They used to call themselves "Kelly Girl", a temporary employment agency that brings to mind images of women from the 1960's who never heard about Brazilian bikini waxing and knew that real women have curves.

The skirt slightly above the knees.

Pantyhose.

Take her home after work for a Harvey Wallbanger and some after hours wink wink.

She was either working only summers to get through college or she was exploring her independence from her husband of five years, a man who also hired Kelly Girls and knew a temp with dark hair usually had dark prickly hair underneath and it was sometimes the same dark prickly hair even though the temp could be blond or a redhead.

I called Kelly Temporary Services because it was sexist for them to keep the name, "Kelly Girl" since there are Kelly Boys now as well.

They could've called it "Kelly Girls and Boys", but then the boys would get mad that they were listed second and girls would litigate because some of them considered themselves ladies.

I didn't know I could pick a temp the first time I called Kelly (referred to as Kelly from her forward to avoid potential law suits from temporary employees who think of themselves as contractors or students or even writers).

I felt nervous calling, like I was calling and asking Kimberly to the prom even though she had never spoken to me in Spanish class and never replied to my internal mantra I focused in her direction for a whole semester, "You like Tony, he's a stud, he's better than Marc, you want to kiss Tony, you want to marry Tony, you want to pull your shirt off and unhook your bra so Tony could feel your breasts".

"Great, I can recommend one of our excellent employees if you could tell me a bit about the position you need filled," the Kelly representative said. I forget her name, so we'll refer to her as "Kelly" from this point forward.

I explained that my writing career was taking off. It felt good to say that, so I let that sentence hang in the air and waited for her to congratulate me and ask what I had written.

The silence tensed so I proceeded, "since I was generating enough revenue from my writing career, my career as a writer, I need someone to help me do things".

"We have superior personal assistants," she said.

Yes. That's what I was looking for. I needed a writer's assistant, someone to assist me so I can focus my time on my creativity and not transcribing or typing or other business stuff involved in being a writer.

"When would you like the person to start Mr. DuShane?"

I hadn't thought that far ahead. Somewhere deep in my gut I assumed the Kelly -person- would blow me off because she wouldn't recognize my name and thought I couldn't be a writer if she didn't know me from my novel that hadn't hit bookstores yet and I had never been on the contributors page of The New Yorker.

I coughed and with all the authority I could muster I told Kelly that I needed an assistant ASAP (as soon as possible). I used the ASAP acronym to show Kelly how successful I am as a writer and how it's now or never that I take advantage of this windfall of success I'm generating from my pen. I asked if she read the newspaper, hoping she'd then figure out who I was and say, oh yes, I loved your article on Nick Cave.

"Yes, I read the newspaper. Ok, Mr. DuShane," Kelly said without recognition, "I can have someone over this afternoon. The rate will be $21 per hour, but please don't discuss money with the employee."

She wanted the address of my office and I looked at the pantry next to the kitchen that I converted into my office, shook off further insecurity and gave her my home address.

I hung up and it was like Kimberly said YES and we were going to the prom and she was going to show me her breasts.

It was 11:30 a.m., so I figured i had plenty of time to do some research before my employee arrived for her first day on the job as my assistant.

I Googled "women, naked, secretaries".

445,983 sites came up.

The first site showed an Asian girl in a power suit showing extra leg as she sat near a desk.

I clicked on it and a bunch of windows popped up on the computer offering penis enlargements and the best German scat videos ever and MILFs.

I tried to exit out of the extra browser windows and more continued to pop up.

I searched the start bar at the bottom of the computer screen for the original Asian secretary window and clicked.

My Asian office worker had her black shirt opened to expose her dark nipples.

For $6 a day I could subscribe to officegirlsxxx.com and watch her "suck and fuck her way up the corporate ladder" and if I would rather have black women or Russian woman or Latina woman my $6 would cover all nationalities and nudity and sexual positions.

