I Used to Temp for this Hag/Troll/Villainess

[RBS]

From Newsday:

January 28, 2004, 8:49 PM EST

NEW YORK (AP) _ A woman who owned an employment agency for legal office staff pleaded guilty on Wednesday to charges of cheating an insurance company and two charities by falsely claiming that her home and business were damaged in the Sept. 11 attack.

Beatrice Kaufman, 69, pleaded guilty to third-degree grand larceny and insurance fraud in a deal that gets her a sentence of 52 weekends in jail. Justice Roger Hayes allowed her to remain free on $15,000 bail pending sentencing March 25.

Kaufman, who has an office and an apartment in a lower Manhattan building, admitted she got more than $58,700 from Chubb Insurance Co., more than $8,000 each from the Federal Emergency Management Agency and the American Red Cross and about $10,000 from Safe Horizon.

Kaufman's plea deal required her to admit she got the money through false pretenses, to make restitution to Chubb, FEMA and the charities and to pay fines of $169,620, for a total of about $255,000.

Kaufman admitted that she collected the money after falsely claiming that the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, 2001, forced her out of her $5 million Wall Street-area cooperative apartment and office.

"In fact, on the morning of the terrorist attacks," Kaufman admitted in a plea statement she read to the court, "I was at my summer home in Quogue (on Long Island's East End)."

Kaufman admitted that the apartment was undergoing extensive renovations, that she had not intended to live at the apartment until the renovation was complete and that she had prepaid to stay at a hotel.

FEMA Special Agent Michael Cox said Kaufman was taking a dance lesson in a custom-built studio in her apartment when he arrested her in November 2002. He estimated the value of Kaufman's apartment at $5 million.

Copyright (c) 2004, The Associated Press

She's going to be spending a year in Riker's Island. RIKER'S ISLAND! Oh, she's gonna make someone some sweet vanilla pudding.

[Monte Smith]

Sounds like a real sweetheart.

Jesus RBS, quit trying to leech off of this womans fame. It's pitiful.

[moneyp]

If you want to read about the criminal activities of one of my former employers do a Google search for "Peter Paul" and "Stan Lee Media." There's some wild stuff in there.

[Monte Smith]

Anyone else get the feeling that when RBS says "used to temp for," what he really is saying is "fucked?"

[Jazzooo]

Lol, Monte!

When I was 17, I had two jobs and both were total scams although I didn't find out till later.

The first was with Embassy Intl, a "Dining, Travel and Entertainment club!" I'd go door to door selling coupons for two-for-one dinners at restaurants that, as it turned out, either didn't exist or had never heard of us. I met a lot of really nice customers doing that. The head guys fooled us by giving us coupons for our personal use at a restaurant that they themselves owned. We thought it was legit. One day I was showing up for my morning sales rally and the place was surrounded by cop cars and guys with walkie talkies. I kept on driving and that night on the news I saw that they'd been shut down for fraud.

So my next job was in telemarketing, selling tickets to a "charity ball" hosted by "The San Diego Deputy Sherrif's Association." This one was creepy from the start--it was a boiler room situation, with about 15 of us calling all day. Still, when these little old ladies bought tickets and put their personal checks in their mailbox for our guy to pick up, I thought that there would at least be *some* kind of ball. (Our pitch was that there would be big name entertainment "like Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr and Tony Bennet." Yes, they were just like them--bidpedal hominides I suppose--except they were different people.)

Anyway, I did it for about one week. Sales were good but the guy in the corner was raking them in, day after day. I went over to listen to his pitch and found that he was using the name Joe Alioto (then mayor of SF). It was a great ice-breaker--people would laugh, and he'd say NO, not THat joe Alioto...hah hah, but here's why I'm calling..." Boom--every other time, a sale.

So I started calling myself "Joe Alioto" and sure enough, I closed a lot of orders! But always an innovative thinker, I decided to up the ante and developed a new technique: whatever the last name of the callee was, I told them that was my name too. "Mrs, Stankl? Wow, what a coincidence--my name is Doug Stankl! Yes, one 'L'...no, out of Cleveland I believe...we DID have a cousin in MIchigan--any family there? Wow, what a small world! Anyway, the reason I'm calling is..."

I got a sale on 7 out of 7 calls. Soon the entire office was doing it.

My final call went exactly like this:

"Hello, Mrs. Wang Lo? What a coincidence! This is Doug Wang Lo...yes, out of Bakersfield..."

I hung up and walked out of the office.

