 I started writing this article several months ago, but never finished. So
recent events I refer to have actually occurred months ago. This *asterisk indicates the point where the I stopped writing months ago and continued this
weekend.
Why are jobs so stressful? No screw that. Why is getting a job so stressful?
Interviews, meet and greets, fingerprinting, DRUG TESTS!
Jesus, just going through the motions of all that, makes me long for a vacation
... and I haven't even started yet.
What? You really didn't expect me to stick with the other job did you? Come
on. Even people who don't know me would have known that. I do miss Mario though. Damnit why don't I hate him yet?
Now the terror sweats of job hunting ... those I do hate. After the disastrous
and exceptionally horrific two day experience that was mail processing, I called
that chick at the employment agency and cussed her out for sending me to hell.
Then after she started crying I hung up on her.
Ok so that didn't really happen, but I certainly thought about it and laughed.
(There's a guy doing exercises on the train as I sit here writing this. What
kind of jacked up weed is he smoking? Because I want some.)
Instead of calling that bitch and cussing her out, I did the adult thing. Nothing. That's right I happily succumbed to my old habits of doing nada, neit, non, not a damn thing. Oh the glorious days of blissful non existence. Would that they
could come up with a limitless prepaid credit card and lifetime AOL membership.
Jesus can you imagine that? No? Well shut up. Christ it was a rhetorical
question, duh. Still, as always, life intrudes when you're blissfully non existent.
There I was in bed 2:30pm last Friday {in June }watching my beloved Passions. Theresa's finally got tired of being pissed on by that bitch Gwen and now
she's going to 'terrorize' her. I love that girl.
Anyway the phone rings. It's that bitch. No not Gwen ... she's fictional
dummy ... it's the other bitch. The one from the employment agency who shafted
me with that shitty, boring job in hell. Goody I thought ... now I can cuss
her ass out ... {because I'm that lazy that I don't even waste energy to call you
and cuss you out. I wait until you call me and THEN I do it. Saves time and
I don't have to waste precious energy looking for the number.}
So anyway, bitch says hello {Hello} and ... well she actually says "Hi Nola,"
in that fucking cherry voice of hers that makes me want to crush her joyous spirit
with one of those things they squash cars with at the junk yard ... Anyway she
asks am I available for a job. I say sure, about to launch into my verbal assault
on her until I realized that so far our conversation sounds to anyone listening
like a madam talking to her top whore.
This proved enough of a distraction for me, to stop me from launching my verbal
assault long enough for her to reveal that it was in data processing for the 'bank.'
Of course after hearing this, any curse on my lips died a quick death and Fran
became my favorite person.
"Of course I'm available Fran Dear," I say in a voice so cheery that it makes
her sound like she's on the brink of suicide.
"Good," She says, "You'll need to go to ______ for fingerprinting on Tuesday.
You did the drug test right?"
What now? Drug Who? FingerWhating? Is that you Arvin Sloane? Don't pretend it isn't. I'd know you and your undercover bullshit anywhere.
No I don't want to join the 'CIA' I just want a plain old regular job that doesn't
require me to wake too early in the morning.
Oh this really is Fran and you're actually serious about me taking a drug test
and having my prints taken for a fucking temp job where I'll be staring at a fricking
screen and typing numbers all the live long day. Fuck no.
What's that? Wednesdays to Fridays? Not too sucky pay? Damnit. Where
do I go pee?
Sigh. It really sucks to be broke.*
So that Monday morning bright and early ... well not too early this is me we're talking
about after all. That Monday around noon I found myself heading out into the land
of the Day Dwellers. i.e. People who weren't born smart enough to be night people
like myself. I head to Manhattan for my fingerprinting appointment. Just getting
there proved to be an experience ... and not a good one. Which didn't bode well
for the job itself. I'm telling you people. If it's this hard just to get
the job, the job itself is not going to be a happy experience.
First I ended up wondering all around downtown Manhattan because the bloody building
wasn't where they said it would be. I just hate when a 30 story building goes
missing don't you? By the time I do find it I'm so sick of the entire thing
that I'm just ready to go home, forget about the damn job and return to being
blissfully nonexistent.
So I'm finally there and the guard sends me down into what I can only assume,
is the basement of the building ... or given my prior experience with the jobs
this agency sends me on ... Hell. Fortunately for me this was definitely just
a basement. I go in and I'm handed this form to be filled out. Which I do
while taking in my surroundings. Not too bad. There are three people in the
office working, and two other people like myself just there waiting to be tortured.
My name is called and so I go to give my prints. Much to my surprise and delight,
it's not one of those dreaded ink ones that you see on cop shows, where you end
up looking like you're a chimney sweep. It's some new fangled device where you
just place your finger on this blue surface and your prints are electronically
taken. No pain, no soot. No dirty hands.
Maybe this job wouldn't be so bad after all. Yeah I don't really believe that
either. But getting out of that place alive was a good sign ... or at least
I hoped it would be. I did have to get a mug shot though. For the crappy
looking bank ID they gave me. Next up, taking the drug test.
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