JOBS AND INTERVIEWS

I was looking for a job when I starting writing this. Thanksgiving was last week so seasonal jobs are getting taken up on quickly. I turned down two Borders jobs because I thought I would be visiting home this Christmas. But that is not going to happen. If I want to work I have to be available to work the holidays. I have been to a few interviews. And it only took a few times to realize how terribly awful interviewee I am. I just had an interview at Old Navy. I never thought I would work there, but now, as no other job has come up, I have to be willing to take anything I can get. Like a humble, homeless man. Something you don’t see in Chicago often enough. Normally I would try to convince myself that I am modestly confident. It’s always easier with a woman interviewer for some reason. These are the moments in our lives when we can be anyone we want. Those first impressions are the ones that sell, right? So, when it’s one-on-one, the interviewer and me, I smile, make eye contact and am relatively a great guy. They ask me to tell them about myself. This is where I really shine and smother on my experience in Honduras. Its smooth sailing from here until they get to questions like, “What do expect from your supervisor?” “How do you sell a product?” “Why do you want to work for us?” “Tell me about a time when you gave great customer service.” At this point I usually look out the window and rub my sweaty palms together. When there are no windows I notice how warm it is in the room because I feel the beads of sweat running down my under-arm. I may look at the posters on the wall. After stumbling with words I reply, “…well, I want a supervisor who…respects me. Someone who respects the way I interact with customers…” she looks at me, nodding her head, saying, “hmmmm.” If I look passed her dark eyes I can see her real reaction- what the hell are you talking about?
“…Well…Ummm, to sell a product, I say hey, have you tried our new Mojo Mocha? We can make it with non-fat milk or sugar-free syrup... Or we could just go all out and make it so chocolaty that your head would blow up. And hey, did you hear we got our new sixty-four oz. cups in. So now you’ll have enough to last until Hell freezes over.”
Why do I want to work for you? Back at home I knew this answer. Before I left, I knew this answer. At least, I knew the right answer. Something they would want to hear. Unfortunately, for all of us, the only response that keeps on repeating itself in my head is, “I just need a job.” And that’s not exactly what employers want to hear. It seems when these questions come up, my mind remembers what “worked” before. So, now all I hear is “I just need a job.” I don’t know what stopped me from saying that, but I didn’t say it. Instead, I answer with something “much better” like, “Seems like a fun environment”, “I like the clothes” and “You guys are on top.” After one of those responses they give me a smile. The kind you get from genuine pity. In the moment you feel great about it. But later when you leave and think about it and remember what he looked like as you said it, you stop walking and say to yourself, son-of-a-bitch! I have given great customer service in all my years of being employed. Working at Starbucks, your whole life is revolved around making customers happy. I couldn’t think of one particular time when I gave great customer service, so I usually come up with some rendition of “selling a product.” At Starbucks when a new drink is out they sample it to everyone for free. So, its hard to feel what these clothes retailers want from me when I can’t give a free pair of pants to the people, just so they could try them. Also, I use the phrases, “mix’n match, non-fat, and “happy smiles all around,” hoping this would put me up a few notches.
In my Old Navy interview I was pretty proud of myself to show up fifteen minutes early. After I was told to “go talk to So’n so," twice, I was told to wait in the break room for about twelve minutes. There I was, at a circular table, alone. I was one of about five others, with other people coming and going the whole time. But they were the ones who were actually working and on a break. Who was I? I was nobody. No one made eye contact with me. After ten minutes I couldn’t take it any longer. I left the break room to find this “Jason” guy or whoever it was that was going to interview me. When someone saw me hanging around outside his office they asked what I was doing. Bringing me inside the office, there was a red, comfy chair and I was instructed to sit in it. And wait. There were, at least, posters on the walls in this room, so I had something to look at. Soon, “Jason” popped his head in and said, “We’re going to go to another room if that’s okay. Sorry about the musical rooms we’re playing here with you.” That’s when I realize it- its not just Jason and me. Its Me, Jason, and two other girls. What kind of mind games is Jason playing with me now? We walk inside a new room with a big red table in the middle. Its another break room. To the far right, as you walk in, is a counter with a sink. There are plastic plates and dirty, crumpled napkins scattered around the counter. On the end is a round plate of cookies. That is not going to help. I love cookies. Jason tells us to all sit on one side and he on the other. In that moment he throws us a curve-ball and leaves the room for five minutes. Neither one of us said one thing to anyone ever. The tension became increasingly thick. Like getting mammoth muffin at Perkins and thinking you get all the free ones you want after the first the purchase…until you confront the waitress only to find out that its not true. I was about to burst into one of those, “WELL!