The German scat video ad kept popping up in front of the Asian office assistant - ruining my research and quite frankly making me nauseous.

Don't sue me if you're some sort of German scat activist, I mean you no ill will.

The doorbell rang and I went downstairs to find a confused looking fat Chinese guy at my door.

I didn't order Chinese food and knew it was for the upstairs neighbors since deliveries always get mixed up because the doorbells aren't marked in front of our building.

"Meester DuSha-knee?" he said when I was about to explain how confusing the doorbells are for our apartment and that he should've rang the bell on the far right to get the upstairs neighbors their food.

I can't say I was disappointed that it was a fat Chinese 20 year old man that Kelly sent to my house as an assistant because I'll get letters from fat Chinese temporary employees saying I'm racist and sexist and everybody deserves to be a temp and just because the brochures show hired models, men and women, who have never been temps in all of their lives and make $700/day to stand under lights in skirts and suits to give that split second smile that shows how happy they are as Kelly boys and girls even though they're freelance models and snort cocaine and smoke cigarettes to stay that skinny and they are successful, like I was successful, as freelancers, I can't voice my disappointment because I know where to draw the line between storytelling and being offensive.

Thomas and I packed up my laptop computer and notepads and we walked to the cafe.

I always write in long hand, so he could use my computer to transcribe my writing.

We got to the cafe and I ordered a tea and Thomas (I don't believe that was his real name because he was very Chinese), looked at me with expectation.  The same look I got from Dorothy in 8th grade when she wanted me to kiss her but there was a piece of spinach in her braces.

I paid for his half-caff vanilla cappucino and we sat at a table and started to work.

He powered up my computer. "What's your password?" he asked and I immediately felt like he was invading my privacy. I went around the table and typed, "v-4-g-1-n-4" as quickly as possible so he wouldn’t be able to figure it out by looking at the keyboard.

The computer booted up and he was ready to go.

I pulled out my notepad, and then it hit me that I'd need to have something written before he could do his job as a Kelly person and type.

He waited for his first assignment and I stared at the blank note pad.

"Are you in school?" I asked.

He was studying history and my presumption that he was pre-med or a computer science major was completely squashed.

"What are you going to do with a History degree?"

I didn't mean for it to sound judgmental, but he was Chinese and I figured the last thing he'd care about is history.

(History majors of Chinese ethnicity need not send letters.)

I was actually excited he was a History major. I always love when people get degrees in Philosophy or History or something that doesn't translate into being a proper Capitalist and future corporate drone like a degree in Marketing - yuck - or Business. Can't even hang with you.

What Thomas wanted to be was a writer.

"Do you read the newspaper?" I asked.

"I don't," he said.

Tension and silence hung in the air. He had nothing to type and I had nothing written.

"But I read your music article on milkandblood.com," he said and my irises turned from circles to hearts.

"What do you want to write?" I asked.

Thomas said he wanted to be a novelist but it was so hard to write a book.

I was finishing up my novel and was confident about it.  Maybe this was the muse saying, -pay it forward- The voice who I transcribed into a novel wanted me to blow the creative air into a fat Chinese temp.

The next day Thomas arrived at 1 p.m. on the dot.  The time I usually am finally dressed and showered by so I could go to the cafe to get to work.

I gave Thomas a stack of books including:

"On Writing" by Stephen King
"This Year You Write Your Novel" by Walter Mosley

and others.  I explained how I wrote my first novel and all the things I did wrong.  Thomas could learn from my mistakes and have a novel turned around in eight months.

I could refer him to my agent and in the acknowledgement he'd say:

Acknowledgements

First I'd like to thank my mentor and the only reason this book could've been written is ....

His book would be loosely based on his own life, how he was a fat Chinese American and how hard it was when he showed up for temp jobs since people always thought he was delivering Chinese food.

Oprah would tear up as Thomas told the story of how hard it was to fulfill his dream of being a fat Chinese temp American writer in San Francisco and the only person who believed in his vision, who trusted his talent was-

Oprah would put the tissue to her left eye and compose herself before announcing me to come on out.

