"Eh, money is money.." is not always true. Sometimes it's better to know your limits, to know what jobs will drive you to quit within a week. Sometimes it's wiser not to fake it and just to stay broke for a little longer, until you find a job thats a better fit. At least I went to the interview. I learned more about the job, then weighed the pros and the cons before I made my decision not to take it. I could just see it: The heat is rising up from the sidewalk in visible waves. I'm sweating and my feet are caked in blisters. I keep thinking of the starving children, how they have it much worse than me and how I should hang in there for their sake.
And then I spot her. Prada suit, white earphones broadcasting her status. Because it's my job, I ask her, "Excuse me, do you have a moment for Save the Children?"
She doesn't even acknowledge my presence with a "no thank you", let alone give a chunk of her 6-figure income to help kids who can't even eat. And maybe it wouldn't bug me so much if she wasn't the 500th yuppie fuck to ignore me like that. In the last hour.
So I lose it. I pluck the ipod from her suit pocket and smash it against the concrete. Then when she swears at me, I yank at her fake blonde hair and pull a few chunks of it out by the dark brown roots.
She shrieks and soon the entire block is on their cell phone, dialing the cops. And well, I don't go home that night.So I told the interviewer "no thank you". I felt a little disappointed in myself. I really wish I were one of those ceaselessly peppy, "water off a duck's back" people. Someone who can stand in the hot sun and deal with assholes, while keeping a smile on her face. But there's a certain numbness that everyone else seems to have that I don't. Things get to me. I don't force away my feelings. I just can't pretend everything is okay when it's obviously not. I despise that kind of lie. It makes life boring. When good things happen, I like to be happy. When bad things happen, I like to be angry or sad. So I shouldn't take a job where I'm rejected over and over again on a daily basis. I'll find some other way to help people. Fuck, I've gotta help me first. After the interview, I took a walk to the lake. I was plopped on a bench in Grant Park, admiring the boats and the waves when a fucking bicycle cop rode up beside me. "Whatchu got there?" he pointed to my messenger bag. He was short, his badge said Ortega. I opened my bag and showed him the inside. "Books." I said but thought, What'd you think was in there? A bomb? Yes, I'm a terrorist with tattoos and spiked hair.
"You look really sad." Ortega flashed a patronizing grin. "Tell me what's wrong." "I just had a bad job interview, that's all." I explained, attempting to steady my voice. "Are you sure that's what's wrong?" he pressed, obviously smelling my fear in that canine-cop way. "Yes." My lip was beginning to quiver. "What kind of job was it?" Ortega tested. "Fundraising. I'll be okay, I just want to be left alone to gather my thoughts." Apparently, the concept of "gathering thoughts" was quite foreign to Ortega. He just stood there, leering at me until I finally burst into tears. "Aww.. you're too pretty to cry." he winked, then rode off. Satisfied with himself for spoiling my evening. I hope he bumps into Ms. Prada Suit on his bike and they both fall down and break their legs.
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