[jazzy mary]

Amazing stories, Jazzoo

[Monte Smith]

Haha. That's funny, Jazzooo. Nothing beats a shitty job, huh? I’ve had my share. Never a dishonest job, but some shitty ones. Most of the jobs I have quit I have quit because I couldn’t bring myself to say the thing they wanted me to say a single more time. Therefore I have quit because I was unable to say, “Do you want butter on that?” Or later to say, “Chicken or beef?”

Then I got into books. The first job I had in books was at a library. I was in the research and rare books department. The material itself was fascinating, but the staff were a bunch of dusty zombies with no oomph and zero spark of life. I came to the breaking point very quickly one afternoon as I followed a woman around the narrow stacks, just staring at her big ass and boring sweater. I felt entombed! When I found myself sniffing White-Out for a thrill, I knew I had to go. I didn’t tell anyone I was quitting. I just sent a telegram from Paraguay retroactively announcing my resignation. That was a hoot.

[RBS]

Jazzoo and Monte,

Those are some pretty good stories.

I once had a job as a "cater waiter," which is supposed to be more high-class than regular waitering, except you still got treated like a piece of garbage, and that's on a good day.

I used to work for this guy named "Randal Gottier." This was after I worked for Martha Stewart for one day, believe it or not! She was pretty nice. Actually sort of shy.

Randal used to like to make his meatball special for every party. He called them "Meatballs a la Randal."

Before every party, his head waiter would make a huge inspirational speech.

"We want this party to be successful, because then we'll have a HAPPY RANDAL! We don't want to have any problems, because then we'll have an UNHAPPY RANDAL! If you need to go to the bathroom, get permission. If we have enough people on the floor, we will have a HAPPY RANDAL! Too many people off the floor, we'll have an UNHAPPY RANDAL!"

Then you had to walk around, with a great fake smile on your face, offering people "PROSCIUTTO AND MELON? PROSCIUTTO AND MELON? MEATBALLS A LA RANDAL? MEATBALLS A LA RANDAL?"

Then I used to work for this place at the South Street Seaport named Bridgewater's. What a dump. What an absolute dive. This boss guy named Adam would tell us how we shouldn't stick our fingers in the food during our downtime and eat it. Then he'd hit on a woman and stick his hand in a bucket of shrimp.

[Tom Storer]

I used to work for a translation company here in Paris one of whose clients was a Saudi company that built palaces and villas for the Saudi royal family. They would contract for us to translate rooms full of "documents" about their real estate projects. Basically, these were bills of quantity and construction specifications. The thing was that the original documents themselves were useless, hastily thrown together, and we were translating them from French to English. Why were they written in French in the first place?

Not only that, the actual quality of the translation was not an issue at all. The translation agency gave it to completely inexperienced kids like me, fresh out of college and not a clue in the world. Often the bills of quantity were handwritten, photocopied and illegible. If there was something we couldn't decipher (happened all the time), our brief was to translate it as "item." Thousands of pages were sold filled with "Item - quantity 1500 - unit of measurement: linear meter - unit price $50" etc. etc. All this on electric typewriters, since we're talking the very beginning of the 1980's. As for the construction specifications, I translated reams of them and had no idea what any of it meant, never having done more than glance at a construction site in passing on the street, let alone have a detailed knowledge of what went into actually building anything. They would have been hilarious if anyone had ever read them.

Eventually I surmised that this was a money-laundering operation for some enterprising Saudi in this company. For at least two years we churned out this waste paper by the kilo. I'm sure it was never used for any purpose whatsoever.

[jazzy mary]

RBS, the "Unhappy Randal" (I'm pronouncing "Ran-dowl"--is that correct? I wouldn't want to make Randal unhappy--where's the extra l in his name anyway?) was a hoot!

The Bridgewaters story made me ill. I hope I've never eaten there!

[tippy]

Working for other people sucks! Now I sell M&M's on the subway. I get where I'm going and make a little change while I'm at it.

[Al in NYC]

Tom,

As someone actually IN the translation business, I can tell you that all big translation firms do stuff like that. A very good friend of mine who is a film professor from Florence, and who has driven maybe 10 times in his entire life, was hired while he was a grad student at NYU by one of the largest and most well-known translation firms in the world to translate 4,000+ pages of Chrysler service manuals into Italian. He didn't have the slightest idea what he was translating, but he worked cheap and fast.

Hmmmm... I guess maybe that's why we're small and they're not...

[Monte Smith]

Any of you translators do English to Latin? Because if so, I may have a small book deal for ya'll.

How do you say ya'll in Latin? PM me.

[GoodSpeak]

So...wanna TEACH instead?

[GoodSpeak]

Got Credential?

[mke]

Originally posted by Monte Smith
Any of you translators do English to Latin? Because if so, I may have a small book deal for ya'll.

