So as it turns out, my fourth job in Sydney ends up being another dot com job, contrary to what I was expecting. I don’t think I’ll get laid off again any time soon, but if I do I’m off dot com jobs for good.
An interview for this job was organised almost by accident. In a rampage of online job applications, I’d applied for every job I thought I could do, and a lot of jobs I didn’t actually know that much about. When recruitment agencies started calling me wanting to know why I was interested in roles such as Senior Analytical Forecaster and National Television News Editor with my customer service background, I thought it best to reassess what I was actually applying for.
On this particular occasion, I’d applied for a similarly irrelevant role and received a phone call from an apologetic-sounding recruitment representative.
‘I’m sure you’ve got some great skillsets with your customer service and online advertising experience,’ she murmured whilst flipping through some paper. ‘But I’m not one hundred percent sure that managing Army gunners is your ideal future.’
‘Oh,’ I sighed, annoyed that my plan to obtain easy access to small explosives would not be realised.
‘But coincidentally, as soon as I received your somewhat irrelevant job application, a job came in that would suit you to a T,’ she trilled with the excitement of someone obviously enduring a breakneck call centre career. ‘In fact, it’s exactly the same job that you had at the last company you were working at.’
This surprised me – the dot com position I’d just been employed in isn’t exactly as easy to obtain as herpes. At a guess, I’d say there’s easily less than 50 jobs of this kind in all of Sydney. I’d only noticed this position advertised by one other company, but working for the world’s most universally laughed at ISP wouldn’t necessarily be something to be proud of, so I turned that particular role down.
But this new job sounded great. The interview proceeded swimmingly, and an hour later I had a job offer on my hands. The ease of which these actions progressed had surprised me – they didn’t even want to contact anyone who worked at my old job for a reference (which is fortunate, as nearly all of them had been laid off too, and were mostly bitter to say the least).
It was with some excitement that I prepared for my first day at the new job. I’d been indulging in a week that involved little more than Channel 10 and Pringles for the most part, so a change in schedule was something greeted with open arms.
Unable to relax into sleep for the majority of the previous night, I woke on Monday morning with a jittery head and eyes which had trouble focusing even after intense blinking. The rubbing of my eyes continued until I woke up enough to remember that the reason I couldn’t see anything out of my right eye was because it’s blind.
Stumbling around the apartment attempting to shake myself into something presentable, I reasoned it would be sensible to dress smart attire on my first day. From memory, I recalled the dress code was casual enough to facilitate T-shirts emblazoned with ‘I Might Be A Cunt, But I’m Not A Fucking Cunt’ (all bow down to TISM!), but I subscribe to the believe that first impressions count (just look at The Mick Molloy Show).
I’m glad I don’t have to wear a suit and tie every day to work – I haven’t done that since early last year. All my jobs since have involved casual dress – I can’t picture myself affixing a tie every morning, strangling my expanding neckline on a regular basis.
A glance at the clock revealed I was already running late. Now that breakfast was out of the question, I concluded a glass of Coke which had been sitting on the bench since last night would have to fulfil my caffeine intake requirement for the morning. Gulping the drink down in one swill, I gagged as I was rudely reminded this particular glass of Coke had been injected with bourbon.
Making faces similar to those which were donned during the audience test screening of Battlefield Earth, I galloped to the front door and locked it behind me. As I was about to bound down the staircase, my neighbour’s head poked from her doorway accusingly.
Still dressed in her nightie, she cocked her head, studied me furiously and then barked ‘GALALALALALAGAAAAH!’ This was followed by cackling which seemed to suggested she now regarded this little screaming procedure as some sort of inside joke between us. Shaking my head, I continued on my way, deciding I’d have no other name to refer to her with except ‘Galaga’.
Pacing myself somewhere between constipated jog and wheezy pacing, I noticed my breath now reeked of alcohol. Fumbling around in my backpack as I continued my way to the train station, I swore as I realised there were no Tic-Tacs left.
Anxiously cupping my hand to my mouth and breathing – as if this would quash my Southern Kentucky influenced breath somewhat – I also noted my suit was so crumpled, it looked as if it had been sitting underneath a heavy box full of old books in the back of a wardrobe for half a year. This was because my suit had been sitting underneath a heavy box full of old books in the back of a wardrobe for half a year.
