash to go out and buy new clothes every week.
Every time we complain, the guy will say something like, “What are you talking about? It’s just a tad warm in here.” Or, if it’s really brutal that day, he just says, “It makes you tougher.”
And before you say, “Cheer up, summer is almost over,” let me tell you were I am. Florida.
Back to thinking cool thoughts.
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