I am a member of the 99-percent club, a part-time worker, poverty wage earner, with more time than money to spend.
On my never-ending search for more part-time work, yesterday rubber met the road when Gladys GPS and I followed Google’s convoluted directions to a 2 p.m. interview in a different state – of confusion.
The road on which I traveled was a long, winding route, smothered with traffic jam, not unlike a root canal. The road ended at a funeral home. Gladys assured me the address was correct.
I called the receptionist, my conduit to the interview. “I’m at a funeral home,” I said. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Just head down to the center of the parking lot and open the glass door by the bicycle shop. We’re on the second floor.”
Now I had to find the bicycle shop and mysterious glass door. The bicycle rack out front provided a clue.
So, I opened the glass door and trudged up the steps, as an older gentleman in a rumpled suit squeezed past me on his way down and out.
When I entered the offices of Marketing Is Us, I looked for a boiler in the room and found nothing, so I said “hello.”
Immediately, Darla, the twenty-something receptionist, handed me a one-page employment form to fill out, which pleased me. Handwriting didn’t come easily to me. I think I’m Dysgraphic, a distant relative of Hypochondriac.
While I waited for my turn to be grilled and flambéed, I chatted with Darla, who was a great conversationalist and I think part of the interview process. She told me about Marketing Is Us’ combative relationship with the funeral home on the other side.
“After we first moved in, the funeral home sent a note asking our employees not be too cheery when entering the building, and to act solemn in fact.”
“For real,” I asked, loving the life stranger than fiction part of the interview.
“When they realized their funeral faux pas, they sent us a bouquet of flowers.” She pointed to a glass vase tied with a somber maroon bow then added, “The flowers smell like a funeral.”
“Maybe they were on a dead body?” I said, probably not the words she wanted to hear.
She turned to watch the TV.
By that time, Goth Girl, the pubescent applicant who preceded me, said goodbye with a stud piercing in her lip and a dagger look in her eye.
My turn on the roaster spit.
“Spanky will see you now,” Darla announced. “Just go through the glass doors.”
There was a large desk in the center of the room with a man-child seated behind it. He looked like a 12-year-old in a suit and tie.
“Hello,” he said, then jumped up with his hand extended. “I’m glad you could make it,” then gestured. “Please take a seat. We are the result of corporate outsourcing, although we’re in New York, not India”
I didn’t see any cows.
“We handle marketing and sales for Yakety Yak Communications. Tell me what you can you bring to the table?”
Milk and cookies. Or is your mother bringing snacks?
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
I didn’t say that but wish I did.
When the interview ended, I waived goodbye to Spanky, Darla and the gang, such incorrigible rascals.
On my way down and out, I passed a rumpled baby boomer, struggling for breath, hiking up the stairs. She could have been me.
Back in the car, “Home Gladys,” I ordered. Then, we snaked our way toward the Connecticut border where time, not money, was spent in the alternate universe of the 99 percent.
I hope Operation Wall Street Rocks the Top One Percent’s Rafters.
- 2 Intruders Found Sleeping In Funeral Home Caskets (huffingtonpost.com)
- Bad Economy Sparks an Increase in Cremation and Cleveland Cremation is Thriving (prweb.com)