Freaky Goodness

December 24, 2009 at 6:16 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | 1 Comment
  The Journey

I’ve been searching high and low for a new part time job.  And by “high and low,” I mean I’ve been checking Craigslist every day.
Not always the job section.  The barter section was interesting for a couple of days, but ultimately unfruitful.  So, to, was the “women seeking women” personals.  For some reason all of these dykes and lesbians are real man-haters.  Most of the ads were like “No men.”  “No chicks w/ boyfriends.”  “Absolutely no penises.”
How am I supposed to make Detroit’s fantasy of a threesome with me and her and a hot chick come true?  And I swear, it is her fantasy.  Just do me a favor and don’t tell her about it, okay?
Back to the job search.
I checked all the categories a few times, but daily I narrowed it down to just a few:  Food and bev and hosp, transportation, general labor, part-time, and writing and editing.
The writing and editing panned out a few things that I applied for, but I never did hear back from the jackoffs.  Of course, I did give them a link to this blog, so they could be reading this right now.  In that event, I say:  “Welcome!  I hope you enjoy the comedy, satire, and…stuff.”  Fuck.
I had applied at a couple of courier places–this seemed like deep fried gold for someone with my skills (the ability to sit in a car and drive somewhere, get out, give somebody something, then get back in the car and drive away) but although they seemed to be biting, I hadn’t reeled one in yet.
One that I called–what a joke.  The woman who ran the place answered the phone.  I didn’t know to whom I was speaking, and I still don’t.  She sounded vaguely interested and mildly retarded.  After hedging her disinterest, she told me to call back Tuesday.  I called back Tuesday, she said to call back Thursday.  This was a few weeks ago, and I never did call back. I showed her.
On one paw, the impression I got (and remember how good I am–or how much I brag about how good I am–at reading people, especially over the phone) is that she is a disorganized leader, and probably hands out rewards and punishment unevenly and passive-aggressively.  On another paw entirely, someone like that I could steer like a bicycle.  I could own the place.
However, I’m not looking for a(nother) dysfunctional relationship, I’m looking for a job.
Another courier that I had high hopes for never called.  They were one of the few that offered 24/7 service, whereas most of these did it only during the day, when I already work.  I waited and waited, and never heard back from them.
At least, I thought I never heard from them.
I had applied on-line and attached a carefully-crafted resume–meaning I took an old one and edited the crap out of it, and made sure I had current contact information on it, like my cell phone number.
On a completely unrelated note, recently we found out that we could cancel the home phone and keep the DSL, a savings of 35 bones per month.  That’s almost fifteen thousand per year, so we couldn’t pass that up.  And maybe my math skills have something to do with my poor budgeting ability.
The phone was going to be shut off soon, so before we unhooked it we decided to listen to the messages.  We had long ago stopped answering it because often it was someone trying to collect on my sister–whom even the IRS had deemed “uncollectible.”
In amongst the collection calls and the calls trying to sell us crap because we never put that line on a do-not-call list was a message from Fred at the courier in question.  Fuck.
I had given him a half a dozen ways to contact me, and a week ago he chose to use the one goddamn phone I never answer.  How did he even get that number?  Did he Google me and find it?  Maybe there was a blank for it in the on-line app–that’s the only thing I can think of, other than “son-of-a-bitch, there goes my chance!”
I called back a few times and left messages, but Fred never called me back, the fucker.  My tiny frosted bathroom window of opportunity had sealed shut from the moisture of my tears of desperation and my inability to form an adequate metaphor.
Well…here goes the ol’ Charlie Brown sigh…
I was disheartened, and it affected my search briefly, but I got back on it.  I talked to the ex about couriers she uses at her work, and I talked to Todd about ones he was familiar with as well.
All of these were under the “transport” category.  I also checked food and bev, and continued to quest for a category for “gigolo.”  A name kept coming to my notice–not for a gigolo, but a food service job–Jimmy John’s.
Todd had worked there and like it.  There was one near the bank here.  There was one closer to the house, by Earth City.  But then I saw the ad on Craigslist, hiring for several locations.  Alright.  Open interviews.  Alright.  Downtown.  Uhm…okay, I guess…
I’ve already worked in some of the most dangerous areas of the–well, let’s face it:  the entire country.  St Louis is always in the top five of most dangerous cities, with Detroit chomping at our heels.  Places I’ve worked (and lived) in the county border the city and mirror it.  Jennings, Kinloch, the infamous North Side–these names strike terror in the hearts of your average white person.  Normandy, Wellston, Pine Lawn, Northwoods–these places crime statistics are made of..
So do I want to work in the actual “City”?
Desperate financial times call for desperate measures.  Let’s go and talk to them.  The Destination

