I'm a Checker

HEY! Remember my phoneterview?

Yeah, it turned out that it was for a part-time job. No benefits. No point.

Queen Quieff on the other end of the line wasn’t exactly apologetic about the fact that the job listing made no mention of the fact that it was a part time job. Instead, who apologized? Me.

“Well, I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I said. Oh my God, my balls must have been the size of Grape Nuts that morning.

Sad, isn’t it? I even went home that day and checked and re-checked and re-re-re-checked (because I am a checker, and a re-re) to make absolutely sure that the listing really said nothing about the job being part-time. It didn’t. Of course, it didn’t say anything about the job being full-time either but, really, when you’re looking for jobs, don’t you assume that a job is full-time unless the listing states otherwise?

I do. But maybe I’m wrong about that. Sorry for wasting your time.

I have another interview coming up, though. Soon. This one is live and in-person, but the interviewer will be male, so I won’t have to worry about getting caught ogling pert boobage. I’ve been emailing back and forth with him for just over a week, trying to coordinate a mutually agreeable time for me to come in. He’s a good-natured guy, you can tell, because I would have told me to fuck off and not bother a couple of days ago. Wednesday at 7:15am. That’s right, children—7:15am. Since my blogs post at 7:18am, you know that the early morning business bothers me not. In fact, it’s my preference. I needed to interview either before my current job starts (9:00) or after it ends, (3:30). This guy’s work-day doesn’t start until 8:30, but he’s coming in at 7:15, just for me. In fact, nobody in the building will be there at 7:15, except the two of us.

I sent him an email asking if this was business casual or business formal, “the difference in my world,” I wrote, “is the subtraction or the addition of a blazer.” He wrote back that I would be “just fine without the blazer.” I like him already.

I’m still scared I will throw up on him, or blurt out the N-word, or fall down a flight of stairs, our spill piping hot coffee on his genitals, all things that can happen at a live, in-person interview, but I guess it will probably end up being okay. I am, after all, only looking for a job to do from the time my own job ends in late August, till whenever a police department comes knocking on my door saying, “Son, we want you to join us.” But, you never know… maybe this will be the chance for me to get paid every week for… you know… writing.

Maybe this will be a career, instead of a job.

I’ve never had a career before. I might like me one of those.

Maybe.