My New Career Direction
June 24, 2001
Just a single week left at my current job before the department I work with is turfed out into the cruelly anorexic employment market, but at least our employer is nudging us along to our next job with a little help.
The company we work for has arranged for us all to attend Resume and Job Interview workshops throughout the month. Pointlessly, I’d signed up to attend the workshop towards the end of the month - by this stage I’d already scraped together a CV and had embarrassed myself at many a job interview. Still, it sounded like it would beat another day of sitting at my desk and half-heartedly clicking through employment websites, which was proving no more exciting or motivational than a Tony Barber fan convention.
Perhaps what I was seeking from this workshop was a bit of direction. I’m still unsure as to what I should be doing for a job - all I know is that it involves creativity. This is what I’ve been telling the recruitment agencies I’ve been going to interviews with, and it’s obvious these agencies have put a lot of time into brainstorming ways to make their many data entry temping jobs appear appealing. (’Not only are you entering imported product information, you can enter exported product information as well! You won’t find much more variety than that in a job at the moment!’)
The company conducting the workshop was in North Sydney, which at least trounced any suspicions I was harbouring that the day’s activities would be geared towards the Ricki Lake viewing, long-term welfare receiving mindset. North Sydney is better known amongst Sydney locals as ‘Cuntville’, referring to the uncharacteristically high cunt density per square kilometre in the district. Home of countless corporate headquarters and the $8 latté, the obtusely trademark phallic buildings of the district jumble amongst each other for attention as the suits swarm angrily swarm about their business, scowling at countless inconveniences plaguing their otherwise productive day.
Then there’s me, stumbling up Miller Street with a confused look plastered on my face and wearing what I’m sure is the only pear of jeans in the suburb. I refer back to the letter the company has sent me detailing their address and contact details, and it appears that I’m in the right place. The only problem is that the right place seems to be an alleyway occupied by a dumpster and some shaken receptionists huddled around polystyrene cups of coffee, drawing from cigarettes as if replenishing their life-force and bitterly swapping their horror stories of the previous workday. Conducting a business workshop in a dumpster could be an interesting rebellion against North Sydney’s corporate mindset, but I concluded that this was perhaps not the location where I was supposed to be.
I crossed the road for the second time and studied the numbers on the buildings around me. Some of the characters seated outside cafes sipping caffeinated beverages and nibbling daintily at imported pastries began targeting offended looks in my direction. They obviously didn’t like individuals without goals and direction in their life in their vicinity. Shaking my head in resignation, I thought it best to contact the company on my mobile for a confirmation of their location.
Cocking my ear towards the dumpster to confirm no ringing noises were emanating from within, I dialled the number on my letter. The call was swiftly answered in a brand of receptionist’s voice which suggested her anus had been firmly stitched together.
I explained my inability to locate their premises, trying to make a little joke out of it. ‘It’s still Monday morning, I’ve barely woken up,’ I joked.
Five full seconds of silence followed, drowned in the snideness that such big-business receptionists delight in and look forward to doling out. ‘We’re on Walker Street, not Miller,’ she fired down the phone, then promptly dismissed me with what was undoubtedly not her first loud, extended sigh of the day.
Successfully locating the building, I ducked into one of the gaggle of anonymous coffee outlets on the street minutes before the workshop began. It wouldn’t hurt to bring a drink along, I figured. A prim young waitress donned in matching defecation brown scarf, lipstick, eyeliner and attitude demanded my order. Stunned by the denial of thinking time and due selection process of my beverage of choice, I realised that this was a North Sydney outlet - incomparable with any other caffeine-dispensing outlet location. Efficiency is the key of the way these North Sydney businesses are run.
Alternating my gaze between the menu board and her deadly stare to reassure myself she wouldn’t punch me if I didn’t announce my desired drink quickly enough, I scanned the board for something I knew wouldn’t be a ridiculously undrinkable over-strong Mexican coffee. Spotting an old reliable as I zoomed my pupils across the menu - hot chocolate - I quickly barked my request and noticed her immediate relief. Her head, facial expression and neck had seemed to strain and darken the longer I took. It was if her scarf-o’-efficency was tightening, strangling; gagging the very life out of her for every second she wasn’t fulfilling her regular corporate high-flying customers’ expectations.