…” comments just to break the awkwardness, but was relieved to see Jason pop back in. First thing he said, as he sat down, was that he didn’t have my application. I was off to a good start. He was a big guy. A bit round, like his associates could have just rolled him in the room similar to the way the Oompa-Loompas rolled away the big blueberry of a girl. His head was about the shape and size of your Olympic approved basketball and when he turned to look and talk to each one of us, his face jiggled like there was cake mix inside. Second thing he said was that he wanted to go around and have us just tell him about ourselves. Of course, with this question, I was about as worried as any drunken man could be as he wanders in a restaurant for flap-jacks at 3 AM. It started with me. I said, “Well, I’m from Minnesota. I moved here about four years ago. I have been out of the country- working in Honduras, at an orphanage. I am working on a promotional video/ documentary/ movie for the orphanage right now to help raise money and awareness. But, now I’m back and going to school in January. And that’s me in thirty second nutshell.” Jason just looks blankly at me but I don’t realize it. Feeling pretty proud of my answer, I put on a smile that says I know I look good and turn to my left for the next girl’s story. With a bright smile and eyes that seem to actually be buried in her face, Anisha-Angel begins her story. She jumps right in with being a single mom then shifts over to her eight years experience working at Wal-Mart and all the positions she held there. “…And I’d like to work at Old Navy because I love working with customers and making everyone’s shopping experience one that makes them come back. I think I would be a great addition to this company because I know and understand this kind of environment. From my past experience I know how to work with customers and help them find what they need…” Inside, I am screaming at myself. Caught off guard, I look at her and loose my smart-ass-of-a-smile. What was I thinking, talking about myself? How is going to Honduras and working with kids going to get me this job? Its not and I had to learn that the hard way. In most of the job interviews I have had, employers usually eat up all the Honduras stuff. Going into this one I naturally thought the same. I have never had a group interview, but learned that it’s really a competition, a battle to work at a cash register for eight hours a day. A battle to say, “how many?” in the fitting rooms. No. This is no battle. It’s war. And if I had any experience in this kind of combat, maybe I would have a chance. Unfortunately, I have none and the best my silver tongue struck out was asking what kind of activities they do if the workers have to stay late. It was a little comment, probably in everyone’s mind, but in this head it was big. It sounded great until it came out. Anisha-Angel finished her explanation under five minutes and looked to the other girl on her left. Rackel began telling about her experiences working in a few, smaller clothing stores. I look down at my lap. I am scratching my stomach under my sweater, maybe to put a hole there. It feels warm and red like a hot pad. There is a lot of noise in my head. Shouting. I think it’s my voice. Beyond that, I can hear the faint hum of Rackel, convincing them she would be a great candidate for the job. I should have taken my jacket off. Its so hot in here, I think to myself. I’m trying to act normal. As if nothing could be against me. The right answers and physical mannerisms become hard to concentrate on. I keep looking over at the plate of cookies and garbage on the counter to my right. There is no way they don’t notice. I have to completely turn away from everyone in the room. Jason isn’t even asking me anything anyway. This is all a process. He asks us all, one at a time the questions he has on his clip bored. But at this point its like he just skipped me to move on to the girls. They have so much more to say. All I can ramble about is all the combinations of flavor and espresso you can mix together. I begin to take more notice of my environment. There are Old Navy posters on each wall. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be paying attention. Maybe if I switch my sitting position, something will happen. Maybe Jason will talk to me. I shift and turn my body to be facing Anisha-Angel. With my elbow on the table, too, I hope something will change. I’m not surprised when it doesn’t. It just gets hotter. Everyone always says to make eye contact. I do, do that. But I always remember it at the wrong times. I think I do it in spurts. So I may be looking at a table or a crumb from a brownie one minute. The next I could be in a trance of staring eye contact. If I want the attention, this is definitely one option. Though, in this case, it may not be the best option. I found myself with my fingers folded together, placed in front of my mouth. From Jason’s point of view, I could have been the man in the windowless van that sits across the street from the park wearing sunglasses. This is just my luck. I always make people feel uncomfortable with the way I look at them. Its always too late when I find out I’ve been doing it. This isn’t going well at all. I was never good at competition. This is a perfect example. What a relief I felt when Jason stood up and began thanking us for taking the time to come in. He said if one of us gets hired on, then we would get a call confirming it. If not, then we would get a letter in the mail saying, “sorry, this just isn’t going to work out. Maybe if you hadn’t made Jason, your interview, feel he would be in physical danger when he left the store, we might have thought about welcoming you on our team. Thanks for playing."
I don’t expect to be hired there.