If you read yesterday's post, you'll know that I had two job interviews. If you've been following this blog for awhile, you'll know that nothing ever goes normally for me. Ever. So, it should come as no surprise to you that in one of those interviews, shit got weird. Here, in three parts, is that story.
The interview was for a job as a front desk receptionist at a dentist's office. Not exactly a dream job, but after my last work experience, all I wanted was to get a quiet desk job where nobody would call me names. I straightened my hair. I put on a classy black dress and a pair of heels (my only shoes without any holes in them). Before leaving, I looked at myself in the mirror, and was pretty satisfied with what I saw. Nobody would ever guess that I was (technically) a homeless person! Surely this job was mine for the taking!
My optimism rapidly began to fade about a block later, as I was walking to the train station. I'm currently staying in Queens, and as any woman who's ever been there knows, when you wear ANYTHING that makes you look even the littlest bit nice, at least half of the men you come in contact with on the street will feel the need to express their appreciation. "WOW!" yelled a creepy middle aged man, as I struggled to walk in my heels. I began to sweat, and could feel my hair starting to frizz. "BEAUTIFUL!" shouted another man. I had barely been walking for 5 minutes, and my feet were screaming at me. I tripped in a crack on the sidewalk and almost fell out of my shoes. At that exact moment a man yelled "NICE SHOES". I was being heckled. Had my wits been about me, I would have told him to go fuck himself, but I was too busy focusing on maneuvering down the street to form words. After what felt like an eternity, I reached the train station. One of my heels got stuck on the stairs. My foot slid out, and the shoe went tumbling down.
If my life were a romantic comedy movie, Zac Efron would have been at the bottom of the stairs. He would have been charmed by my wacky clumsiness and would have picked up the shoe and slid it back onto my foot, Cinderella-style. But my life is not a romantic comedy. It is a sick joke. So, using every ounce of concentration I had, I grabbed onto the railing and used my foot that still had a shoe on it to hop down the stairs. Five minutes and four stairs later, a 14 year old Asian boy saw what was happening, and handed me my shoe. "Thanks!" I said warmly. "These shoes are the worst!" Embarrassed for the both of us, the Asian kid said "Uh. Sure. No problem." and got away from me as quickly as possible.
By the time I got to the train, my shoes were dirty, my hair was a frizzy mess, and I was in a terrible mood.
I have no sense of direction. I once spent 20 minutes frantically searching for the exit of a Forever 21 store- getting lost is nothing new to me. To make sure I got to the interview on time, I not only looked up the address they gave me on google maps, I printed out the directions. And a map. And I made sure to get to the general area 45 minutes before the interview so I would have more than enough time to find the building.
The address I had written down after talking to the interviewer on the phone was 12 E 21st street. E 21st street was only 3 blocks away from where the train dropped me off. Pretty close, right? Not when you're wearing a pair of cheap heels that feel like they were designed by Jigsaw. I hobbled down the street as quickly as I could (which was something like a half mile an hour). I saw a 10 E 21st street, but not a 12. I walked into 10 E 21st street to ask the man at the front desk where 12 was. He gave me a strange look. "That building doesn't exist." It was clear to me at that moment that one of two things was true: either I had gotten the wrong address, or my job interview was going to be conducted by wizards. I called my interviewer, explaining that I was lost. "Where are you?" she asked. "I'm pretty close. I'm at 10 E 21st street, I just can't find 12." It turned out I didn't have the building number wrong. I had the street number wrong. I was off by around 20 blocks.
The interview was in 30 minutes. There was no way I could afford a cab, so I trudged back to the train station (which took me 20 minutes, even though it was only 3 blocks away). After researching directions, printing out a map, and giving myself 45 minutes to be lost, I got to the interview 10 minutes late.
The interview was for a job as a front desk receptionist at a dentist's office. Not exactly a dream job, but after my last work experience, all I wanted was to get a quiet desk job where nobody would call me names. I straightened my hair. I put on a classy black dress and a pair of heels (my only shoes without any holes in them). Before leaving, I looked at myself in the mirror, and was pretty satisfied with what I saw. Nobody would ever guess that I was (technically) a homeless person! Surely this job was mine for the taking!
PART ONE: THAT'S WHY YOU DON'T BUY $15 HEELS
My optimism rapidly began to fade about a block later, as I was walking to the train station. I'm currently staying in Queens, and as any woman who's ever been there knows, when you wear ANYTHING that makes you look even the littlest bit nice, at least half of the men you come in contact with on the street will feel the need to express their appreciation. "WOW!" yelled a creepy middle aged man, as I struggled to walk in my heels. I began to sweat, and could feel my hair starting to frizz. "BEAUTIFUL!" shouted another man. I had barely been walking for 5 minutes, and my feet were screaming at me. I tripped in a crack on the sidewalk and almost fell out of my shoes. At that exact moment a man yelled "NICE SHOES". I was being heckled. Had my wits been about me, I would have told him to go fuck himself, but I was too busy focusing on maneuvering down the street to form words. After what felt like an eternity, I reached the train station. One of my heels got stuck on the stairs. My foot slid out, and the shoe went tumbling down.
