Preparing For My Job Interview

22 Aug

Last week, I received a phone call from an unknown number. I half expected it to be another one of those Spanish-language sweep stakes things telling me that I had (working from a rough translation) either won a free trip or that one of my goats had gone missing. I was wrong.

“Hola. Bienvenidos.” I say. I’m not sure what the second word means.

“Robert Irion?” A woman’s voice comes from the other end of the line. I sit up in my recliner, startling my cat and spilling chili all over my crotch.

“Uh, y-yes,” I say, fumbling for words while getting Frito pie out of my loins. “He is this. No–this is he, I mean. How can I help you?”

“This is Hannah from Sally White & Associates. We received a resume from you in reference to our proof reader position.” By now, I’ve used the cat to clean up most of the chili. Cats are like rags that meow at you. “I’d like to schedule an interview with you for this upcoming Thursday,” she says. I think this girl wants to bang me.

“Sounds great. What time?” I ask.

“We have a slot at nine o’ clock.”

“Nine? Like at night?”

“In the morning.” This girl is starting to sound like a real bitch.

“OK, well–” She could sense the hesitation in my voice and quickly suggested another possible time slot, two o’ clock that same afternoon. “Very well, then.” I said.

“OK, Robert. I’ll be sending you a confirmation e-mail shortly.”

“Hey. While you’re there, why don’t you send me a pic?”

“Excuse me?”

“See you Thursday!” I hang up.

I needed to buy new clothes. I went to the local boutique in Waxahachie: JC Penney. I knew exactly what I needed because I had recently watched a documentary called The Office. Really fascinating– like the ER of the business world. It showed me that the good guys always wear dark, skinny ties and make out with the secretary. The bad guys wear short-sleeve collared shirts and part their hair in the middle. I want to be a good guy. I want to make out with the secretary. I bought a pair of charcoal, slightly pin-striped slacks, loafers, a black skinny tie, some dress socks, and a black belt (I have like ten of these at home, but they’re the kind you get for kicking ass, and wouldn’t fit in my belt loops. ). I’m going to look stellar.

I try all these things on the night before and attempt to get a job from my father–just to see if I had gotten my money’s worth.

“Hello, sir.” I hold my hand out. My father, sitting in a recliner in our living room, reading by lamp light, looks up to me.

“Robert?” That’s what my dad calls me. Robert is short for “Colossus.” It’s also long for “Bob,” “Rob,” “Bert,” or “Obe.”

“Father. I’d like a job. I feel I’m more than qualified.”

“Yea? What makes you qualified?” He takes off his reading glasses and turns to me. “Yesterday, I called the house from work and you said you were watching your fish, trying to see if you could tell which one loved you more.”

“Dad, that’s science. That’s science work.” My father lets out a single, mocking laugh and puts his glasses back on.

“Son, the only thing you’re qualified to do is act as a constant reminder of the Porsche I could have bought with the money I wasted on your education.”

“So, I got the job?” My dad looks up at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He shakes his head and returns to his book.

“Yea, son. You got the job. God in heaven, you got the job.”

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