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MIRTH
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THE
NOT-SO LATEST
December
8, 1999 (N.B.:
This is the "Director's Cut"
version of this column, featuring
stuff never before seen by
anyone, except me. Thrilling,
isn't it?) Unofficially,
in about a week or so, I will
have been unemployed for a full
year. I say "unofficially"
because I took six months or so
off to "write" -- and if you saw
the sum total of what I produced,
you might understand why I want
to keep this off the
record. I
cockily figured that it would be
no problem to find a regular
salaried job. That was six months
ago. So today I tucked the
proverbial tail between my
proverbial legs and went into the
proverbial temp agency here in
town that my proverbial friend
Crunch had recommended.
It
wasn't easy. Not because of
pride, as you might expect; I
apparently only have enough of
that left to keep me from showing
up at interviews naked. No, it
was because the name of the
agency is written on the building
in letters that require an
electron microscope to see. And
since I left mine in my other
suit, I ended up being twenty
minutes late to my
interview. This
wasn't so bad, though, because
they had built three hours into
my interview time for me to fill
out more paperwork than it
requires to adopt a child with
severe mental retardation. It was
not unlike being back in college,
taking a test that you had fallen
asleep cramming for the night
before. Except
now there were no right answers,
and guessing would get me
penalized with work that I am
completely unqualified for.
[It didn't help that the
sheets give absolutely no leeway
or definition of terms. Well,
sure, I have experience with
Microsoft Access, but only
because I accidentally clicked
that icon instead of the one that
opens up the porn.]
Eventually, I just decided not to
mark anything, which probably
proves that I am unfit for any
job with a skill level above
"drug-addled spider
monkey." But
even if I didn't mark anything, I
still had to fill out my name and
Social Security number several
thousand times on several
thousand different pieces of
paper. By the end, I was nearing
exhaustion. Apparently they
anticipate this and slip you some
papers that ask for things like
bank account numbers, blood type
and power of attorney at that
exact moment. All of it is
optional, of course, but my will
was effectively subdued at that
point that I figured they could
have what they wanted provided
they agree to call the hospital
when the hand cramp I was nursing
causes my heart to seize
up. I
hobbled over to the secretary and
lamely handed her the
ex-rainforest I had just defiled
with my scribblings. Out of
nowhere, my career counselor,
"Melissa", arrived and handed me
a business card. She led to a
dank corner in the back of the
office where I was scolded like a
puppy who had crapped on the
carpet. Apparently this is the
treatment given to all liberal
arts graduates in an effort to
shame them into going back to
school and learning a useful
trade, like animal husbandry. I
wouldn't be surprised if this
treatment is secretly subsidized
by the Lincoln Institute to boost
enrollment in their VCR repair
program. When
we finally got to her desk, she
handed me a second business card
and smiled disearnestly. Right
there, she suddenly reminded me
of this sorority girl at a party
in college who went out of her
way to pre-emptively inform me
that she had a boyfriend, even
though I had never seen her
before and was talking to someone
else at the time. And now she was
holding my career in her hands.
Fun! Melissa
spoke to me in hushed tones,
almost like she was ashamed that
her co-workers might overhear her
counseling me. [Or maybe she
just wanted to pop the zit on my
head that had developed from a
week of sheer paranoia that
overcame me when I received a
verbal lashing from Our Dear
Father, who is sick and tired of
having to pay for my frivolous
expenses, like prescription drugs
and emergency room
visits. I
couldn't even get some meager
satisfaction from the thought
that I could be infecting this
girl and everyone else in her
office with the killer germs that
have had me on my back for 20 of
the last 31 days. (No, not
gonorrhea, Jerry. You have to get
laid to catch that and I have
neither the money nor the social
skills for that.) Everyone else
there was either sick or in that
stage of recovery that consists
mostly of telling other people
what you did when you were sick
and feeling
superior.] After
some minor interrogation, she
leaned over and asked me if I had
applied at a totally obscure
local company that produces
absolutely nothing and never
advertises, as though I keep
track of every business in the
Des Moines metro area and their
hiring practices. She looked over
her shoulder to check whether her
boss was looking (as far as I
could tell, he wasn't even in the
building -- this may have been a
ploy, or perhaps just a product
of her deranged imagination), she
scribbled the name of a company
on a moldy piece of scrap paper
and handed it to me under the
desk. "Don't mention my name,"
she said. Not a
problem. My
spirits were slightly bolstered
when she mentioned that she could
probably scare up some work in my
field if I were patient enough.
