"My apologies sir, but you are too overqualified for this position," the lady behind the wiring monitor declared almost the instant her eyes fell on my resume.
I stared at my week-long handiwork being handed back to me. It had taken me an unhealthy number of hours trying to make that thing sweet enough for these people. And... and she was just going to shove it back without even going past the first page?
"Please... please madam, check it. I am willing to compromise, I don't mind putting in the long hours," I pleaded, putting on what I believed to be my most charming smile.
It did absolutely nothing. Matter of fact, my plea seemed to have hardened her resolve.
She brought the stack of forms closer to her face.
"Mr... Erwin," she began with a fat crease on her face, "I will have you know we don't overwork our employees. This company adheres strictly to every labor and welfare guideline."
Like hell they do. Real estate and construction companies were downright the most notorious in circumnavigating those guidelines. But for the sake of the job I shook my head profusely.
"We just need a warehouse clerk to take care of basic inventory, not an accountant," she added, squinting at the form before handing it to me.
I didn't take it. My week-long labor still lingered in my mind.
"I know, madam, but I assure you I can do the job, it's—"
Her chair tilted dangerously as she shot up.
"And how long before you begin to ask for a pay rise? Or you find another opening in your field and resign, and I have to endure this all over? We need something long term," she screamed, slamming the pile of papers on her desk.
I was about to reassure her that I didn't plan to ask for a pay rise, but she raised her hand as her chest heaved like a bull fresh from a fight.
"Out!" she literally screamed while shooing me toward the door. "Get out NOW!"
I quickly gathered my papers before rushing out of the room.
Desperate as I was, I knew better than to push her any further. If there is one survival skill you learn quickly in America, it's never to be in the same room with a screaming woman. Unless of course your lawyer happens to be Saul Goodman.
At the company's main gate, I handed over my visitor's badge along with the helmet and the reflector I had been forced to wear.
When I eventually stepped into the main street, I looked worn and dejected, like I had been lifting actual bricks.
Traffic was low, but I still waited for the red before crossing into the central park on the other end.
It was already past noon and my body was too tired to keep moving.
To my disappointment, most of the well-shaded spots were already taken. Most students in the city were free at this time, which meant lots of noisy street performers with terrible guitar skills or college couples occupying almost every damn seat available.
After a minute of searching, I quickly gave up and dropped on the grass beneath a tree with a stingy shade. But it had to do for now.
My plan was to sit it out here until I could catch the evening train. I only had twenty bucks, which I miraculously expected to cover supper and tomorrow's breakfast.
Looking at the plenty of cheery faces around, I wondered whether I shouldn't just stand up and scream a warning for them.
If there is something they don't tell you when you are screaming and throwing those mortarboards during graduation, it's that in a few months you will be screaming and throwing tantrums from one company to the next. Or in my case, they would be thrown at you.
Four years. Four frigging years in college. Eating numbers for my meals and pulling all-nighters just to score better credits and be the best. All for a secretary to throw me out for being "overqualified"?
"Is there a damn thing in this world that isn't a problem?" I wondered, staring into the crowded park but seeing no one but my problems.
At this rate, if something didn't happen, I would be back to the street. Only this time as a resident. I had already received a notice twice.
A slip of paper floated by, and I instinctively caught it before turning around to see who had dropped it.
There was no one around. The nearest couple was almost five meters away, and obviously in the wrong direction since the wind was blowing toward them.
"That's funny," I said to myself. "The breeze was a bit too strong for a paper this light to float against it."
For a jobless person faced with the threat of being homeless, that should have been the last thing on my mind. But it wasn't, and I sat there feeling like Isaac Newton. Only instead of an apple, I was holding a paper.
I turned it around, and my heart almost stopped in excitement.
Alert: Job Vacancy
A client is launching a hotel and is looking for a live-in caretaker. Sharp and calm under pressure with a nose short enough to stick to his business. Eye for quality and tolerant of different views. If you think you have these qualities, then you should fuck off. But if you are willing to learn and develop and adhere to them, present yourself to 27 Midstreet.
NB: Interviews are in person. Compensation will be discussed upon successful assessment.
No academic requirements had been mentioned.
My eyes were done skimming through the paper and were back scanning the crowd around the park.
I burst out laughing.
What sort of joke was this? I mean, what was this even supposed to be? Yes, it had the name "job vacancy." But what sort of company agency drafted ads like this for clients?
Once more I read through the job requirements. A caretaker with a short nose? Really? I had just come from a company that thought an accountant was overqualified to be a warehouse clerk. Now here was one thinking a caretaker could mind his business and be sharp and calm under pressure.
Why the hell would a caretaker need that? And then they had to learn and grow? A caretaker?
And why me? Looking around, papers weren't just flying against the wind to people here. But this one had. Which meant someone must have been stalking me and, knowing my predicament, decided it was a good idea to mess with me.
I was about to discard the paper when that desperate voice in my head hit again.
Why? Why would someone go to that length just for a simple joke? And what if it was real?
The words "live-in" meant accommodation. And there was compensation. At this point that sounded like heaven to me.
Once again I checked the address on the paper. Surprisingly, it was a real one. I knew the place. Everyone in this town knew it.
27 Midstreet was where Midstreet Hotel was situated. It was by far one of the most physically stunning structures in the city and the country.
It had been mentioned numerous times in speculative articles in hospitality magazines as one to watch in the industry. In my college years, everyone dreamt of going there as soon as it opened. Unfortunately, it never did.
And now... they were hiring? Wait, maybe it wasn't the hotel. No, that would be too far-fetched. Midstreet would never need a caretaker. You would need a hospitality degree from the best universities in the country and a whole lot of years of experience to even be shortlisted.
But maybe it was some small hotel around there? Didn't think there was one since Midstreet occupied a good chunk of surrounding land. But why not give it a chance?
I mean, the worst that could happen was this turning out to be all bullshit like I thought it was. In which case I would have lost only my time, and at the moment, that was a loss I could afford comfortably. I had all the time in the damn world