If my appearance and potential signs of alcoholism weren’t enough problems on my first day, after referring to my watch it seemed I was running rather late as well. As if on cue and to escalate my problems, my mobile phone began ringing.
An irate female screamed at me in greeting. ‘It’s Susan from the recruitment agency!’ she hollered.
‘Hello,’ I replied, unsettled by her violent tones so early in the morning.
‘You just made me look like a fool,’ she continued.
‘I look like a fool most of the time – not my fault if it rubs off on others,’ I protested.
‘Shut up, knob,’ she snapped. ‘You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago to conduct a presentation, remember? For Christ’s sake. Do you simply not turn up to all job interviews like this?’
Flipping back over the past week’s back-to-back interview schedule in my mind, I realised that this morning I was supposed to give a giant thirty minute presentation on the topic of my choice for some ridiculous sales job I was nowhere near capable of getting. But:
‘I emailed you on Friday about this,’ I calmly explained. ‘I was offered a job last week and I’ve decided to take it. In fact, I’m on my way there right now,’ I puffed as I half-jogged towards the train station.
‘Email?’ she became sceptical as soon as technical trickery was introduced to the conversation. From memory, this woman seemed a little technophobic – she was screaming at everything from laptops to desk lamps when I first met her. ‘Hmph,’ she huffed.
‘I’ve really got to go,’ I insisted. ‘I’m running late for my first day.’
‘Well,’ she paused. ‘Have a nice day then,’ she spat down the phone; when what she really wanted to say was ‘You’re so lacking in testicular fortitude you couldn’t even let me know you had another job!’
Joining the flood of commuters buzzing into the train station, a man behind a takeaway stand called out to me.
‘Sausage for breakfast! It’ll put hair on your chest!’ Immediately I was unsure if this remark was mocking my folically challenged chest or just an innocent invitation to consume breakfast meat. But there wasn’t any way I’d take up his offer: since childhood, I’ve been scared stupid over any consumable offered to me with claims it’d put hair on my chest. I remember visiting my friend Billy’s house at age 10 and his father offering me salami, advising me I’d be sprouting hair on my chest the next day. This terrified me – I could visualise myself waking in the morning, rolling over in bed to discover a small forest of dense curly black hair smothering my chest, muffling my screams for help from my parents. ‘I’VE GOT HAIR ON MY CHEST! AAAARGH!’
Actually, I’d scream the very same thing to Adam if I woke up and found any hair on my chest. I’m only two days away from turning 22, and I’m still waiting for my manly mounds of fuzz to appear. Gay friends will ask me ‘Do you wax?’, as if I’m part of their poxy little eyebrow-plucking, tanning-bed shenanigans. ‘I WANT HAIR!’ I sob mournfully as they intricately pluck hairs from each other’s shoulders. I’m willing to take bets the first hair I sprout on my chest will coincide with the first loss of hair on my head.
So I kept on walking past the sausage salesman, cursing that he distracted me on my striding march into the train station. Time was running short, but by striding my legs out as far as I could, I succeeded in saving at least minimal time, in addition to clearing small squeaking children from my way.
Right when I’m about to finally reach the pedestrian hive that is the heart of Central train station, I’m accosted by none other than one of my Greenpeace friends. Of any group I despise the most, it’s these whale-petting fucks: I don’t particularly value their plights any more or less than your average charity, but it’s their insisting bleats and aggressive advances which piss me off. It particularly bothers me that they give me even more grief than normal simply if I’m dressed in a tie.
Naturally, on an occasion when time is of the essence, I’ve got a Greenpeace pleb ululating at me in extreme close up. Before I can say ‘Dolphin puree sauce. Top shit, eh?’, I’m being given a pop quiz on Greenpeace’s plans for the next six months.
‘We’re fighting the multinational corporations from their unenvironme-’ the young man begins.
‘I don’t particularly care,’ I reply as I continue to stride into the train station.
‘Really? Then maybe you’ll be interested in this – I’m selling copies of Green Left Weekly as well,’ he hollers a little louder than necessary, holding two tatty collections of paper above his head like a victory flag.
‘No, honestly,’ I respond. ‘I’m going to a new job today, I’m in a rush.’
The greenie’s eyes widen as he realises I’m one of them.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I think quickly, wanting to avoid a Greenpeace bombardment of information. ‘I’m, uh… taking it all down from the inside. Um… I wear camouflage print pants on the weekend,’ I grasp at excuses.