But before I could get too
excited, she tossed me the old
"bait and switch," a phrase
originally used by fishermen, who
"bait" fish with worms and pretty
lures and then jam hooks into
their mouths and beat them
senseless. "However,"
she said, blinding me with her
mongoloid faux-diamond ring, "if
you were willing to step outside
of your chosen field, we have an
excellent opportunity doing
inside sales." Inside sales is,
for the unaware, the bastard
cousin of telemarketing where you
don't annoy people who don't want
to talk to you during dinner, but
rather people who don't want to
talk to you during their work.
"The starting salary is around
$8, but some really motivated,
special people -- with bonuses
and overtime -- make... $8.01 an
hour!" Okay,
so I'm exaggerating. But that's
how it felt. She
pretended to do some quick math,
which was obviously not her
specialty, as she arrived at the
figures faster than one of those
autistic savants that they parade
around on "Regis and Kathy Lee."
"Really special employees make up
to $48,000 a year!" Nothing
like a 120-hour work
week. I
wasn't really in the mood to be a
professional annoyance, so I
politely declined. And that was
really all she had for me. This
was a little disappointing, as I
figured that a temp agency would
have me working in a sweatshop
that very day. But
it wasn't all bad, I suppose. She
did flip through my portfolio and
pretend to read it. "Oh, you had
your picture in the paper?" she
asked me in a tone that indicated
that it had been a while since
she'd read one. I was inclined to
answer that it was standard
pratice to do that for convicted
felons, but I
resisted. After
wresting the portfolio from her
control, the appointment came to
an end the way that brought back
memories of all my bad dates: She
stopped talking and completely
avoided eye contact. She did,
however, hand me a third business
card and offer a limp
handshake. This
should have had the cumulative
effect of turning me into a
whimpering puppy, but it was
exactly the opposite. Suddenly, I
remembered all the advertisements
and job tips I have been
procrastinating on. In fact, I
went immediately to Kinko's and
fired off two resumes to
less-than-perfect
jobs. I
mean, if I'm unemployed, I really
have no one to blame but myself.
I haven't exactly been Mr.
Follow-Up these past six months.
Now, don't get the idea that I
don't follow up -- I do. It's
just hard for me to feign
excitement when I really have no
interest in selling knitting
supplies. Still,
after this, that doesn't sound so
bad.
"Gemini:
Friends and partners bring joy
into a stagnant environment. Your
spiritual and philosophic
connections are powerful.
H" And
if anyone has any idea who or
what "H" is, please
contact
me
immediately. I'm
scared. I'm
pleased to announce that I now
have three outlets on the web,
which might explain why I have
been so long in creating a new
column. Only it doesn't. That has
more to do with just being
lazy. But
anyway, I've been brought on to
the Psycomic
web team as a columnist. Yes,
it's about comics, but if you
enjoy my sense of humor, you'll
probably like this as well. The
column itself is called
"Fightin'
Words,"
and appears every Wednesday,
guaranteed. (I have a real editor
and a deadline, which is more
than I can say for my own
site...) In
addition, as many of your know,
I've been writing essays for the
quarterly Pink Floyd fanzine
Spare
Bricks.
My column there is called "KAOS
Theories." Fewer yuks than the
other two columns (intentional
ones, anyway), but still worth
checking out. The latest issue
just went up the first of this
month. Patrick
Keller got his chocolate in your
peanut butter. This article is
© 1999 Patrick Keller, Gern
Blansten Productions. You may
redistribute this piece, provided
the text is unaltered and it
contains this notice. As always,
if you know someone sick and
twisted who might like this
stuff, let me know. Blah blah
blah e-mail me at
blansten@iname.com
blah blah blah
Also
featured in the not-so
latest: All
contents of this web site -- even the
periods -- are TM & © Patrick
Keller, Gern Blansten Productions, so
don't try to steal 'em. Any unlawful
distribution, copying or non-educational
use is highly frowned upon, and will be
prosecuted when I get enough money to hire
a lawyer. Violators will be spanked.
Shoplifters will be persecuted.
Prosecutors will be violated. |
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