If my life were a romantic comedy movie, Zac Efron would have been at the bottom of the stairs. He would have been charmed by my wacky clumsiness and would have picked up the shoe and slid it back onto my foot, Cinderella-style. But my life is not a romantic comedy. It is a sick joke. So, using every ounce of concentration I had, I grabbed onto the railing and used my foot that still had a shoe on it to hop down the stairs. Five minutes and four stairs later, a 14 year old Asian boy saw what was happening, and handed me my shoe. "Thanks!" I said warmly. "These shoes are the worst!" Embarrassed for the both of us, the Asian kid said "Uh. Sure. No problem." and got away from me as quickly as possible.
By the time I got to the train, my shoes were dirty, my hair was a frizzy mess, and I was in a terrible mood.
PART TWO: THAT'S WHY YOU ASK FOR DIRECTIONS
I have no sense of direction. I once spent 20 minutes frantically searching for the exit of a Forever 21 store- getting lost is nothing new to me. To make sure I got to the interview on time, I not only looked up the address they gave me on google maps, I printed out the directions. And a map. And I made sure to get to the general area 45 minutes before the interview so I would have more than enough time to find the building.
The address I had written down after talking to the interviewer on the phone was 12 E 21st street. E 21st street was only 3 blocks away from where the train dropped me off. Pretty close, right? Not when you're wearing a pair of cheap heels that feel like they were designed by Jigsaw. I hobbled down the street as quickly as I could (which was something like a half mile an hour). I saw a 10 E 21st street, but not a 12. I walked into 10 E 21st street to ask the man at the front desk where 12 was. He gave me a strange look. "That building doesn't exist." It was clear to me at that moment that one of two things was true: either I had gotten the wrong address, or my job interview was going to be conducted by wizards. I called my interviewer, explaining that I was lost. "Where are you?" she asked. "I'm pretty close. I'm at 10 E 21st street, I just can't find 12." It turned out I didn't have the building number wrong. I had the street number wrong. I was off by around 20 blocks.
The interview was in 30 minutes. There was no way I could afford a cab, so I trudged back to the train station (which took me 20 minutes, even though it was only 3 blocks away). After researching directions, printing out a map, and giving myself 45 minutes to be lost, I got to the interview 10 minutes late.
PART THREE: SHIT GETS WEIRD
I burst into the door, out of breath. My hair was frizzier, my shoes were dirtier, and I suspected that if anyone in the room were told I was (technically) homeless, they would have had no trouble believing it. I was asked to sign in, and write down the time that I arrived. Two other girls had signed in before me. One was an impressive 34 minutes early, the other a respectable 9. I was starting to feel like this job might not be mine for the taking.
The woman conducting the interview was very nice. She had been waiting for me to get there, because she wanted to address us as a group before talking to us one on one. I'm no expert, but I would guess that forcing the boss to do something 11 minutes behind schedule is not an excellent way to make a first impression. She told us that the job would be pretty standard. We'd have to "help out at the front desk, help out with online marketing, and help out with a project." She didn't elaborate on what the project was, which struck me as a little odd. She then told us she'd interview us in the order we came.
The first girl went. 10 minutes later, her interview was over, and she left. The next girl went. Her interview was also 10 minutes. Then it was my turn. The interview was actually going pretty well. She told me she liked me, that she wanted me to fill out a questionnaire, and that it would take about 20 minutes. I'm in! I thought. She didn't have anyone else fill out a questionnaire!
There were 200 multiple choice personality questions (the questions were like "Are you easily flustered?" and the options you had were Yes, Not Really, and No). Having recently completed an online job application for Starbucks which also had several personality based questions, I wasn't too thrown off by this. Then I got to question 27. "Do you ever sing or whistle, just for the fun of it?" Oh no. I've definitely seen that question somewhere before. And then it hit me. I saw it on South Park. In the Scientology episode, that was one of the questions the scientologists asked Stan as a part of his personality evaluation test. Sure enough, when I looked at the bottom of the page, it said in tiny print "L. Ron Hubbard. Copywright 2001".
I WASN'T TAKING A TEST TO DETERMINE WHETHER OR NOT I WOULD MAKE A GOOD EMPLOYEE. I WAS TAKING A TEST TO DETERMINE WHETHER OR NOT I WOULD MAKE A GOOD SCIENTOLOGIST.
