StreetWorthy

Blood, Sweat and Tears (Well, Maybe Not Tears)

It is finally starting to look like this bachelor’s degree might pay off. I will no longer have to stay in dreaded Sacramento working this crappy temp job, living with my father and having no social life. Though today was rocky, I think I have a solid prospect of a job, which would mean the start of my new exciting life in the big city.

When I diligently began my San Francisco employment search two months ago, I had no idea what I was getting into. I have become obsessive with Craigslist searches; I apply for jobs as soon as they are posted. I have even become desperate enough to continuously call the same businesses on the off chance there might be something that just opened up. Perhaps I am setting my sights too high by trying to get a job that is actually in my field. At any rate, I finally had a real on-site interview. This was a far shot from the previous telephone interviews and auto-response emails telling me “a more qualified individual has been selected.”

Yesterday I got a call from a non-profit organization that I have been hounding for the past month about a case management position. They wanted me to come and interview this morning. Let me examine positive aspects of this job: 1. The organization has several sites throughout San Francisco, which translates to several sites that might want me to work for them. 2. The pay will allow me to live the lifestyle I have come accustomed to (you know, paying rent and eating Top Ramen). 3. I have not had benefits for the past year and it would be nice to not have my father perform home surgery if I break my leg.

I had a snazzy resume binder and planned out witty comments to win over my future employers. However, with all my preparedness, I had nothing to wear for this quintessential interview. I made my way down to Macy’s last night at 8:30 p.m. (they close at 9:00 p.m.) in the hope that I would find that inexpensive perfect suit (actually, dirt cheap because I am paying for my Ramen with pennies at the moment). There was no time to go into a dressing room, so I changed in the aisle of the women’s section. My large hindquarters would not fit the fabulous (and on sale) size six skirt despite my efforts to suck it in. (How can you really suck in your butt?) Even if I avoided the narrow glances from the Macy’s employees and the incessant loudspeaker announcing, “WE ARE CLOSED PLEASE BRING YOUR FINAL PURCHASES TO THE FRONT,” I still only had 10 more minutes (tops) before they kicked me out on my unfit fanny. What to do? Sacrifice the great-looking jacket to get a suit that fits my bottom? Spend more on something I like less? Wear something I already own? No, the best choice clearly was to switch the skirt to a larger size and hope that the overworked-ready-to-go-home employees won’t care enough to check the tags. It worked and it was cheaper than the sale price. I headed over to Target to get some equally cheap shoes so as not to look like a fool in my Chucks, and the outfit was complete.

This morning, suit in tow, I made my way to the city at 6:00 a.m. with my two soon-to-be roommates and prepared for my interview. Since we all had different places to go, the most central parking garage with the cheapest price seemed the right fit. I was thinking, “Hey, it’s only ten blocks; no problem -- I have 30 minutes”. What I forgot to consider were the brand new Target heels I was wearing. The first few blocks were no problem; I was hustling but I still felt confident and business-like in my new threads. I started to feel a chafing pain somewhere around block five. The pain intensified and by block seven I felt something BURST. I looked back and discovered that my ankle was profusely bleeding. I had three more blocks to go and if I hadn’t been in downtown San Francisco, I might have considered taking off my shoe. Hobbling was my only option.

When I got to the front of the building there was blood seeping through my pantyhose. Despite the circumstance, I tried to put my best face forward. I was ushered through the lobby and told to sit down for a few minutes. As I waited, I gradually became aware of my damp neck and underarms. I was wearing a thin white shirt and made the executive decision not to take off my jacket. I could not believe more people were not staring; after all I was glistening and bloody. What a great first impression.

As I was escorted to the conference room I gripped my toes tightly in order to keep my shoe from sliding and the blood from showing. It was more sweltering when I sat down, but my jacket was the only thing keeping me from winning a wet T-shirt contest so it stayed on. The interview was one of those terrible five-people-grilling-me setups and all of the participants were in outfits a par above sweats. I was of course the only bozo in a two-piece suit, covering my bloody ankle and periodically wiping the sweat from my neck. I am sure all of this helped show my confidence level. Maybe it was the loss of blood or the partial dehydration talking, but surprisingly I kept reeling out the bullshit and my interviewers seemed to be impressed.

At the end of the interview, I was told I would have a trial run next week to see how well I could adjust to the job. My potential boss described to me the various details of the job, her expectations and the general atmosphere of the office. Casually she leaned over and whispered, “Oh, and wear comfortable shoes.” I am sure my crimson cheeks didn’t give away my embarrassment completely. With my pride at stake, I walked out of that building with as much confidence as I could muster.

When the door closed I immediately staggered out of sight. In an attempt to save the remaining skin on my ankle, I called my roommates to pick me up. As the phone was ringing, I reached into my pocket, only to find that I was in possession of the parking tag and no one else could collect the car but me. I took a deep breath, once again gripped my shoes with my toes, and strutted the ten blocks back to the car. I was bloodied and sweating, but not broken.