Women, and men who understood women, would practically leap from their seats to give me a standing ovation and applaud.

Oprah would hug me, and then as we pulled away, she'd go in for a second hug and her body would gently gyrate from her emotional embrace and she'd remember her own rise to fame and how it couldn't have been done without Steadman.

I'd turn around to Thomas standing with his arms open wide.

He'd try to hug and give me a kiss on the cheek, but the tears clouding up his eyes would mess with his depth perception and he'd kiss my on the lips.

We'd both put our hands to our mouths as we pulled away and the laughter would set the audience at ease from the intense emotion in the studio.

Thomas would sit down and give Oprah's white couch a little pat for me to sit.

A cutaway shot would show a Latina woman in the audience rubbing the tears from her face with the sleeve of her blue blouse that she bought especially at a store in Chicago to wear as an audience member on Oprah.

Oprah would lean in towards me to find out what really makes me tick and how we as Americans, NO, as Citizens Of The World could learn from my experience with Thomas.

"That sounds like a romance novel," I said to the fat Chinese temp after he explained the story he wanted to write.

"Yes," he said and told me the importance of Barbara Cartland and Rosemary Rogers.

Screenplay idea: “The Killing of a Fat Chinese Temp” loosely based on the film by John Cassavettes, “The Killing of a Chinese Bookie”.

The clocked ticked.  It was 1:30 p.m. I had deadlines.  I pulled out my notepad and pen and Thomas took his cue to stop talking about romance novels.

2:30.

Thomas started to say something and I put my hand up and my head down, like the inspiration was about to come to me, he needed to be silent.

He left at 8 p.m. with the books I gave him to read so he could write a romance novel.

I called Kelly to fire him.

The answering machine came on: "Kelly Employment Services.  If you're an employer and this is an emergency regarding one of our employees please press 5."

I pressed 5, and then hung up.  I couldn't do it.  Not into an answering machine.  I needed to talk to Kelly herself.

I woke up an hour early.  11 a.m. to make sure to call Kelly and get rid of Thomas.

The phone rang while I brushed my teeth and I spit and answered it.

"Hi, Mr. DuShane, Thomas said this was the best assignment he has ever had.  How are things working out?"

The fat Chinese temp hadn't sensed my disgust at his contempt for literature...that he had the pathetic goal of wasting even more precious shelf space at book stores and libraries with his romance novel.  Fat Chinese temp writing fat English trash.

"He's fine," I said.

She caught me off guard.  I was going to call her, but she pre-empted.

At the cafe I sat with my notepad.  I didn't say a word to Thomas and every time he'd try to speak I lifted my hand.

He'd exhale thinking that it was part of my process as a writer, that it was what he'd need to go through to write his bullshit romance.

Go fuck George Hamilton, I thought to myself.

"Thomas," I said.

The expectant look in his eyes, it was like I was about to break up with a woman who I'd dated for over three years who thought everything was OK and that the big moment was about to happen where I'd ask her to marry me.  I just couldn't say it.

"I need a refill on my tea," I said, "and less milk this time."

He jumped at the opportunity to serve me.  To help me with my writing career.

As he refilled my tea and carefully measured the milk, I looked at him -

Sure, he's a fat Chinese pathetic wanna be romance writer temp personal assistant, but he's my fat Chinese pathetic wanna be romance writer temp personal assistant.

He's my Kelly Boy.

A few hours later he used his 55 wpm typing speed to transcribe my article due to the LA Weekly on the growing popularity of Scientologist punk bands.

Tony DuShane lives in San Francisco.  He writes entertainment articles for the San Francisco Chronicle and other publications. The rest of his time is spent working on his radio show, editing Cherry Bleeds and bench pressing 21 year old women who weigh 165 or less.  His shoe size is 11 and his liver is strong.