Tag Archives: economy

Job Interview IV: I Got This One!

7 Nov

I got another job interview. It was with the Fredricks Independent School District, tutoring a class of students who have aspirations to go to college, but lack the emotional or financial support. I’ll be supplying neither of these (kids are gross and dress poorly), but I will be showing the students where they can find them.

—Begin Narrative—

I really need to nail this interview. I need to nail it because I can only handle so much rejection before I start hanging around the lady’s areas of country clubs, desperately trying to find an older woman who’s interested in using a young buck for six to eight years of loveless sex before she dies, leaving me with her vast fortune and a family that loathes me.

I arrive at Fredricks High School and survey the building. I walk up the steps to the entryway. It’s locked.

A crackled voice from my right says, “Please state your name.”

For whatever reason, this reminds me of a castle wall. My mind is immediately thrust into the medieval ages.

“I am Kyle, son of Michael. I hail from the great land of Waxahachie, TX, with it’s lush greenery, and king and hospitable populous. I seek employment within your walls. Please, if you would only bless me with the honor of an audience with the Lady Rodriguez, head of ye olde Department of Human Resources.” There’s a slight pause as I bow to the intercom box. Then, a voice responds.

“I can’t hear you. You have to press the ‘Talk’ button.”

I shake my head and sigh, then press the ‘Talk’ button. “I’m Kyle Irion. I’m here for a job interview with Mrs. Rodriguez.”

“It’s unlocked,” the voice says.

There’s a click from the doorway. I open the door and walk into the front office. I sign in and the receptionist presents me with with an ID badge, a complimentary Fredricks High School pen and matching lanyard.

I’m directed to Mrs. Rodriguez’s room. It’s doorway runs perpendicular to a stairwell five yards across the hallway.

“Kyle?” She says as I open the door to her office.

“Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

“Okay, I guess. I ran too much yesterday and now I think I have something like diaper rash between my butt cheeks,” I say. People at job interviews appreciate honesty.

“Oh,” Mrs. Rodriguez says, her eyes bouncing around her desk, then back to me. “Well, running is very good exercise.”

“I wasn’t exercising,” I say.

“You weren’t? Then why were you running?”

“I was running from something.”

“Running from what?” She asks.

“From bats.”

“Bats? There are no bats around here.”

“No like, baseball bats. I punched a lady at Wendy’s,” I say. Mrs. Rodriguez seems taken aback.

“What? Why?”

“She tried to McSteal my order” I say, winking. “So I McBeat the shit out of her.”

“I thought you were at a Wendy’s,” Mrs. Rodriguez said.

“I was.” Mrs. Rodriguez stares at me in silence for a few seconds.

“Not McDonald’s?”

“No. Not McDonald’s,” I say, slightly confused. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you…” she pauses and cocks her head slightly. “Nevermind. Let’s move on.”

“Let’s.”

The interview goes smoothly. I only say the f-word one time, but I was repeating something somebody else was saying, so I think that makes it okay.

“Well, Kyle. I think it’s safe to say that the position is yours if you want it.”

“Does it pay money?”

“Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?”

“To be honest, ma’am, the last job I had, at Wal-Mart, paid primarily in insults to my intelligence and constant assaults on my personal joy. It also paid in whatever rotten produce I could carry out in my apron.” She laughs softly. I stare her coldly in the face.

Mrs. Rodriguez clears her throat. “We pay cash here. Don’t worry. Thank you for meeting with me. I’ll call you sometime next week to let you know when to come in.”

“Hey, is it cool if I take next week off?”

“What? Why?”

“Trying to catch up on Dexter. You know how it is.” I smile and do a stabbing motion with my hand, then a pelvic thrust to seal the deal.

“I don’t think I do. I’ll see you next Wednesday at 8:15 am.”

“You sure?” I ask, pelvic thrusting one more time in case she missed the last one.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

I shrug my shoulders, light a fire cracker and throw it into the cafeteria. “See you then, I guess.”

I start my new job next week.

Love,

Kyle.

P.S. Yea, I had no idea that this was a letter, either, but it is. And like God, I work in mysterious ways. Or I don’t work at all. One of the two.

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Job Search 2009, Pt. II

30 May

OK, so where were we? Oh yea, those punk kids had just stolen my resumé. Punks.

