PATRICK WALSH: September 2003-Job Search

So I was moved in and ready to see what New York City had to offer. I did it all, Broadway shows with student discounts! Lady Liberty! Cum-drenched peep shows! The city was mine! And then I ran out of money.

I learned you can't last long in the big city on 700 bucks. But Hakuna Matata, I knew my parents were going to be selling my car back home, and that is where the true cash would come rolling in. We had a verbal agreement that they would not sell it for less than a thousand dollars. And it shouldn't have been a problem, it was after all a 1991 Chevy Celebrity, THE car all the cool kids wanted. When the check arrived, I was devastated. 400 dollars. Our phone conversation that night went like this:

ME: Mom, what the hell? I really needed that money! I thought you guys weren't going to sell it for under a thousand?!?

MY MOM: Well Patrick, we're very busy back here, we just haven't had time to see a lot of people. To tell you the truth, we just wanted to get rid of it.

ME: (a long silence)

MY MOM: Patrick?

PATRICK: No, I'm still here, I'm just looking for a gun to shoot myself.

MY MOM: Alright, Patrick, Dateline's coming on, so I'm going to let you go. I love you!

I had to get a job. Fast. With no connections and no marketable skills, I was a little surprised that I hadn't already heard from several of NYC's finest companies. I hit the pavement. My ultimate goal was to get into NBC's Page Program, a great "foot in the door" for the entertainment industry, but for the time being I just needed some cash. I applied at some reputable companies. No dice. So I applied at Starbuck's, there's one on every corner. I applied at Chevy's, The Olive Garden. Went on interviews. Nothing. I was a recent college graduate and could not get a job at The Olive Garden. I knew people in high school who were a chromosome or two above Down's Syndrome who had worked at The Olive Garden. (IMPORTANT: I am not knocking the restaurant; their soup, salad, and breadsticks combo remains an unbeatable delight).

I looked in the want ads, but was always distracted by the sex ads just a few pages away. I began to question whether or not my ass was hot enough to market. And then I saw it:

DO YOU LOVE MOVIES, MUSIC AND MONEY?

Yes. Yes. And yes! Had they been reading my journal? I called and was asked to come in for an interview. Just like that. Beautiful! I arrived on Monday, ready to shine. So did about a hundred other people. I realized everyone who had called the number had been asked to come in to interview, and immediately lost a little mojo. Troubling me the most was the fact that I still didn't know what the job was! The applicant list wasn't helping any. There were girls and guys in the waiting room of all ages, races, and hotness levels. And no one knew anything! The girl next to me whispered, "I feel so stupid, can you please tell me what job we're interviewing for?" I looked at her and with fear in my eyes replied, "I don't know." Her very reasonable response: "Well...shouldn't we?"

They called everyone into this mysterious room in groups of ten. Group after group walked out looking shellshocked, shaking their heads in confusion. Finally, my group was called. We entered the room, which was definitely not big enough for all ten of us. We crammed in, some sitting and some standing. I stood. In front of us was a huge man behind a huge desk, dressed in a suit. He told us that he was a self-made millionaire, which led me to question why he was working in this tiny office. He started hitting us with questions at an alarming rate, and all were phrased like this:

BOSSMAN: (Pointing at someone and yelling) You! Why should I hire you?!

It was terrifying. After five minutes of increasingly aggressive and personal questions, the Bossman asked me and only me to wait outside, and sent everyone else in my group away. I was feeling confident. Out of a hundred people, only myself and one other guy had been asked to stay. After another half hour, he asked me and the other guy to re-enter the room. The other guy was extremely good looking and around my age. I recall he was wearing a three-piece suit, wingtips, and a half gallon of hair gel. He was a total doucheface. The bossman asked him his name and he responded:

DOUCHEFACE: It's 'Onree, sir.

BOSSMAN: Henry?

DOUCHEFACE: No, sir. 'Onree. It's French.

I would like to point out here that this guy was CLEARLY not French. Hilariously, Bossman would refer to him for the rest of the interview as Henry. Down to just the two of us, the questions came harsh and fast. After a while, Bossman said something about cutting through the BS and asked Doucheface to tell him why he felt that he should be hired over me. Doucheface looked at me, then looked forward and responded:

DOUCHEFACE: Sir, everything I have ever attempted in my life, be it working a job or picking up a girl, I have been completely and utterly successful at.

I uncontrollably rolled my eyes.

BOSSMAN: Patrick, you just rolled your eyes. Do you have a problem with what he just said?

ME: Well...yes.

BOSSMAN: Patrick, do you like Henry ?

ME: Not really, sir.

BOSSMAN: And why not?

ME: He just seems arrogant, sir.

BOSSMAN: You don't believe that he's been a success at everything he's attempted?

ME: No sir. No one has.

BOSSMAN: Patrick, I like you. I'll see you on Monday.

ME: Um...what?

BOSSMAN: See you then.

ME: Seriously?

DOUCHEFACE: What about me, sir?

BOSSMAN: You can show yourself out, Henry.

ME: Um...excuse me, but...you haven't really told me what I'll be doing here.

BOSSMAN: You'll find out Monday.

ME: You can't tell me now?

BOSSMAN: Patience, Patrick, patience.

ME: Um...OK. Can you tell me anything? Like, should I wear a suit like you, or...

BOSSMAN: (smiling creepily) Yes, you'll definitely need a suit.

ME: OK...See you Monday.

Then Onree and I took the most awkward elevator ride of all time downstairs and I went home. Things were looking up! I had a job! And in a few days, I would find out what that job was!

tags: story of my life  

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