Tuesday, June 03, 2003

I had an interview today. After twenty minutes of Q & A, which barely required conscious thought, the human resources woman offered me the job. I had mixed emotions at her pronouncement. First, this woman was barely fit to serve me fries, more less determines my job worthiness. I should have been interviewing her if anything. Through sheer force of will I managed to suppress my superior complex and to seriously consider the merits of the job. It pays $11.00 an hour, with health benefits available the first day. There are sixteen mandatory weekend hours every month. It pays better then some jobs, like dog sitting for example, but it falls well short of my deserved income ($80,000 sounds about right). Of course I have no real world, tangible job skills so perhaps my innate sense of worth is exaggerated. Either that or everyone is jealous of my greatness and simply unwilling to acknowledge it as of yet.

The job entails collecting money from delinquent accounts, also known as milking deadbeats for their welfare money. I shadowed an employee for twenty or so minutes. He explained three job criteria. It requires sitting for extended period times with little movement. Check. Basic computer and typing skills are required. Check. One must be able to negotiate with people in a friendly and persuasive manner. Two out of three ain't bad. Based on my personal experience with credit card companies I have yet to have one communicate in an intelligent or effective manner. Hell, usually Laquisha can barely speak white man's English leading me to think the last job criterion is dubious at best. After listening on nearly three dozen phone calls I also discovered another requirement, the ability to be nonplused by perpetual rejection. Of course my dating life unique qualifies me in this aspect.

Before my job offer could be finalized it was necessary to successfully complete three steps. First I had to pass a drug test. Good thing I kicked my smack habit a few months ago. Then it is necessary to receive a written notification from job references. Since I am the HR director, i.e. the guy answers all business mail, at my dads store that step is easily taken care of. Finally, I have to pass a background check. Thankfully the whole stint as high templar of church Gog and the subsequent animal sacrifices involved are sealed in my juvenile record.

All this leads to the conclusion that I, Bob, am qualified for the job. It is menial, as most work seems to me, but believe it or not tedium has lost its allure. Lying around on my ample buttock is quickly losing its appeal. A job would me good. Maybe even encourage personal growth. Or at the least get me in good with the chubby human resource secretary who appeared incredibly desperate for male attention.

I will sleep sixteen hours on it and decide tomorrow,

in the meantime

go to hell