‘So why are you working for a large corporation who is probably destroying the planet’s resources without you even knowing?’ he challenges.
‘Seriously,’ I insist. ‘I’m all for Greenpeace, and Green Left, and, uh… Natasha Stott Despoja, and all that. Really, I’m going to vote for her at the next election.’
‘SOCIALISTS WILL DEFEAT THE RACIST LIBERAL AND LABOR PARTIES!’ he cries.
Worrying I’ve hit a rough spot and just wanting to get on with my morning, I attempt to dart into a passing pocket of pedestrians. ‘Don’t worry,’ I assure him. ‘I smoke dope and listen to Rage Against The Machine. It’s okay.’
Shortly after, I manage to arrive at my new work’s building only five minutes late. After rushing into the elevator, a pair of women walk into the lobby laughing about something. The distance between them and the elevator is in the elevator door buffer zone: it’s not exactly clear if it’d be polite for me to zoom off to another floor without holding the elevator doors open for them.
Shouldn’t I be getting a move on? I ask myself. I’m already late by five minutes, and god knows how long this rickety elevator will take to navigate its way up the building. The scarcely-exhibited polite side of me wins over, and I jam my foot against the elevator door, which groaningly complains as it sulkily shoves itself against me repetitively.
‘Oh, thanks!’ one of the women smiles as she enters. ‘We thought you would have left without us.’
‘I’ll try to be ruder next time,’ I joke.
They both giggle. ‘Well, that’s seven minutes of procrastination gone,’ one of them sighs. ‘I’m going to have to spend seven minutes working now.’ I soon see what they mean as the elevator struggles to reach the first floor within half a minute.
‘I could probably have walked up the stairs in this time,’ I remark. They both laugh. ‘Even if my legs had been amputated,’ I continue, ‘and if was bleeding profusely, dragging my gapingly wounded body up a jagged concrete stairwell.’
They now suddenly look worried. Apparently the collective sense of humour in this new workplace is a little different to what I’m used to.
After being given a tour of the spectacularly designed offices I’m now working in (I’ve decided that it’s supposed to look like the inside of a giant ship… I think), I’m introduced to my new workmate, Ben. He seems like a nice guy and I think we’ll get along fine. The only slight downside is that I’m not working with a group of people as I’m used to – normally I’m working with at least five to ten people. This tends to bring me out of my shell a little – I’m worried I’ll shrink into my little corner and be the quiet poke of the office. Everything is still a bit weird – I’m still finding my place in the business and getting a feel for how everything’s run. Experience has taught me every office has a different mindset – things here are run a little more by the book than what I’ve been exposed to in the past, whilst being a little more relaxed at the same time. Oh, and there’s a coffee machine at this job that makes the coffee for me. You probably already know my intense fear of preparing, ordering and drinking hot caffeinated beverages (this is closely related to my fucked food preparation skills). Hopefully only having to press a button to make my coffee will eventually lend me the confidence to face my own personal hell: Starbucks. From there on, who knows where I could end up. I might even start walking up to staff members and striking up conversations of my own accord.
Yes folks, this is where my unabashed lower-than-regular self confidence usually kicks in. Usually at a job I make one close friend who I gain confidence through. Ben’s a nice fella but I don’t think we’ll be the kind of mates who’ll go out for a beer after work. He’s a little different to me.
I guess I’m fearing that I won’t have a friend like Leah at my last job, or Big Mo at the job before that. Still, it’s only been one week, and this is all likely to be my slight avoidant nature rearing its head, as it does in new social environments.
Ben explains how everything works at this company, and the processes seem much more logical and easy to understand than my last job. I’m beginning to enjoy our little corner together in the office and begin feeling at home. Although too shy to say a lot to other staff members, I’m generally enjoying myself, I decide.
‘So what will be my working hours?’ I ask Ben.
‘I get in here at 8.30am and usually leave around 7.30pm in the evening,’ he replies. I laugh, assuming this is a joke. His confused pokerface leads me to believe this is not a mockery but an actuality.
‘Oh,’ I reply. This is followed by more evaluation of my first impressions of the job, and I decide that because I’m being paid a fair amount more than what I’ve previously been used to, I should be prepared to put in a bit of elbow grease. Besides, I enjoy the work. There’s just not a lot I can do at the moment while I’m still learning everything.
