So You Wanna Work in Stocks? No, Not Wall Street Stocks...Picking Up and Moving Big Boxes Stocks.

As a 37-year old father of three, there's no better feeling than being able to provide for your family.  I have yet to have experienced that feeling.  So I was hoping that I would finally be able to accomplish that goal through an impressive combination of unemployment checks and late night, part-time stock boy work at a dollar over minimum wage.  Now one would think that for a late-night stock boy job, a company would pretty much take anyone who applied:

- 49 year old pedophile who needs more toys to lure the neighbor boy to the shed: "You're in."

- 3-time convicted murderer who actually is at the interview in his prison-issued uniform because he just broke out:  "Welcome aboard."

-Anyone black: "Try the waffle house down the street."

But Jesus God.  It was like applying to be the President's fluff man.  The online application took 30+ minutes, and it included a psychological assessment which I guess wanted to make sure that if a co-worker dropped a crate of Barbie dolls on your foot, you wouldn't retaliate by asphyxiating him by shoving all of the Monopoly houses and hotels down his midget throat.  Oh, did I mention this was a toy store?  A toy store which apparently has no problem hiring incompetent midgets.  Seriously, every other place I've worked there's been a clear policy about incompetent midgets.  You either reach the doorknob or you count to 20.  If you can't do either, then no job.  AND there would be an interview...at the beginning of which the manager would make sure to remind us, quite firmly actually, that although this was a toy store, "If you are hired, there will be no playing with the toys."  Well then.  That's a deal breaker.  I usually spend my early mornings recreating Dora the Explorer episodes while swinging a lightsaber and riding a Big Wheel.

If you noticed, I said that the manager told "us".  It turned out that this was a "group interview".  That's right, not only was I already embarrassed enough walking into the store interviewing for this menial position, but now I had to do my begging in front of three equally destitute individuals.  Let's meet them, shall we:

The popped collar meets pussy.  A more appropriate juxtaposition there isn't.

CANDIDATE #1: THE DOUCHE:  Complete and utter tool.  You've met him.  The guy who knows everything, asks a million questions to prove how "smart" he is, talks about how many jobs he has and how he's in school and how he's experienced at everything and how he was supposed to be Governor but the paperwork didn't make it in time so now he's applying for this overnight stock position.  This guy was a pain in my ass.  Because there were two guys and two girls at this thing, me and this guy had to work together on this "project" the manager had us do, I guess to see how we'd work together, our thought process or whatever.  The project?  Using lego like things and working together to put something together, giving it a name and how much it would cost.  Well, I wanted to build a robot.  A bad-ass robot with the firepower of a tank and the hardened soul of a convict.  I'd call it "The Heterosexual Convict Robot Who May Have Experimented Once or Twice While in Lock-up".  AND it would be anatomically correct down to the gaping hole in his backside.  But no, genius here thought that would be too "shocking" to the children.  Okay, dude, you tell me a child who hasn't been violated by age eight.  I know I wasn't the only kid whose uncles sent me Valentine's Day cards. The Heterosexual Convict Robot Who May Have Experimented Once or Twice While in Lock-up will let kids know it's okay not only to accept what happened, but to go after the bad guys with a combination of a filed-down toothbrush and a syringe filled with HIV.  But whatever man, I guess I'm the idiot here.  We ended up building a car.  

Even if they were Asian, I absolutely do not want to taste any salad these women have to offer. 

CANDIDATE #2: THE PROSTITUTE:  Wow.  Just wow.  She walks into the interview room with a skirt on that I wouldn't let my daughter wear but my daughter would wear it anyway because she'd wait for me to go to the bathroom and then change back into whatever it was I told her not to wear and then slyly sneak out of the house and then change back into the skirt I told her she COULD wear right before walking back into the house.  But back to the interview.  This woman was a disaster.  No more than 25 years old, and the first thing out of her mouth during the "Introduce yourself" part of the interview was, "My name is Hooker Johnson and I have five kids.  Well, six because I've got a step-child too."  I'm not sure whether I was more disgusted with the fact she was 25 with five kids, or whether her parents would actually name her "Hooker".  I mean, aside from them being fans of the short-lived 80's action show, "TJ Hooker", they really must have had low expectations for their child's future.  Then during the aforementioned project phase of the interview, the interviewer clearly said, "Each group has a bag of legos (or whatever they were)...the ONLY thing I ask is that you keep the pieces separate."  What's the first thing this woman does?  "I'm gonna take some of your pieces."  Great. So I guess we know who was the "Thievin' Trick" out there on the streets.  I just let her take it.  Why not.  My violated convict robot idea had already been squashed, so I didn't really give a damn.

Interesting how Beyonce was one of the first results when I googled "Philippines".  Thank you Google.

CANDIDATE #3: THE MAIL ORDER BRIDE:  Yep.  A mail order bride.  From the Philippines.  She started off by apologizing for her broken English.  It wasn't that bad.  What was bad was that because she'd only been in this country for six months, she had no knowledge of the phrase "TMI".  To her, I guess, TMI stood for "Tell Many Inappropriacies" because she just let the personal stories fly. (I realize "inappropriacies" isn't a word, but to make the joke work I had to stretch the truth.  But you don't care.  You laughed anyway.)  But honestly, I learned more about work permits and Filipino delicacies than I care to relate.  Then, when we broke off into individual interviews, the prostitute went first, leaving me, the douche and the immigrant in the room alone.  That's when she mentioned how she met her husband (25 years older than her) on the internet, she came here and married him, and now spends her days alone in the house doing nothing while he works "his great job" as an AT&T agent.  She kept saying over and over how the age difference meant nothing to her, which let me know that it did and that the picture of the strapping young hunk she saw on the internet was quickly realized to be either an old photo or not him at all, when she stepped off the plane and saw this:

The things we do to get into this country.

At that point I felt like calling protective services for her.  Come on.  Locked up at home.  Knows no one here.  Husband is the person who calls people at dinnertime asking if they want to change their long-distance service.  And now she feels her only way out is to work the overnight shift moving boxes.  I decided against making the call, however, because Filipinos can cook, and if we both get the job, I can promise her a way out of her mundane and trapped existence, and will whisk her away to a tropical paradise.  In reality though, I will do no such thing...I just want her to roast me a damn pig.  

Between the perm and the chest hair, I'm so proud of my people. 

CANDIDATE #4.  THE BUM.  That would be me.  As you know from a couple of blog posts ago, I decided to go bare bones to this thing, stripping myself of any education, accolades or positive experiences, and going in there like I had just gotten released from C-block and walked into the first place I saw that said "Fry Cook Wanted".  I tried my best not to use big words, to not be too clever, and to not dominate shit like I normally do.  I did a pretty good job of all that, although doing the fake laugh got a little too annoying even for me.  Sista gurl thought she was a comedian, telling jokes that not only weren't funny, but weren't jokes.  Yet if the interviewer laughed, I mustered a laugh too.  I died a little inside each time.  I am NOT a corporate person.  I know that now.  What I am, however, is a broke mug that needs a little change if I'm going to get this book published.  So if that means moving boxes while wearing khaki pants (yes, they won't even let the OVERNIGHT stock crew wear jeans, because God forbid a customer walks in at 3:30 in the morning and sees us in cargo shorts), I guess that's what I'll do.  

I find out probably by tomorrow if they're interested in having me on "the team".  If so, she said she has to do a background check and if that comes back clean they'll offer a job.

So bearing that in mind, if any of you know of any fry cook jobs available, I'm listening.