Was the "small" really necessary?

[GoodSpeak]

Originally posted by mke
Was the "small" really necessary?

In Monte's world? Yes. Yes it was.

[Monte Smith]

Originally posted by mke
Was the "small" really necessary?

When you hear the amount that I am willing to pay, yes, "small" is very appropriate. This will be a slim humor book where we want accurate translation of common English expressions. Our budget is muy pequeno.

Does this reflect on my personal esteem for the ancient Latin language or the process of translation in the abstract?

Balls.

[GoodSpeak]

Yeah.

I got your "balls" , bay-bee.



Not real, not acceptable, not reality.

[GoodSpeak]

Figure it out, Monte.


I'm going after yer ass.


That's right.



You have insulted me for the LAST time, Old Boy.

[GoodSpeak]

Back off or BE toast.


I am NOT kidding.

[Monte Smith]

Originally posted by GoodSpeak
Back off or BE toast.


I am NOT kidding.

[GoodSpeak]

Hm.

No more caffine for you, Monte.

[Jazzooo]

Meatballs a la Randal. Love it.

ok, two more stories. I guess I just collect weird experiences--I hope I never stop, frankly!

I was now 18, working in a very nice sandwich restaurant in South Fan Franciso called Simply Scrumptious. My best friend and I were totally green, but the boss had hired a mutual friend and needed to fill some slots so...instant cooks were we!

Back in the kitchen was a 20-something guy, very quiet. I'd heard he was a Golden GLoves boxing champ who got kicked out for being too aggressive. Still, I had been raised to speak up when I saw something wrong, and sure enough one morning I watched as he was making an omelette for a customer. He dropped his spatula on the greasy floor, picked it up and kept scrambling. I said, in the smallest voice I could conjur: "Hey, I can get you anothe spatula so you don't have to use that one" and he lashed out and put his hand around my throat. I don't remember his threat, but it was similar to what Goodspeak is trying to do to Monte, only a lot scarier. I never spoke to this guy again, though we worked side by side for another 8 months!.

Later that same week, I was on the front lines making salads to order for folks. One nice guy came in with his 10 year old and kept asking him"So what do you want, Little Guy? Want a soda too, Little Guy?" I filled the kid's order then said, with a big smile "Ok, and what will it be for the Big Guy?" He literally screamed in my face "How dare you! Who do you think you are? Let me talk to the manager right now!"

The manager, Frank, was a nice guy with an extremely short fuse. The guy started yelling at Frank about me and Frank threw him out! "Then he walked over to me and said "What the FUCK did you say to him?" I told him and Frank said "Try not to do that again, alright? We really depend on those people we call 'customers.' "

The very next day, a nice old lady came with with a tiny dog in a sweater. He approached her and this was the conversation (word for word--I'm not exagerrating one bit):

Frank: Ma'am, you can't have the dog in here.

Lady: Oh, he goes everywhere with me.

Frank: well, he can't come in here.

Lady: He'll be fine, don't worry.

Frank: Ma'am, if you don't take him outside, I will.

Lady: If you touch him, he might bite you.

Frank: If he bites me, I'll kill him, Ma'am.

As she left, he turned to me and with a smile, said "Now THAT'S how you handle a customer!"


I have another employment story, a real doozey, but my neck is kind of sore right now. I'll type it later if the fun doesn't get sucked out of this thread.

[Jazzzoline]

crackin me up now Jazzoo

[Monte Smith]

Jazzooo, yer killin' me!

Like your boss shoulda killed that dog AND that old lady.

Customer's always right mah ass!

[Jazzooo]

Never one to pass on a roll, I will pop an Advil and soldier on.

To truely understand and enjoy this next story, I need you to place yourself in a completely different environment from anything you've ever experienced.

You are now in Synanon, circa 1980.

Specifically, you are in Marin County, just east of beautiful Tomales Bay, on one of three sprawling ranches each separated by 7 miles of rolling hills. Each of the ranches has a population of between 100 and 600 people, a cross section of cheerful former drug addicts, prostitutes and drunks, as well as square (non-addict) teachers, lawyers, and other professionals who enjoy living in community and helping people.

Everyday is a new blend of well-organized chaos. Crazy people doing amazingly positive things. Sane people doing crazy things.

I am your friendly catering truck driver. Actually, I am a relectant but highly successful sales person in our burgeoning advertising specialty business who is working in Food Service on a temporary hiatus because I went into the chairman's office and demanded a break from being on the road. (Previous such mutinys had resulted in terrific opportunities such as teaching music in our school and being a morning DJ on our internal radio station, The Wire. Man, I just thought of a few more stories!)

