Respectably Cruel

please reference the story before this story if you haven't read it yet.

my sleep-schedule is about as nonsensical and sporadic as christian bale's weight patterns. but job-hunting and checking my bank account to find that i own exactly one dollar and fifty-one cents has a way of forcing me to at least pretend to understand the world at a reasonable hour.

i woke up at 8:45am and spent that $1.51 on a coffee before my second interview. with a penny to spare!

there was something in my gut besides caffeine and burning stomach acids that worried me. i think it was mr. poopants; i think it was knowing the likelihood that my metaphorical middle finger to my previous job was about to cost me a new one, and that i would have to keep calling a glass of water "dinner" for a while.

make your own reality.

more often than you know, i whisper uplifting phrases to myself while walking down the street. i'm kind of a dork in that way. but so much of what was about to happen at my follow-up interview was out of my control, and i wanted to be sure that the little i did control went well.

charm the shit out of them, and make your own reality.

there was no direct plan of action, just two things i could hope for:

1. the concierge receptionist had not called my potential boss.
2. the concierge receptionist called him, but mentioned nothing of my explosive exit.

i'm not sure which i believed to be more likely, but i knew i had to show up for the interview and do my best regardless.

but she had called back. they had spoken. she had told them plenty about my unorthodox style.

but i didn't know any of that until after three hours of working a trial shift.

i thought maybe staying an extra hour without complaint might fall into the category of "charming the shit out of them" or at least it might charm a turd into prairie-dogging a bit. you know, just enough so that the boss would want to check his underpants to see what i had done.

i don't know if that actually changed anything. i also don't know if that was an entirely effective metaphor.

"well," he said, "come across the street and let's talk at starbucks. i want to talk to you about something."

and it began.

i did try my absolute hardest to act as though i had nothing to be afraid of, and that the concierge team would say nothing but the most wondrous things of my mature way of leaving the job. but i found even walking there to be a challenge. it was like i had bought a pair of used boots from someone with a different style of stride and, therefore, a different amount of wear-n-tear on a different side of the heel. it was a sort of awkward swaggering stagger.

at first, we talked about what i thought of the job and why i even wanted it in the first place. and then we talked about how the weather has been oddly splendid for a february. we talked about a lot of useless things like how many calories were in a white mocha.

we were both avoiding something.

and then it happened.

"so," he said, "if we were to hire you, how do we know you won't... say, disappear out of nowhere in a matter of 3-6 months?"

he said it with a very large grin and some seriously direct eye-contact.

"do you have a reason to believe i would do something like that?" i asked with an equal level of eye-contact, but a much smaller grin.

"let me say this," he began, "your reputation precedes you."

i laughed very loudly and awkwardly. you would've, too.

"i'm going to be honest," i said, "i have left several jobs for several reasons. but i'm starting to feel old, and i've realized that i can't just up and go. if i were hired here, it would be for stability. stability and to print out my artwork on your fancy printers. but i'd be around for a long time."

he eyed me. still grinning.

"i'll be honest," he said back to me, "i called concierge extraordinaire before you even came into the first interview.

how about that for a twist? that whole bit about waiting for a call back from the concierge to find the "scoop" on me was all nonsense. he already knew what i did. it was a part of his mind game. that was cruel. but i have to respect that. it was respectably cruel.

"let me buy you a coffee. what do you want?"

i didn't imagine a free coffee to be the next thing offered after admitting he was aware i had a penchant for sudden and quixotic unemployment-- i was expecting something more like help to the door.

this particular interview had too many twists for my brain to handle before 2pm.

"oh," i said nervously, "a white mocha, i guess."

"so," he said as he stood up, "here's how i see it..."

there was a pause that probably lasted much longer in my head than it did in real-life and starbucks. the last time i had heard the phrase "here's how i see it" was in the dark knight right before that weasely prick tried to blackmail batman.

"you can either grab some lunch and start getting paid today," he stated, "or go home, get some rest, and be back tomorrow at 8am."

twist! twist! twist! kapow! chaboom! shit-pants! i wish i knew what expression sat on my face at that exact moment.

"...assuming you'd like to work here."

"i think," i sputtered, "i'll come tomorrow at 8am. i have some things i need to do. but i'll see you at 8am."

so i was officially hired. and then dave chappelle walked past me to get some coffee. sometimes i'm glad the world is even stranger than i am.