Goddamn

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know why this time was different from any of the others.

I wasn’t planning on it. It was a Sunday morning. I had just gone out to pick up a Sunday newspaper and a bottle of Nestle’s Double-Chocolate Quik. For me, chocolate makes the frustrating business of job-hunting go smoother. I got what I wanted from the supermarket and I was heading back home. My route took me past the local mall. The place had just opened and was nearly deserted. I figured, what the hell?

It wasn’t the best of circumstances. I hadn’t shaved for about three days. I was wearing a ratty pair of jeans and this crappy Bears sweatshirt I’ve had since I was 16. Yes, it still fits me. It’s made of some kind of wonder-fabric which has just sort of expanded as I have. I hadn’t bothered to even comb my hair, and my Dennis the Menace cowlick was flying at full-staff. But if I did it today, I told myself, I wouldn’t have to make another trip back there next week. So I went in and filled out an application at “Spendorama” Department Store.

Damned if they didn’t actually call back two days later. No big deal. I’ve gotten a couple of those recently—all for shitjobs the employers were desperate to fill.

The week before, for example. A caffeine-amped manager at a bargain basement appliance store dangled a commission-only sales job in front of my nose like it was a sirloin and I was a hungry wolf. For those not in the know, commission-only means the salesdweeb does not get an hourly salary, only a percentage of each sale he/she makes. No sale, no paycheck. You can tell when salespeople in a store are working on commission, because they grin like crackheads and ambush customers one foot past the door. I worked commission-only once, briefly, for a long-gone electronics chain. Never again. The turnover is high, the competition is cutthroat and it’s damn-near impossible to make a living wage, unless you plan on working 7 days a week. I let the guy blither on about extended warranties and the like for about 20 minutes before I said no. He went catatonic, all google-eyed and slack-jawed. Poor bastard; Red Bull overload.

Anyway, I went to my interview at Spendorama Department Store. This is an actual department store, similar to Macy’s or the soon-to-be-departed Marshall Field’s. At least it wasn’t another –Mart. Talked to Hiring Guy, a polite gentleman in a shirt and tie. He said he needed a salesman in the men’s clothing department. The job was evenings and weekends, part-time, with “an opportunity to go full-time as we approach our busier Fall season,” he said. It would pay an hourly wage, an actual-sorta-living wage, at least for part-time. It wasn’t the lowest sum I’d been quoted.

So then, Hiring Guy and I did the typical employer-applicant dance I’ve come to know so well. “Describe your favorite customer service experience.” “What’s your worst customer service experience?” “Are you a team player or a lone wolf?” I’ve answered these questions so many times, I could do so in my sleep. Garbage in, garbage out; he gave me the same polite nods and “uh-huh’s” I’ve heard just as often. Then Hiring Guy excused himself and left the office, promising to return directly. Well, I thought, anticipating the brush-off, at least I’d be home in time to catch “Judge Judy”.

I sat alone in the office, which was cluttered with old sale signs, sundry displays and stacks of credit card applications. It was dim; the single florescent panel above barely lit the room. The only sound was the steady hum of air from a ceiling vent. Quite comfortable, though. I sat back, closed my eyes and eased into a sex fantasy about my latest dream girl, Karen Cliché. She’s the female star of “Young Blades”, a Three Musketeers rip-off TV show that’s only worth watching for her. Such lips, such eyes! Such skill in handling the sword! Calling Doctor Freud. . .

“Okay, John,” said the returning Hiring Guy, startling me out of an R-rated revelry. He sat back down behind his desk, scribbled something on a form. Then he did something which scared the hell out of me. He stuck out his hand and said: “The job is yours. Welcome to Spendorama. Can you start next week?”

Goddamn. Someone is going to actually PAY me to work. How did that happen?