I stood in the court house lawn, stunned. My moneys were nowhere to be found. My yacht was somewhere out there on the great sea, being steered by another man (Editor’s note: OR woman. Kyle prefers not to endorse gender role stereotypes, such as the idea as man as the ultimate sailor/driver.), just a normal man like me, but DEFINITELY not a woman. Women can’t drive things (Editor’s note: God damn it, Kyle.).

I’m truly broken. I’m like that song that the guy from Seether and the girl from Evanescence did for that one movie.

I wander about the square for hours.

I have removed my sports coat, rolled it up and used it as a pillow.

I sleep for 8 hours. When I wake up and see the time and realize that I can’t even control my own sleep cycle, I just feel worse. What am I going to do? I missed Tuesday. I love Tuesdays. At around 8:30 PM, Talia comes to pick me up. Somebody saw me while he was getting ice cream with his girlfriend and thought it’d “cramp his style” to pick up his drunk, half-naked, urine-stained friend while he was on a date so he called someone else. Whatever. I don’t care.

I do care.

I do.

On the way home, there is a palpable discomfort. I assume it’s from the inescapable “pee pee smell” coming from my pants-region.

“Kyle, you smell like pee.” She says. There’s a brief pause as she searches for her next words. “Please tell me that’s your pee.”

Sigh. “I’d like to think so, but there were so many children around me…there’s no real way to tell.”

She looks at me with a look of simultaneous sympathy and disgust. To make her more comfortable, I try to give her a candy bar I got from a vagrant. She seems to soften. She loves candy.

“I love candy.” She says.

Told you.

The rest of the ride is pleasant if not cripplingly uncomfortable.

“I ate some leaves today.” I tell her

“…”

“Today, I chased this squirrel for an hour trying to find all his hiding spots. Turns out he didn’t have any. Dumb squirrel. All his stuff is out in the open. That’s just not safe, you know?”

“Yes.” She sighs. “That does sound unsafe.”

“I know. So I buried my credit cards.”

“You did what?!”

Talia drops me off and I walk inside. Derek is waiting for me.

<cue music>

“Hey, Derek.” I say, meekly.

“I’m late for work.” He says and brushes past me.

“Listen, I’m sorry I’ve been out blogging all the time, chasing my fame, I just–”

“Not now, Kyle.”

“No, listen. I’m the one who was supposed to take care of everything. I’m the one who was supposed to make everything…OK for everybody.” I pause. “It just didn’t work out like that. And I left. I left you. You never did anything wrong, you know. I have to try to…forget about you. Heh, I used to try to pretend that…you didn’t exist, but I can’t. You’re my Derek… you’re my Der… you’re my little Derek. And now,” I take a deep breath, “I’m an old broken down piece of meat, and I’m alone…and I deserve to be all alone… I just don’t want you to hate me.” I breath out. “OK?”

“Yea, OK, but I really need to go to work.” He seemed elated. “I’M MAKING THE GUAC TODAY!” Here I notice a small line of saliva coming from Derek’s mouth to his chin, then onto his shirt.

“Good Christ,” I say. Then I leave for another 6 months.

Job Search 2009, Pt. 1

27 May

Where are all my moneys? Where is my yacht? My lion? My purple robe and matching helicopter?

I look out my window and see none of these things. *I turn from the window, clutching myself and shivering as an icy chill runs up my spine.*

Here is my account of my job search.

The Monday after graduation, I get up extra early. Today’s the day I get all my money bills in. “Yipee!” I say to myself when I get out of bed, awakening all six(one) of my partners (really good friend).

“What are you yelling about?” Talia asks. She’s still sleepy from a big day of helping me print out head shots for the upcoming autograph sessions.

“Today is the day. Today.” I stand up and take a deep breath. Stringed instruments play lightly over the moment. I look out onto the sun-kissed parking lot. There is a man peeing on a car. I quickly close the shades and turn to her. “Today is the day I make you and I rich with money dollars.”

Talia has fallen back asleep. Tired from all the excitement, it seems.

I put on my lucky red boxer briefs. Why are they lucky? Well, these are the boxer briefs I was wearing when this happened. I then put on my humble, logic-based blue boxer briefs to even everything out.