Within a few blinks, my beverage was ready; yet it was only then that I realised my error. In the panic of being forced to select a drink at such short notice, I’d mistakenly ordered iced chocolate rather than my favoured hot chocolate. A ridiculously large sundae-style glass and dish was hurled over the counter towards my surprised face. Whipped cream, cherry and intricately inserted chocolate topping in decorative fashion jeered at me, in full knowledge my workshop was due to begin in two minutes.
Nervously looking back at the waitress, I ruled out requesting a replacement drink. This would disrupt her efficiency level by a good five minutes and could possibly burst a vein in her neck. Launching myself at the first available seat, I veritably inhaled the damn drink whole. Leaving the cafe as quickly as possible, I embarassedly kept my head down to deflect the inevitable offended glances which were surely being cast my way. If a North Sydney employee has an opportunity to make someone around them feel bad, don’t question their ability to do so.
I galloped into the elevator at the base of the building and arrived at the company conducting the workshop only a few minutes late. Breathlessly disembarking from the elevator and fighting a sudden ice-cream headache; a sour receptionist wordlessly pointed to her right, directing me as if I was a naughty schoolboy late to class. I quickly concluded this was definitely the woman who had answered my telephone enquiry earlier on in the morning. As if catching my thought, she seemed to recognise I was the lost straggler who’d been wandering around aimlessly on Miller Street ten minutes ago, and immediately began frowning at me with a force that could have crushed a small pigeon. She didn’t seem like a very happy person. In fact, the last thing she had to be genuinely happy about - judging from her plumpness - was the introduction of the four new Fanta flavours earlier this year.
Plonking myself into a deliciously luxurious leather seat amongst my already-present workmates, I realised my view for the day out of the window would consist of a bland tin roof. This downed my spirits a little, until a vibrant and enthusiastic woman burst into the room and began the workshop.
The usefulness of the workshop was something I’d admittedly underestimated. Suddenly, the resume sitting in front of me began metamorphosing from a brilliantly authored document detailing my many achievements in my jobs, to a sloppy set of paragraphs which were as effective and well-structured as the bridge used in the opening ceremony of the last Jewish Games.
Worriedly, I began taking notes and soon realised there were many ways I could make some improvements. We also began some roleplays of job interviews. In retrospect, perhaps I wasn’t taking this area of the workshop as seriously as I could have been - I’ve never had any worries about interviews. Still, over the course of a few hours I managed to answer some simulated job interview questions thus:
Interviewer: Tell me about a difficult challenge you managed to overcome.
Me: My partner and I once had a Michael Jackson Lyric and Acceptance Speech Challenge - we were only permitted to converse in lyrics from Michael Jackson songs or things that Michael would be likely to say in an acceptance speech.
Interviewer: Pardon?
Me: Oh, not exactly to the book, but to get the general gist across. For example, if I wanted my partner to get me a beer, I’d sing ‘Heal my thirst… make it a better place…’ and he’d reply ‘Oh, I will, and… (tittering giggle) I would like to thank all the children… I love you all… (choked back sob)’.
Interviewer: Is this relevant?
Me: Of course. The Michael Jackson Lyric and Acceptance Speech Challenge is now regularly featured as a drinking game amongst my friends. As you can see, I have a lot of, er… initiative.
The questions and answers continued thus:
Interviewer: Relate a time when you’ve been a little unsure of what you are supposed to do.
Me: Once a magpie flew into my face. That was quite confusing, especially as I’d just woken up ten minutes prior to this. It nearly shat on me, too.
Interviewer: Tell me about a time when you improved a work process.
Me: At one of my old jobs, the printer was incredibly slow. It was holding up everyone’s workflow. I decided we should buy a new printer.
Interviewer: How would you handle a situation where you had forgotten critical information which needed to be to supplied to someone immediately?
Me: Um… think harder about what I was supposed to remember?
Interviewer: What is your greatest achievement?
Me: Getting out of my early teenage gothic phase. I used to have a fucking cape, man.
Slowly, I began to realise that I hadn’t exactly thought things through. The future of my career began piecing itself together in my mind. I made a decision.
I wanted to be a cunt.
This could be achieved by either (a) getting a job in sales, or (b) working in North Sydney - or maybe the financial area of Sydney’s city. So this is now my new challenge. Hopefully within a matter of weeks, I’ll possibly be working in the perfect breeding grounds for cuntery.
The job hunt continues.