I Mapquest it because I’m too proud to ask for directions.  The place is actually near where the Habitat for Humanity ReStore is, because I drove right past it.  It was easier to get to now that 40 is finished.  (If you’re from out of town, you’ll call it 64.  If you live here, you call it 40.  If you live south of 40, you’ll call it “farty.”)
No place to park–
I went around the block and then parked at a meter.  Shit, I hope I don’t have to do that when I work there.  I put in a quarter, so I was good for twenty minutes.  I need to get in there and out of there before time runs out.  I don’t want to get a ticket, for one thing.  Also–I’m best in small doses, so it’s best to make a good impression and leave on a good line before they get the chance to get to know me too well.
This is called “strategy.”
The place is full of chicks, chumps, and assholes, sitting in seats and holding applications.  I was directed to fill one out.  Luckily I had printed out my resume and references, so I had coherent information to copy and didn’t have to think or anything.
I talked to the guy next to me, named Scott.  He gave me a quarter for the meter, but I gave it back to him because a spot opened up in the parking lot. In talking I learned he had applied for a management position.  Good for him.  He had worked in various restaurants, but never done delivery.  We were both grizzled vets, and exchanged some war stories.
I found out later that thee man running the interviews was the one who had emailed me.  He had a few helpers doing some pre-screening.  A few others were called, and I resigned myself to wait a bit because about two dozen were before me.
However, I did not sit down.  I stayed standing, not quite leaning against a counter attached to a wall.  I wanted to maintain a good image–upright, alert, not lazy.  First impressions are everything, and I wanted to lie to them.
Matt came to the center and asked if there were any applicants for management.  Scott stepped forward.  I said, “Good luck.”  They sent him off to another location for orientation.
A few other people are called by the screeners, but soon the force of my charm and personality caused one to call on me.  Excellent.  We take a seat.
He wants to ask me a few screening questions.
“What do you know about Jimmy Johns?”
Easy–“Freaky…fast…delivery…of sammiches.”  It’s good to know the job you applied for.
“Okay.  Have you ever been fired from a job?”
I scoffed.  “Yeah.”  That question was to test honesty.
“What are your best attributes?”
I tried to be concise.  I’m good with people, I have lots of experience, and my dick tastes like golden chocolate.
“What are your weaknesses?”
“One of my weaknesses is that I have management experience, enough to know that’s a trick question.”
He pushed, and I finally told him about my excessive masturbation, my habitual tardiness, and my complete lack of morals.  Also, I snore.
Actually, I told him that I’ve had a long time to work on my faults, so we may need to find some new ones.  One thing I didn’t want to say anything about was my night vision issues.  That’s my cross to bear, if I can find it.
“What are your goals for the next few years?”
Hmmm.  I told the truth on this one.  I want to be published, I want to get married, I want to get my other creative projects off the ground, I want to get out of debt.
He nodded, impressed that someone would have goals.  I came to this prepared, buddy.  I even got a haircut.
“What was a big hurdle that you faced, and how did you resolve it?
I slowly smiled, and it turned into a big grin as I decided to go with it.  “I was married for 19 years.  She was increasingly hard to live with.  I got a divorce.”
He seemed to accepted that.  He looked like he was in in mid-20s, so this was beyond his experience.
He checked off a few things to make sure they were covered, like schedule availability and so forth, and then we saw the other guy.  Matt, I think.
As it turns out, this is a mass hiring for a new store opening up in the Soulard area.  Look that up on Wikipedia, all of you out-of-towners.  “Soulard St Louis Neighborhood.”
I figure this was just to weed out the heroin addicts and homeless–you want to hire as many people as you can for a grand opening, and throw them up against the wall and see who sticks.  I just got caught up in the wave.  Yay for me, I guess.  We talked schedule and orientation and documents to bring.  Basically I’m hired, subject to showing up and not fucking it up.
The way they pay, BTW–I had enough sense to ask about that but fuck-all little else–they pay minimum wage, and we get to keep our tips.
The difference is Domino’s paid about 5.50 an hour, and driver’s had to declare the difference in tips to make up minimum.  But they also got 60 or 70 cents per run, depending on gas prices.
Imo’s doesn’t pay by the hour, but you get 2.50 per delivery plus tips if you get them.
So this was not a bad deal, I think.  The car gets decent gas mileage, otherwise I would want to reconsider.  But I still need the tips.  I have a nut I have to make.
During the course of talking with Matt, he interrupted me–“Hey, weren’t you the guy–?”
Yes, I was the guy.  In the email I sent with my resume and references, I explained briefly my experience and knowledge and so forth.  But the first line was:
“You’re going to want me to work for you.”
If I can’t play to my strengths, by God–

By the way, last night was my best night ever at Imo’s.  I walked away with cash and prizes worth 106 bucks in five and half hours.  That’s in the range of 19 bucks an hour for delivering pizza, y’all.  I’m going to keep both jobs as long as I can, work all three.  I need to get caught up, pay back some debt, and get some money put back.  That’s the plan.


1 Comment »

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  1. Break a leg at JJ\’s man. But not your own, cause then you couldn\’t get from the car to the door as easily.

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