**Currently listening to: Kings of Leon!** Sorry, due to my contractual obligations with MTV, I have to do that every paragraph or so.

After I put on my underwears, it’s time for my outerwears. I put on a blue dress shirt, green sweater vest, gold and blue tie, and a blue sports coat. I’m looking fly. I’m looking sweet. I’m looking fweet (I have a degree in English. I can make up words. It’s the law.). I look a lot like this:

...Ah... A little less drunk.
…Ah… A little less drunk.
Ok, now a little more formal.
Ok, now a little more formal.
Good GOD! Way, WAY wrong direction!
Good GOD! Way, WAY wrong direction. More formal, less peyote.

Perfect. Thats what Im talkin about.
Perfect. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

After I’m dressed, I pick my diploma up from my desk. I breath out.

“Ok, Kyle. Let’s go make some magic happen. Make some magic happen. MAGIC!” I then leave my apartment.

I go down to my car and drive to the nearest metropolitan area. Everybody seems to be so happy for me. The homeless man I usually give change doesn’t tell me I’m a “Dead man” when I hand him a quarter, a lady cuts me off, but then slams her brakes on to say she’s sorry.

I reach downtown Denton full of delightful exhilaration. Stepping out onto the grass in front of the courthouse, there is a real feeling of life.

I then hold out my diploma with left hand. My right I extend, palm up, ready to receive all my dollar money or a handshake from my new employer. It takes 17 minutes for a bird to poop on my outstretched hand and a gang of children to steal my diploma. I’m filled with disappointment.

Next Week on BLOG

“No, no, no. At our ceremony you told us we had ‘Bright, shining futures’ ahead of us. WHERE THE HELL IS MY FUTURE?!” Kyle screams at UNT President Gretchen Bataille.

“Carl–” She starts.

“Kyle.”

“Yes, Kyle–you’re asking the wrong question. The question is not ‘Where’ is your future. The question is when.”

They exchange emotionless glances and he walk out of the room.

“Kyle, you used my tooth brush for WHAT?!” Talia screams.

“You obviously don’t get political humor then. Here let me show you again–”

“KYLE STOP OH GOD!”

*Cuts to Wesley, standing in an empty parking lot, wearing only a loincloth. He is covered in a golden liquid.

“WHERE AM I AND WHY AM I COVERED IN HONEY?!”

For Kyle the Bell Tolls

12 Apr

Recently, I’ve been notified that sometimes people, old people, have to get jobs in order to make what my father lovingly refers to as “money.” I’ve never had a need for money. All my expenses have been paid through an intricate system of bartering and a unique economic strategy I call “stealing.”

When I went to college, I decided I wanted to pick  a degree that would almost automatically ensure me six figures or more of dollars a year (Sorry, I’m still getting used to using money cents terms in my life.). Anyway, the major I ended up picking was English, because I knew that Ernest Hemingway was rich as hell and he went on boats and did big game hunting. That sounded perfect–just what I wanted to do. The cruel joke was revealed to me two weeks ago, when I went to a local publisher, handed them a manuscript of my first novel, “Kyle’s Alright: The Kyle Irion story, with a foreward by Maury Povich.” I then patiently waited to receive my boat. After twenty or so minutes of standing silently at the front desk, coughing to receive attention, then looking away as if I hadn’t, I asked the woman where my “damn money boat” was. She looked at me, confused. I told her that authors get money, usually in increments of large, unwieldy piles, for their work. She laughed. I growled. She looked nervous and backed away from me. I looked hungry and stepped toward the desk. However, I was already leaning on it, so all I could really do was lean forward slightly. After several uncomfortable seconds, I backed away. It was here that she told me that manuscripts had to be accepted and then published and then enjoyed by several thousand readers before I could have anything close to Hemingway-esque glory. I asked her what about the guy who wrote Goosebumps, can I just get what he got? I could not.

Have you ever seen me cry? If you said yes to this question, consider yourself marked. If you said no, believe me, it’s not pretty. Long story short, I cried. I hate it when people tell me “Sir, no, there aren’t any…millions of money bucks…in that fountain. Please, leave.” I figured I was being Punk’d, so I ran up and viciously assaulted the closest guy in a trucker hat, not because he looked like Ashton Kutcher, but because he probably thought he did. I wasn’t being Punk’d. I was being Truth’d.