If I were a reasonable person, I would have left right then, or maybe asked someone flat-out why I had to fill out a survey used to decide whether or not someone can be a part of a fake religion. But I am not a reasonable person. I filled out the rest of that survey for two reasons.
After leaving the dentist/top-secret scientology recruiting center, I was miserable. Every step I took felt like a knife going through my feet. My hair almost looked like I had crimped it. I decided to go to an H&M to buy the cheapest pair of flats I could find.
The flats helped out a little, but the damage to my feet was done. I stumbled down the street, wincing with every step. A man stopped me on the corner. He was one of those guys that sells discount salon packages on the street. He began telling me about how for $69 I could get a haircut/blow dry/manicure and several free glasses of champagne, when I stopped him. "Listen, " I said, "I would love to fix my hair. I really would. But I have no money. I'm sorry." I began to walk away. "Wait!" he said. He told me he wanted to buy me dinner and asked for my phone number.
Normally I don't give out my phone number to random people on the street, especially when they're wearing bow ties (yup, he was wearing a bow tie). But at that point, it was clear to me that my job hunt was far from over, and it would have been fiscally irresponsible to turn down a free meal.
I burst into the door, out of breath. My hair was frizzier, my shoes were dirtier, and I suspected that if anyone in the room were told I was (technically) homeless, they would have had no trouble believing it. I was asked to sign in, and write down the time that I arrived. Two other girls had signed in before me. One was an impressive 34 minutes early, the other a respectable 9. I was starting to feel like this job might not be mine for the taking.
The woman conducting the interview was very nice. She had been waiting for me to get there, because she wanted to address us as a group before talking to us one on one. I'm no expert, but I would guess that forcing the boss to do something 11 minutes behind schedule is not an excellent way to make a first impression. She told us that the job would be pretty standard. We'd have to "help out at the front desk, help out with online marketing, and help out with a project." She didn't elaborate on what the project was, which struck me as a little odd. She then told us she'd interview us in the order we came.
The first girl went. 10 minutes later, her interview was over, and she left. The next girl went. Her interview was also 10 minutes. Then it was my turn. The interview was actually going pretty well. She told me she liked me, that she wanted me to fill out a questionnaire, and that it would take about 20 minutes. I'm in! I thought. She didn't have anyone else fill out a questionnaire!
There were 200 multiple choice personality questions (the questions were like "Are you easily flustered?" and the options you had were Yes, Not Really, and No). Having recently completed an online job application for Starbucks which also had several personality based questions, I wasn't too thrown off by this. Then I got to question 27. "Do you ever sing or whistle, just for the fun of it?" Oh no. I've definitely seen that question somewhere before. And then it hit me. I saw it on South Park. In the Scientology episode, that was one of the questions the scientologists asked Stan as a part of his personality evaluation test. Sure enough, when I looked at the bottom of the page, it said in tiny print "L. Ron Hubbard. Copywright 2001".
I WASN'T TAKING A TEST TO DETERMINE WHETHER OR NOT I WOULD MAKE A GOOD EMPLOYEE. I WAS TAKING A TEST TO DETERMINE WHETHER OR NOT I WOULD MAKE A GOOD SCIENTOLOGIST.
If I were a reasonable person, I would have left right then, or maybe asked someone flat-out why I had to fill out a survey used to decide whether or not someone can be a part of a fake religion. But I am not a reasonable person. I filled out the rest of that survey for two reasons.
- Maybe it really was a part of the job interview. Maybe she's a dentist for Scientologists. Maybe if I get the job I can meet Will Smith! (I'll admit this is probably not the case)
- Straight-up curiosity. This situation is just too strange for me to walk away from. I want to see it through to the end. I want to know what "the project" is.
After leaving the dentist/top-secret scientology recruiting center, I was miserable. Every step I took felt like a knife going through my feet. My hair almost looked like I had crimped it. I decided to go to an H&M to buy the cheapest pair of flats I could find.
The flats helped out a little, but the damage to my feet was done. I stumbled down the street, wincing with every step. A man stopped me on the corner. He was one of those guys that sells discount salon packages on the street. He began telling me about how for $69 I could get a haircut/blow dry/manicure and several free glasses of champagne, when I stopped him. "Listen, " I said, "I would love to fix my hair. I really would. But I have no money. I'm sorry." I began to walk away. "Wait!" he said. He told me he wanted to buy me dinner and asked for my phone number.
Normally I don't give out my phone number to random people on the street, especially when they're wearing bow ties (yup, he was wearing a bow tie). But at that point, it was clear to me that my job hunt was far from over, and it would have been fiscally irresponsible to turn down a free meal.
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