| employment. |
[Feb. 22nd, 2005|11:00 pm] |
I have a job.
I woke up two hours later than I had intended to, at noon-forty. I leapt out of bed, and furiously accomplished a few checklist items. Got a haircut, mowed down a large part of my beard, and put on a shirt and tie. I found the interview site, checked in with the security desk at three o'clock sharp, and got interviewed.
I had but one actual interview question. "I can't print. What do I do?". I ran through a variety of diagnostic measures with a few pensive pauses, but with no hemming or hawing. It turned out that he had been automatically logged out, and needed to save the document to the local drive, log out, have his password reset, and log back in. Also, the printer was offline. I got it, yeah, but I could have done better. The interviewer told me up front I did a good job, though. This is, I suppose, what is meant by an 'entry level' position.
I toured the facilities, and said hello to Nicole. I had imagined cubicle farms being blander, more depressing places. The people working in them looked studious, yes, but not particularly gray or depressed. I wouldn't mind working there. We get headsets and everything, so I can even stand up and pace.
The call from the staffing company came about fifteen minutes after I left, telling me that I got the job, forty hours a week, sixteen bucks an hour. It's not fabulous pay, but it's good pay. (Yes, yes, this is a buck an hour more than what I made working as the IT guy at the clinic four years ago.) Besides, the experience can't hurt. And I'm going to be the best goddamn tech support I can be.
Ooh, and I get to dress in 'business casual'. That means no ties, which pleases me greatly. I just have to provide them with some urine, and they'll do a criminal check on my background. I'm so darn excited, I'm going to go order something from Amazon as my one big splurge.
Speaking of clothes... today, as I was putting on my favorite pants, my lucky pants, my magic pants, I got a toe stuck in a tiny hold in the knee, and ripped it wide open. Such symbolism. The end of an era, the end of my youth---those pants were me through my time at school. (Well, a significant portion of it.) And now they're no more, at least until I can convince my mother to fix them. Could there be a clearer sign? |
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