So what do I do? I can’t just give up, right?

I was really asking. Could I give up? No, of course not. So, last Monday, or “Funday” as I call it, I heard an ad on the radio advertising advertising opportunities with the CIA. I love James Bond, and I love abbreviations. I lv. abbr.’s One day, I’ll write a blog completely in abbreviations, and they’ll have to close down the internet because of all the traffic to my site. I’m saving that one, though, for when dick jokes aren’t funny anymore. *Shivers*

I applied online, and it took me half an hour. This is roughly 28 minutes more than I’d wanted to spend filling this application out. After filling it out, I clicked “submit” and then opened my wallet, so I could literally watch all the centavos entran mi carpeta. No go. No centavos. No entran. No speaky ingles. So I figured that they were probably going to want to interview me first, to make sure that I actually own a wallet. I was so excited I made this face:

Wait...no, that's not right.

Wait...no, that's not right.

The face I made was closer to this:

That's it. There you go. that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

So there I am. I’m waiting. I’m anticipating. I’m respirating. Sure enough, I never get a call from the CIA. I’m not sure why, but they never gave me a ring. I signed up to be a secret recruiter. Pretty much I would of gone overseas to find people who I thought were CIA material and bring them into the fold. Why did I think I would be qualified for this? The same reason anybody thinks about joining the CIA: I really liked The Recruit with Al Pacino and Colin Farrell. What is it about me that’s so un-CIA? Is it that I have a degree in writing and literature? Could it be that I have no military experience whatsoever? Could it possibly be that my last job was listed as a “Salad Cook”? No. I will posit that the CIA is not interested in me because every single staff member is afraid that I would steal their job.

That’s it. Nothing else makes sense. Please call or e-mail your congressman and lobby for my employment in the Central Intelligence Agency, or as I call it (at least until they wise up) the Centrall Intelligence Gay-gency. Get out there and make a difference, kids.

The Job Interview

15 Mar

My eyes burn. They burn with passion for the words that I’m typing right now.

What an arrogant astute thing to say.

When I first became acquainted with the definition of the word “blog,” I began to imagine all the most terrible stereotypes about people who blog: plastic-rimmed glasses, sloppy hair, sweaters, Wilco; also, a firm hatred for all Sylvester Stallone movies and a great passion for the phrase “best___ever!”

But really, this blogging thing isn’t so bad. I figured it would afford me an excellent opportunity to practice informal writing for when I do this….for money. In all likelihood, I’ll look back on this moment five years from now and think of what a great decision it was to start up a blog. It will have afforded me great practice, a good creative outlet, and something to point at in job interviews and say….

“See? This is why you’re not paying me enough.”

“Mr. Irion, we aren’t paying you anything. This is an interview.”

“Yea, an interview in stupidity.” Here is where I lean back smugly and put my feet up on the desk, kicking some stuff over that I didn’t really mean to. I’m visibly embarrassed.

“Ok, that’s enough.” says the interviewer. He’s getting angry. I decide to lighten up the moment with a joke.

“Oh, come on now…” I pause, allowing him to prepare himself for the tidal wave of hilarity coming his way. He does so by blowing his nose. Gross. “I’m just having a good time.” I say. “I mean, why so serious?” Here I smile and make a scary growly face–that means I’m Heath Ledger.

“I…ok, thank you for your time. Please leave.”

I later get the job, and work there for several months before someone comes to my desk and notifies that I’m trespassing, and that the break room is not my office, and the break room table is not my desk. In an attempt to save my job, I make another joke.

“This company deserves a better class of employee, and I’m gonna give it to ’em.” I make my growly Heath Ledger face.

The employee looks at me in awe. The joke was too funny. It’s shut down his prefontal cortex.

“Ok, sir, I’m calling security.”

I try to fire this person.

“You can’t fire me, you’re not my boss. You’re not an employee here! You’re a vagrant!”

“A fragrant vagrant.” I say, winking and smiling smugly. I smell like a veterinarian’s office. I’ve been sleeping in the restroom on the diaper-change table.

I’m escorted from the premises.

I later blog about my experience at work.

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