As I take a break for lunch, I’m almost a little relieved that my brain can relax a little. So much information to absorb is beginning to make me tired. Strolling around the city, a monorail zooms overhead. With amusement, I notice that the monorail has advertisements for Libra tampons plastered all over it. If the advertising agency responsible for the Libra account has intended for the monorail to appear like a giant tampon zooming around the skyline of Sydney, they’ve succeeded. In my confused attitude towards my job – I’m still feeling uncomfortable but enjoying the experience at the same time – I attempt to concoct some sort of metaphor that the Libra Giant Tampon Monorail represents at this time in my life. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind at the time.
Arriving back at my desk, I discover I have a second workmate who will be sitting with Ben and myself. I introduce myself to the lady now seated on the other side of my computer, who plonks herself down on the table next to me and pouts.
‘Somebody is sending me mysterious dirty text messages,’ she complains as her mobile beeps.
‘Good dirty or bad dirty?’ I ask.
‘Well… not specific to my sexual preference dirty,’ she decides. ‘I’m a gay man looking for hot cock under 40 in Sydney,’ she reads from her mobile screen. Clicking onto another message, she continues: ‘Are you hot for me? I would love to meet with you.’
‘Do you know the phone number?’ I suggest.
‘No, and that’s what’s disturbing,’ she says. ‘I’ve given my phone number to only two people and I trust them both with my life.’ Her mobile phone beeps again in reply to her request for identification. ‘What the hell? Look at this message,’ she asks.
I peer over her shoulder. On the screen of her mobile is simply the word ‘goncalves’.
‘What are goncalves?’ I ask.
‘I have no idea. Is it something gay guys do?’ she wonders aloud. I bite my tongue.
‘I’m going to ask him how he got my phone number – and that I’m not a gay guy, I’m female,’ she determinedly says to herself, pressing the send button. Minutes later, she has a reply.
‘Christ! He keeps asking me if I know any gay guys under 40 in Sydney,’ she swears.
‘Ask him what goncalves are,’ I ask, entranced.
‘Actually, yes. That sounds a bit suspicious,’ she decides, and types out her message.
Shortly we have our response. ‘Hah! He told me not to be rude or I’d hurt his feelings,’ she giggled.
‘So he doesn’t know what goncalves are?!’ I ask, shaking my head.
‘I’m going to ring up Telstra,’ she says, brandishing her mobile as it continues to beep while she dials furiously on her landline phone.
Ben arrives back from his lunch break with the news that I’m about to meet my boss. I clear my throat, hoping to put on a good impression.
As we walk into the office, the woman behind the desk screams with delight. ‘It’s YOU!’ she cries. Ben looks between the two of us, a little confused.
‘He left the elevator doors open for me! Nobody does that,’ she continues, folding her arms. ‘Oh, well you’re in my good books. I like you. Good to meet you, Jeb,’ she shakes my hand.
Well, I’m beaming after walking out of her office. Ben remains stoney-faced, and I notice he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy I could joke around with. Nothing wrong with that, but I would probably enjoy my time at work more if I had someone to muck around with.
‘HE’S SENDING ME FUCKING DIRTY TEXT MESSAGES ABOUT HIS GONCALVES!’ a voice screams near my desk. I decide that perhaps I may be working with someone fun after all. ‘I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT FUCKING GONCALVES ARE!!’ she continues.
‘Do you know what goncalves are?’ she mouths to me, muffling the handset with her hand. I shrug.
‘NOBODY HERE KNOWS WHAT GONCALVES ARE AND I’M WORRIED HE WANTS TO GET HIS HANDS ON MINE!’ she cries. Turning back to my desk, I suppress a laugh.
Maybe the giant tampon does symbolise something, I decide. It’s gliding around, looking for a place to settle, and when it finally does, it’ll stop and sit in the repair shed. Or sanitary disposal bin, depending on which way you’re looking at the metaphor.
I decide that I’m in the process of fitting in, and it’s just a little different to what I’m used to. I’m working in the equivalent of a set of male genitals that desperately need readjusting, without being able to due to social circumstance. Soon, I’ll be able to (figuratively) readjust my bits and pieces, and I’ll settle in without a problem.
Closing down the monorail, and throwing out the bloodied tampon and all that sort of thing.
Yeah. I’m sure I’ll be fine.