This time, however, I think he was calling my bluff when I said I would do ANYTHING to not have to sell. I ended up in Food Service.

One more bit of local color before we get to the meat of the coconut. We had a central kitchen called The Beam--long story, but The Beam was basically the mother ship, where menus got planned and supplies got stored. Every day, the catering truck would deliver produce, meat, and other goodies to three satellite kitchens on the various properties, where our skilled kitchen managers would prepare meals for their communities. We had some really talented people working in those kitchens--they had to be, since 99% of all of the food was donated by local companies who wanted to help the organization out. Quality was inconsistent; creativity was a must.

Ok, now on to the story.

While delivering some produce, I noticed that several pounds of meat had been left on the counter of the Walker Creek kitchen. It had gone bad. The seriousness of this was grave: there was a severe shortage of meat those days, and it had been literally weeks since we had any of it other than Beef A La Grek, which came from a donation of airline food rejected because it didn't taste good enough. We had a lot of it, but people had been eating it for weeks and some were even threatening to use drugs again if they didn't get something else fast.

The spoiled beef was, on a cultural level, not just a disappointment but an atrocity. I questioned the kitchen manager, Jerry--a handsome and charming ex-addict and all-around nice kid. He lied to my face and told me that someone else had left it out. It didn't take too long for him to realize that he needed to fess up and save his soul. He called management at The Beam, who ordered him to shave his head as a demonstration that he was accepting responsiblity, and to go to work immediately scrubbing pots on another property. Jerry left, and his counterpart Mark came in. We didn't have anyone else to do the job, and Mark had just come off of a 7-day work week, but he rolled up his sleeves and...

...fell asleep behind the wheel. A minor collision, but clearly an act of irresponsibility on his part. Off to the pot sink Mark went. I got a call from management.

"We need you to cover things at the Walker Creek kitchen for a few days. There is no one else. Can you handle it?"

"I don't think so" says I. "I know nothing about food. I can't even make a bowl of cereal without asking for help."

"Don't worry" says my buddy in management. "You've got a great team there who will cover your back."

Now, Walker Creek had the largest population of all of our facilities--600 people. It had a huge kitchen, filled with gear I'd never seen before. I had to put out 3 meals a day, starting...this evening. But it wasn't really three meals a day--it was 7. Why? Because the Creek (as we called it) housed our school--150 kids ranging from pre-school to jr high, as well as our seniors (25 folks in their 80s and even 90s). Lots of special dietary requirements. No sweat--I'll just rely on the Team.

The "team" as it turns out was two recovering addicts (clean 4 weeks between them!) and one mentally handicapped boy named Peter. His full-time job was refilling the salt shakers. My first dinner went something like this:

I called the Beam and said "WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO PUT OUT FOR DINNER?"

I was instructed to go into the giant walk-in freezer and report what was there, which was almost nothing. There was a large box of miniature frozen taco-like things, a huge pan of round vegetables I was later informed were brussel sprouts, and some spaghetti sauce.

The Beam chef told me to put everything I'd found into the Brazier (it took me another call to figure out which piece of equipment best fit that description), heat it up and hope for the best. I did as instructed.

The brussel sprouts turned brown in the sauce so I decided to have some fun. I made lovely signs announcing that we were having "Swedish Meatball Surprise." Imagine my horror when my protein-starved friends piled the balls high on their plate, asking me where the meat came from. People ate seconds that night. I never told anyone it wasn't meat, and they never asked about it.

The kids got cold cereal. So did the elderly.

The next day, one of my newcomer helpers didn't show up. He had left in the middle of the night. Cold cereal for the kids and some donated bananas. I don't recall what the seniors got, but it couldn't have been much. Panicked calls to the Beam went unanswered, save for encouraging messages called in while I was in the bathroom throwing up.

That night, no new food came from the catering run. NONE. I whipped up another batch of Swedish Meatball Surprise and on the davice of a friend added a few bottles of hot sauce. This time, I called it "South of the Border Special." People ate every bit of it.

On the third night, though, people looked a little suspicious. Luckily, we got in another truckload of Beef a la Grek in time for lunch on the fourth day. I woke my helpers up, who were sleeping in the commissary at the time, and we unloaded our bounty.

On the fifth day...Jerry was back, head gleaming and soul saved. I was officially relieved of duty as kitchen manager and given a week long vacation.

[Monte Smith]

Clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap!

Bravo, Jazzooo! My favorite detail in that heavily detailed anecdote is Peter, whose full time job was filling the salt shakers. Excellent.

Surely you have earned the Alley's Food Service merit badge.

[moneyp]

Great story, Doug! I think I've had Swedish Meatball Surprise.